HOMELESS MUTANT QUEST Threads 26-50 By Crusty Jones X-men was created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby and are owned by Marvel (pls don’t sue him Mickey) Thread #26 Thread #27 Thread #28 Thread #29 Thread #30 Thread #31 Thread #32 Thread #33 Thread #34 Thread #35 Thread #36 Thread #37 Thread #38 Thread #39 Thread #40 Thread #41 Thread #42 Thread #43 Thread #44 Thread #45 Thread #46 Thread #47 Thread #48 Thread #49 Thread #50

Thread #26

As the evening descends, so do the birds.

You pick your way through the scar in silence, Gabriella ambling just about alongside you, her breath staggering noisily as she flinches and shuffles and cringes her way over the snow. Laura is hanging back somewhat – whenever you slow down, you can’t quite seem to pull her closer, her pace shifting to accommodate, keeping her orbiting at a fair distance. Occasionally you’re sure you can feel her eyes boring into your back. But you can feel everyone’s eyes doing that – it’s just who you are.

The scar is easy nesting. When the sun dims, the pigeons and the crows and the other tiny, winged shapes you couldn’t put a name to crowd in, their collective rustling and preening rising as a sort of low, reverent applause, clapping the day off stage. It edges away and away along the sky until there’s only red, and the thin, withered winter clouds take on the appearance of long wounds. Thinking about the scar is a good distraction. Sometimes it seems like not only a sanctuary from the rest of the city, but from the world at large, material and immaterial, an island of etherized, cold indifference, non-judgemental in its bleakness.

You check the time as you pass by an old, disused subway exit. 6:34. You didn’t even know that was there – you don’t know very much about the scar, really. In the place of commuters, the boarded-up hole is now choked with clacking, snipping crows. Amidst the shivering black, you notice a speck of white, and watch with vague interest as a lone magpie rises from the crowd, off into the closing dark.

You glance up ahead, scanning the broken rooftops for familiar silhouettes.

Not far now.

>Hunger Level: 6 >Current Funds: $140.50

>[X] Talk.

“So” You break the silence, and the world shifts subtly out of grey. Sometimes you think the scar eats silence. “You came a long way, right?”

“Maybe not as long as you think.” Answers Gabriella.

And so, as you trek through the snow-wrapped ruins, you come to learn of how Gabriella Alvarez was adopted by an American family – the, of all things, Robinsons – after her visible mutations went into remission. Gabriella Robinson existed as a brief, ecstatic spark of churchgoing, early-rising optimism for roughly three years, till one day, just a little over a year and a half ago, she found herself harried by strange sensations and stranger urgings, and soon enough there was fur sprouting where there should be none, her figure shifting, her eyes changing, and her life spiralling off its tracks. Gabriella Robinson ceased to be, and the repulsive Alvarez existence was tolerated a short while before she was forced to leave. So she set out to find a messiah with the name of Joshua Green.

Joshua Green, stooped in his study, nursing black bags under his eyes, smiling reflexively and murmuring into his coffee. The more you hear, the less her description of your father seems to match the tired, undecided man you hold in your memory. You become markedly uncomfortable and shift the conversation toward food, noticing her brighten up somewhat.

You glance back at Laura for a moment. Maybe her theory was right. Maybe your father did something – something that changed you and your sister.

Those eyes…

You make it back the apartment soon enough, shuffling off some of the damp winter atmosphere as you step in through the door. The smell of boiled meat trails down from upstairs and you feel your mouth watering.

>[X] Tell everyone Gabriella was the thief.

The presence of a third companion does not go unnoticed as you trail in. Not for long, anyway – Kevin is, for the most part, heavily involved in the operation of your apparently quite arcane stove, and leaving Noriko to gawk alone for a moment. By the time he joins her she’s gotten her face all in order and is no longer staring at the long, thick tail that swings in Gabriella’s wake, but that look was enough to stop the younger girl in her tracks.

Briefly, you glance about for Layla, finding her asleep on the mattress.

“This is Gabriella.” They look from her eyes to yours. You ignore it, turning back to her. “These guys are Noriko and Kevin. They’re okay.”

“Just okay?” Notes Noriko.

Kevin supplies a nervous little wave, which Gabriella hurriedly mirrors, her tail following her hand and shaking behind her.

“She’s been taking our stuff”–

A bright, blue arc wraps its way around Noriko’s head, before vanishing as spontaneously as it appeared. You raise your hands and your voice.

–“But! As you can see, she kind of needed it. We muties have to look after each other, right?”

Kevin seems to take it okay. Noriko offers up a grudging semblance of agreement that doesn’t help much to stem the nervous adrenaline hanging around your newcomer, but hopefully she’ll get over it. You can’t blame her for being a bit grumpy.

>[X] Eat. >[X] Tell everyone Gaby might be able to help you with something. >[X] Tell Kevin he can sign up at the Bugle with you tomorrow.

You sit down to eat, motioning for Gabriella to join you. Laura takes one look at the unrecognizable mush- meat bubbling away in the stove and, apparently, decides to abstain for now. You don’t blame her – one bite is enough to tell you that Kevin’s cooking has not improved by leaps and bounds. Where’s that salt, Kevin? Where the fuck is that salt?

You refrain from bitching at the walking funeral’s culinary skills. Everyone’s already a little on edge, and while you’re sure a bit of constructive criticism wouldn’t throw Kevin’s chill off, you’re not one to push.

“So, uh, this may seem a little weird, I guess…” The looks you are treated to in return seem to confirm this. “…but Gabriella might be able to help me with… with something.”

“Gaby is fine.” She murmurs.

“Okay.” You nod. “Oh, uh, Kev. You good for showing up at the Bugle tomorrow?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Not much else to do.”

“Cool. Maybe afterwards we can furnish this place up a little more.” You cast your eyes over the rotten old mattress Layla is currently snoring into. “I didn’t have a house of six in mind when we dragged this crap up.”

You pause to shove another lump of mystery meat into your mouth. Then, abruptly, Noriko speaks up:

“Are you two… related, or something?”

You hear Gaby sputter around a mouthful of food.

>[X] “She knew my dad.” (this will require a test, you paranoid lizard you)

>DC14 >+1 Courage modifier >+2 Relationship modifier

Rolled 14

>17 >maybe only 60% crack bitch now

You chew your food slowly. You can feel Laura’s eyes on you again. For a long moment, before you finally decide to swallow, even you’re not sure exactly what the answer’s gonna be here.

“Apparently we used to see the same doctor.”

Another mouthful.

“Who was my dad, I guess.”

You don’t look up. You just fork yourself some more Ford Kitchen mystery meat and munch away. Somebody whistles, and an awkward silence settles across the apartment, dispersed only by Laura’s apparent immunity to such things and the steady, wet snores arising from Layla’s corner.

Eventually, you decide to catch an early night. You tell Gaby you hope she sticks around and head over to the sofa, settling in. Silence surrounds you, till eventually, you tune in to the low murmur of conversation sparking up between Kevin and Gabriella, and from there you amble off into the long, starry passageways of dreamtime…

You stare at the ceiling, half-understanding, half-drifting, painting it with figures torn from the black of sleep. They burn on the edge of being real – yesterday, today, tomorrow, you swim, you draw, you feel the notes whisper beneath your fingers. Things out of picture books insinuate themselves into images of your life – you draw yourself, older than you are here, old and cool and interesting, swordfighting back to back with Captain America Thor Iron Man Somebody, the setting an upturned, gigantic beaker. They populate the shadows beside your nightstand, over your bed, atop the closet on the other side of the room.

Someone breathes out heavily. In an instant, the Captain Americas and the Thors become quivering, snarling hands. You bite your lip and dare to sit up.

Your father sits on the other side of the room, stooped among the shadows, his elbows propped up upon his knees. You feel the tension slip away. It’s just your dad. You watch him as he watches the ground, as if staring into some great, dark expanse, his fingers occasionally kneading along his forehead. He looks tired. His expression is strange. You don’t understand it.

He looks up at you, as if suddenly realizing that you’re awake. His mouth moves. He–

“Pitt-Hopkins syndrome appears when the TCF4 gene is insufficiently developed or unrecognized somehow. Generally, it is associated with the following symptoms: stereotypic movements, severe intellectual impediment, underdeveloped language centres, hyperventilation, cryptorchidism, hypotonic, intermittent seizures…”

Your sister brushes the sweat off your forehead. Her hands are cool. Her skin is bright white porcelain and her eyes are black. She leans over you and smiles, you smile back. She vomits blood into your nose.

You open your eyes.

The light is like a whip in your face. You grunt and try to, through some new mutant power maybe, wave it away. No such like - the sun is, apparently, there to stay. For a few hours, at least.

Instead of banishing the sun as intended, you notice that your hands are… alright. You blink, and they stay alright. The burns are gone – the angry red, the tense, cauterized sensation in your tissues, it’s all gone. You’ve shrugged it off overnight.

Huh.

Wiping sleep from your eyes, you sit up, checking your watch. 5:25, AM. The apartment snoozes around you – Noriko has curled up with Layla, or at least nearby her. Kevin’s taken one of the chairs, as has Gaby (you think it’s time to replace those with another couch or two). Laura, as far as you can tell, is nowhere to be seen. Running or yoga-ing, you guess.

You shuffle off the couch and stretch.

>Hunger Level: 3

>[X] Go to work. >[X] Wake up Kevin.

You plod over to the unconscious Kevin and, careful not to get even remotely near any kind of exposed skin, shake him up a bit. And a bit more.

Eventually, he groans his way into wakefulness, squinting through the early-morning light at you. A little later, after some explaining about work entailing actually getting up and being ready and stuff, he pitches himself off the seat. He coughs a little wretchedly, and breaths into his gloves, recoiling in disgust.

“Hey, JJ.” His voice crackles with the temporary exhaustion of dawn. “On a scale of one to ten, how luxury would you consider toothpaste?”

You stop to think. Hmm.

“Maybe a seven? Six? Somewhere in that area.”

“Right.”

You make your way out. It’s a cold and clear day outside, clouds few and far between. Doesn’t appear to have been snowing overnight, either. The first few minutes are made of tired silence, but soon Kevin manages to be just about awkward enough to force a conversation into being.

>[X] Talk

You try to avoid as much crowding as possible – not a particularly simple task in New York, but necessary. You both agree that another incident involving skin-to-dust contact is unfavourable at best. On your way, you try to get a bead on how Kevin’s dealing with the hobo life, exactly.

The results are… inconclusive. He’s not really one to talk much on the subject. Mostly you get him brushing it off and insisting that, well, it’s just something we gotta deal with, right? It’s strangely fatalistic for someone relatively new to the whole deal. Maybe he’s just a realist, or maybe he doesn’t like getting his hopes up, but you get the distinct impression that Kevin is far smarter than he tends to let on, and a guy like him should be thinking about… directions and stuff. If it weren’t such a crazy notion, you’d almost say he thinks he should be here.

As you guys approach the Bugle, you check your watch (6:20), and give Kevin a heads up about Peter. You’re hoping to touch base with that kid, find out what was up last time. You also make sure to tell him to just get gone if something goes awry – no point in outing yourselves over some sidewalk job.

You get in and sign up, pretty comfortable with going through the motions by now. You feel like you’re sneaking something past school security when you introduce Kevin, Vanessa tells you she can put him down for tomorrow, which seems fine with him.

As you head for the backroom and your stack, offers to go pick up some groceries. Apparently you’re running low again.

>[X] Actually, you could do with some company...

“We can get that stuff on the way back.” You state. Of course, that’s mostly just a sort of… entryway into the real problem you have with Kevin’s proposed shopping trip. “Besides, uh… considering what happened last time… you know…”

He sighs, and dabs at the dark, greyish bruise-remnants around his eye. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You alright, by the way?” You can’t help but notice that he’s kind of been… squeezing himself up as thin as possible (and he’s already a pretty scrawny guy). His hands have delved so deep into his pockets, they’re liable to unearth a Balrog if he goes any further, his shoulders are fastened tightly in place, and he’s walking with small, fast steps.

“Oh… yeah, yeah, mostly.” He glances about as you enter the long, thin corridor where the papers are stacked in haphazard rows. A whistle plays at his lips. “I’m just not too comfortable with people getting close. Obviously.”

“Yeah…” You almost wince for him. He really did get such a shitty deal…

Hoisting up a nice, big stack of (probably) lies about Spider-Man, you turn toward the exit… just in time to see Parker shut the door behind him, a half-eaten apple dominating much of his lower face. His eyes open up like big hazel dishes at the sight of you.

“…Hwy.”

>THREAD 26: END

Thread #27

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

After discovering some possibly unseemly things about your father, you slept the weirdness of yesterday off and reported in bright an' early at the Bugle, Kevin in tow, the next morning. And guess what? You just ran into that maybe-mutant-maybe-not kid while picking up your papers! How convenient.

“…Hwy.” Says a mildly surprised Parker, rolling the words around a mouthful of apple.

Immediately, you can’t help but wonder if Kevin should really be in the back of the Daily Bugle with you. You’d guess they get a fair number of hobos going to and fro (and, to be fair, Kevin is the fairer breed of hobo. You could probably confuse him with a moderately unwholesome teenager of the standard housed variety), but he’s technically not working for them or anything yet.

“Um, hi.” Mutters Kevin, nodding lamely rather than withdrawing his hands from his pockets.

So. There the three of you are. Just… standing around.

>Hunger Level: 3 >Current Funds: $140.50

>[X] Ask him if he’d mind meeting you later (talk elsewhere).

“Hey, Peter.” You’re dying to have a little chat with this guy, but…

Your eyes roll across the corridor. A few rooms down, the intermittent march of the presses reminds you just how little privacy this place offers. You are in a building full of people who take pictures of people like you, write stories about people like you, and constantly harry people like you for the former or the latter or if possible both.

“You mind if we met up later? Somewhere else?” Just in case you’re misreading things entirely and that was creepy rather than conspiratorial, you add: “Just wanted to apologize for sperging all out before. Oh, and this is Kevin.” You nudge your stack of papers toward the black-clad teen. “He’s okay.”

“Uhh…” Peter seems to consider it for a moment, before swallowing the bite of apple and nodding cautiously. “…Yeah? I guess that’d be fine. I’ve got class till three-thirty, but after that I’m… mostly free. You want to meet at a mall or something?”

Urgh. Kids and their gratuitously large shopping centres.

>[X] Meet at a park.

“Actually…”

Malls really aren’t your style. Lots of people. Lots of people that could be anyone. Also, technically private property (of the whichever whatever company), and probably teeming with Mutant Control Officers. You don’t want to bump into somebody and shock them by… shocking them, with your shocking taser hands.

“…I was thinking more along the lines of parks.”

“Well… okay. Sure. I'm not really a mall guy either, to be honest. You just...” He pauses, and cringes very slightly. “...tend to end up at them, I guess.”

You figure out a time and an exact place with Peter, and say your goodbyes, settling on a 6’o’clock meeting on the far side of the nearby park (a fair bit away from the spot you meet Creeper at). Lots of trees there, and the benches tend to sit far out away from the path, away from any overly-curious joggers.

You and Kevin head out on to the streets and make your way toward your usual spot.

>Roll for DYNAMIC HANDING OUT PAPER SKILLS >[ ] Anything you want to chat with Kevin about while on the job?

Rolled 17

>17 >Bugle ninja

You make it in good time, and have a little while to catch your breath before the washed (relative to you) masses come surging out of the subway. You wonder how long this rush will keep up before Christmas (people gotta have their holidays soon, right?), but then you remember that this is New York. No one here knows how to shut down. If what you learned from Creeper is any indication, even the criminal element never truly relax – it wasn’t as easy to see then, but in hindsight, everything was a paranoid, torrid mess, and it never ever let up. Not for a second.

You and Kevin make a little small talk as you hand out papers. You bring up this pretty little idea you had involving a whole ton of glue, but he shoots it down, stating that he’s “not gonna become Glue-Man, dude.” To be fair, he does seem to be making progress – more than Noriko, anyhow. He asks whether the whole Bugle thing is always this boring, and you confirm that yes, yes it most certainly is. You can’t help but start considering food as the hours wear on, and that leads you on to something else you’ve been wondering.

“Kevin? How do you eat?”

He shrugs. Apparently he’s given it some thought, too, but his guess is as good as yours. Maybe his powers just don’t work that way, is his best suggestion. Maybe it’s all psychosomatic, and he’s only disintegrating crap out of some kind of fear, is yours (though, you don’t voice it).

By 10:20, the crowds have begun to thin, and you’re down to your last few papers. It doesn’t take long to shift them, and, as usual, you keep the last copy for yourself.

“That was ass.” Notes Kevin. You agree, and wish him a very merry time when he has a go tomorrow.

>Hunger Level: 4

>[X] Go pick up your money. >[X] Get food. >[X] Catch up on current events (according to the Bugle).

“You hungry?” You ask, very un-subtly massaging your belly. “You ready to digest some food?”

“I could digest some food.” Replies Kevin. You’re glad that he’s sprouting some ability to respond to humour. Half of surviving on the streets is tricking yourself into feeling a little better about the whole deal (the other half is much less Disneyesque), and when you ran into him he wasn’t exactly the most comical guy around. For obvious reasons.

You guys pay up for a pair of hotdogs, and you glance over the paper while you munch yours down, mostly to distract yourself from the mysterious assortment of possibly unethical ingredients your improved sense of taste picks out.

You flip past the whatever about Spider-Man on the front page, scanning the rest of the paper for anything particularly relevant to your situation. There’s no follow-up on your exploits, but there is a small article about suspected Brotherhood members clashing with police upstate. Apparently they broke into some superhuman containment centre, but nobody's revealing who or what they were after.

Well, the Brotherhood are always in the news. They used to be front page stuff, but ever since Magneto flattened Genosha… everything else has seemed a little petty and small.

Folding away the paper, you make your way back up to the Bugle. It doesn’t take long – by 11’o’clock you’re in and out again, and $60 richer.

“What now?”

>Current Funds: $198.50

>[X] Pick up cheap phones.

Now? Now you succeed where you have once failed.

Or, at the very least, someone nearby will succeed. Someone called Kevin.

“I thought we should pick up some phones, actually.” You suggest, quickly adding: “Cheap ones, of course.”

Kevin raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Not a bad idea. Though, Noriko…”

You frown. Well, you’ll have to cross that bridge when you come to it. Even that means dragging a reluctant halfpunk Japanese teenager along with you. Having a network to work with will just make things so much easier.

You make your way down the high street, toward shopping central. Eventually, you find yourself passing by the site of your truly unmentionable failure (on the other side of the road, of course). You stop, and clear your throat awkwardly, burrowing into your pockets for a few notes.

“Uh… Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“Take this.” You shove a bundle of green paper into his hands. He shoots you quizzical stare.

>[X] Four.

“…I’m going in on my own, am I?” Asks Kevin, a note of suspicion invading his tone.

“Yep.”

“…And I’m getting how many of these things?”

You cock your head in consideration. Well, you’re not getting one for Noriko, obviously. And you can’t see Gabriella going anywhere, what with her being the amazing otter lass an’ all. Does Layla really need one?

“Four? Four is good.” You nod in confirmation.

“…Okay.” He stares at you a little longer, as though that will eke something out of you, before heading across the road. Just before he passes into the store, he shoots you another long, bemused stare.

A minute passes. Then three. Then six. Rearing up like a terrible, slobbering beast, the memory of what happened last time Kevin was on an errand surfaces from the deep end of your mind.

>[X] Don’t.

You push the thought aside and think about other things. Like, y’know, stuff. Things that aren’t Kevin turning some clerk’s hands to dust.

You’ve gotta pick up more furniture, haven’t you? You’re not looking forwards to lugging that crap upstairs – assuming you can pick anything good out of the scar. What else is there? Oh, yeah, Laura and her stuff. That’s important. You’ve been thinking about maybe getting your hands on a camera, too. What if you could get pictures for the Bugle? Stuff that no one else could catch? You’d need someone to keep you up to speed on crap going down all over the city… but you do know a few people that still work for Creeper. People that might be willing to keep tabs on certain stuff for you.

You frown to yourself. How many faces from the good old days can you trust? How many would even be willing to talk?

Your patience is rewarded when Kevin comes trailing out of the store, waving over the road at you. Whew. He jogs over and shakes the contents of a plastic bag demonstratively, smiling a small, unobtrusive smile.

“Four crappy phones.” He reaches into his pocket and hands you a few leftover notes. You count under your breath.

>Current Funds: $174.90

Not bad.

“Great. Thanks, man.”

>[X] Pick up groceries.

Heading vaguely in the direction of home, you stop by one of the local 7/11’s for supplies. You guys are running low already – a fact that troubles you pretty deeply. There’s six of you now, and as much as you wish otherwise, sixty dollars a day is not going to cut it much longer. With Kevin joining the workforce, you can bring $120 in after a day of work, but that assumes that you can both keep it up, and you can get regular spots, and nothing happens to all that delicious money.

You’ve already found that one some days the Bugle just can’t fit you in, so what happens the next time there’s a few days without work?

You pick up a few bottles of water, some assorted meat & veg, and some additions to your array of spices (some would call that a luxury unbefitting of hobodom, but you would call out such folk as the plebians of the vagabond community. Your spices can mean the difference between a filling meal and a REALLY filling meal).

The guy at the counter checks your stuff out and you head back onto the streets, coiling up a little against the cold. Fuck this clear sky. Snow is better than this.

>Current Funds: $155.70

>[X] Write in (blankets woo!).

You check the time. 12:30.

Hmm.

As you make your way across the icy streets, Kevin mentions that Gabriella probably needs another blanket, and he’s right. Layla could do with one too – she’s been sharing with whoever’s able, as far as you can tell. Generally Noriko, but you’ve noticed her wrapped up in Laura’s when the green-eyed girl is off running or yoga-ing or doing whatever she does when she’s not around.

Man, you hope she’s not poking around after those… guys. The bad guys you don’t actually know too much about.

You two stop in at a furniture store, awkwardly shuffling your way through the crowds of pretty-smelling people (not as pretty as they think, though. Can’t fool that JJ nose. You know what that guy checking out the double beds did a short while ago, and he should be ashamed). You come to a tottering shelf stuffed with duvets and blankets of all shapes, sizes and themes, and start sifting through them for the cheapest price tag.

Soon the rustling quiet begins to put words in your mouth.

“Hey…” You begin, frowning a little. “Do you maybe know why Noriko’s sort of… avoiding… her problem?”

Kevin sighs, and tiptoes up to grab a duvet from one of the higher shelves.

“I’m not sure, man. I mean… she’s not a very open person.” Shaking his head at the price tag, he shoves it back. “I guess she’s had her powers longer than me. Maybe she just doesn’t think it can be controlled. I know she tried, before I ran into her.”

Dragging out another blanket, he smiles half-heartedly, and shoves it at you.

“This looks good.”

You look down. It’s blue and red and covered in Spider-Man. You grin lopsidedly.

“Hah. Think they have it in Magneto?”

Kevin snickers quietly. “I doubt it, dude.”

Picking out a pair of cheap options, Kevin queues up – again, at your request – and meets you outside a few minutes later. You yawn, and stare out over the greying New York skyline, toward the noticeable indent where the scar cuts into the city.

It really is huge. They've gotta start cleaning it up soon. When the winter chill fades, maybe?

>[X] Head home.

You head back to the scar, to your sea of cold indifferent sanctuary, burdened by a surprisingly light surplus of bags. The wicked wind whispers and moans (and you’re sure that’s a line from a song), and you wrap yourself up tightly, squinting through the icy breeze. You hope there’s some real clouds around tomorrow.

The evening is just drawing in when you arrive in the shadow of your blasted home. You head up the stairs, Kevin sniffling in the cold, dust-ridden dark.

“No, a Flush would be…” The voices emanating from your apartment quiet down as you approach. You enter to find Noriko sitting on her knees, the others arranged opposite, an assortment of playing cards spread along the floor. Laura and Noriko both hold a set in their hands. They look up at you, and then down at the various bags drooping along with you.

“…Oh, hey.” Says Noriko. “You brought… stuff?”

“Don’t worry!” Interjects Gabriella’s quiet, fervent voice. “We weren’t really gambling.”

Right.

>[X] All. >[X] ALL IS ONE. >[X] ALL IS DARKSEI–

“Yep.” You lean down onto the sofa, fishing the phones out of their bag. There is a collective “ahhh”, though you don’t count Laura’s voice in there. Well, you weren’t expecting to. “I figured we should have some way of keeping in touch. Laura gets one, I get one, Kevin gets one. And then the last one stays here.”

“Huh.” Layla leans back, looking a little surprised. “Good thinking.”

“I don’t get one?” Asks Noriko. A short moment passes in which every eye in the room simply stares at her in silence. She drops her chin into her palms, sighing glumly. “Right. I guess that makes sense. Why Kevin?”

“Kevin’s not a shut-in anymore.” You answer, a little teasingly. “Anyhow, would you two mind getting this food packed away? I’m gonna head out for some more furniture. We’re missing a bunk or two, I reckon.”

>[X] Laura, Layla.

“….Laura? You want to come?” You’re kind of wondering about her. The way she trailed behind on your way back sort of worried you yesterday.

She glances up at you, and sets down her hand of cards. From the brief glimpse you catch, it was terrible. She pulls herself up and nods silently, brushing her jeans down.

“Uh…” Layla’s hand creeps up. “Can I come?”

You shrug. “Sure.”

Why not? Being cooped up in here is probably starting to wear thin on her. In a way, you still wish she’d relent on this whole thing and turn herself in, but you guess you’re in no position to criticise anyone for running away. Not remotely.

You make sure she’s puts her coat on and head out.

>What’re you scavenging for today, JJ?

Roll me a D20, /tg/. Rolled 1

>1 >JJ why you suck so much dick? >JJ why?

You pick your way out into the frozen wastes. The sun is a grey blur beyond a grey sky, and it’s steadily diminishing. You’d better get this done and dusted before it gets too cold out there – you don’t want Layla catching something. And you guess you have a meeting to get to, too.

Rather than retread known ground, you strike off into the unknown. The scar looks mostly the same everywhere – scattered shapes kneeling into one another, whimpering silently, snow hanging like gristle upon skeletal remains – but there’s a lot of it, and you can’t help but wonder if it would be so homogenous and desolate in summertime. It’s been here at least a year. You like to think that nature is already working to reclaim it; that every step you take is over a dormant patch of lilacs or daffodils. Maybe you’ll still be here when the world begins to thaw, and you’ll find out.

You find coffee shops, you find furniture stores, you find apartments. You climb and slog and tread your way through schools and libraries and the hollow bones of places you can barely recognize. All wasted, all picked clean or scoured with fire. There’s nothing.

You stare out over a pile of scorched bricks, down into a ditch that must have been a landfill at some point. The grey seeps into you, streaking its claws through your padded hide. You check the time, gasping quietly. Four hours. You’ve been out here for four hours and there’s… there’s nothing.

“I used to play here.” Layla shivers beside you, staring out into the desolation, her eyes enveloping it, reflecting it. “We’d make stuff out of junk. Now even the junk is gone.”

>THREAD 27: END

Thread #28

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You just wasted four hours picking through a ruined wasteland for salvageables, ultimately finding nothing but frost, snow, and one sobering vista after another. You guess you know that this side of the scar is basically empty now. That’s something.

As you slump down on a mound of rubble overlooking the ashbowl that was once a junkyard or a landfill or something, you check your watch. 3:45. You’ve got a little over two hours to make your way up to the park and meet Peter. Urgh.

Layla sits down nearby, running holding her knees close and rubbing her legs for warmth. You can hear Laura picking her way back up the rubble toward you.

You can’t believe the silence of this place.

>[X] Talk to Laura. >[X] Talk to Layla >Layla stuff will be lead into through the following posts

You focus on Laura as she plods up through the rubble. Her eyes roll impassively across the cold, grey silhouettes of the scar, her hands in her pockets – again, you feel that sense of immensity between the two of you, like she isn’t really there, or she’s divorced somehow from the empty decrepitude of this world, separate and strange.

“Hey.”

She glances up at you, seeming momentarily confused.

“Hello?”

Hah. You stretch your arms a little, and you feel as though you’re shaking off a miasma of heavy, grey chill, teeming down upon you from somewhere up above. “You alright? Why’d you trail back yesterday? On the way home?”

Her stare holds position, as behind it the mystery turns.

“I thought you wished to be alone.” She states, haltingly. “You wanted to talk about your father, correct? I’m not part of that.” Her eyes leave you, and turn towards the vast, open stomach of the sky. “Don’t you want to leave this? Go home?”

>[ ] Write in.

“Not alone.” You state, simply.

Of course you want to go home, even if ‘home’ is probably a whole lot of very flat ground now. Of course you want to know what’s up with dad – you know he’s gone, but you feel like his shadow is still being cast across the Earth, and if you can follow it to its terminus point… there’ll be something there, some truth. Maybe what’s left of your father can help you stitch the ruins of your life together. But the last few days have had their charms, too.

“I’m always gonna miss Michigan, but these last few days have been better than…” You count. You think of fields, and the backs of trucks, and Creeper. “…than anything has been in a long, long time. I'm not gonna drop you guys. And I don't want to.”

The wind rules in the silence. You shiver and breathe up into the crevices under your gloves.

“I see.” Replies Laura, at length. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Puh-lease.” Interjects Layla’s sing-song voice. She’s leaned back against the rubble, all but rolling her eyes. “Is this the first part of our Christmas special? Are we airing it early?”

You glance out over the desolation.

>[X] “You have a problem with Christmas specials?” >[X] “What happened here, Layla?” >[X] Write in.

“You have a problem with Christmas specials?”

“Yes.” She replies, flatly.

“Huh.” You sigh. “I guess you’re getting the coal, then.”

It goes on and on. The ruins are so sparse and thin here, like twigs frozen to the forest floor, cold and brittle and lifeless. How much of this was Queens before it was this giant, grey nothing? How much of it was bits of elsewhere? You remember the way your house burned – the terrifying whispers of the red and the yellow, the spitting of the wood, the fire laughing hoarsely, licking away long, roiling strips of night. This must have been an inferno.

“…What happened here, Layla?”

She doesn’t answer for some time. Eventually, she brushes back a stray length of her hair, and stares down into the ground.

“Krang, or Kang, or something. They didn’t tell us much.” Her face contorts onto a short-lived sneer. “It wasn’t a public matter, apparently. I only saw little bits while we were being moved to the shelters. This guy had loads of robots, and then Magneto showed up to fight him… and, apparently, the Avengers did too. I never saw them, though. They got here… later.”

You envision the gaping crevice that opens out where her apartment once stood, and imagine it glutted with fire.

“I’m sorry, Layla.”

She says nothing. Not for a while, anyway. When she does speak, she’s changed the subject.

“Did you really get rid of the night-face?”

>[X] “Along with half the orphanage.” >[X] “Yeah. It wasn’t a ghost, but it’s gone.” >[X] “I don’t know if it’s gone for good, but it’s gone for now.”

“Yeah.” You assure her. Oh, it’s gone alright. You turned your hands into scorched playdough making sure of it. “It wasn’t a ghost, but it’s gone. Along with half the orphanage.”

You think you see her smile a little, just on the edge of her mouth. “Was Sarah okay? The nurse girl?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You best not mention that the other one, Mother Superior or whatever, is now a thinly- spread red ooze. Less than that, actually, judging by what that final blaze of hellfire did to the place.

“Cool. It’s gone forever?”

“I dunno.” You look out into the skeletal fields. That mournful hate calls out to you from somewhere far away and deep inside, fresh in your memory, immortal among the blurry strangeness of that night. “It’s gone for now, though.”

She folds up again as the wind picks up, staring over her knees into nothing space. She looks tired, but relieved.

You pull yourself up.

>[X] Head to the park. >[X] Head home.

You head home. The snowy desolation of the scar rolls away under your feet while you talk on little, inconsequential stuff – what you guys should spend Kevin’s job money on, for example.

Laura, in utilitarian fashion, suggests that a certain percentage of your funding should be partitioned aside for the eventuality of an emergency scenario – she posits an exhaustive number of increasingly bizarre such happenings, from increased MCA presence in the city to the oft-overlooked possibility of time- divergent invaders seeking to quell the notable superhuman population of New York in preparation for an invasion. While logical, Layla notes that her ideas are ‘the boringest’, and you can’t help but very diplomatically agree.

It is Layla’s opinion that you should see the new Thor film, which is apparently a thing. Her reasoning behind this course of action is that Chris Hemsworth is the tautest man on Earth, which you’re not sure about honestly (dude, you have, like, no idea who this guy is), though you nod along impassively. Laura’s thoughts on the matter are that they will expose you unnecessarily and place the group in a noisy situation where possible threats are difficult to ascertain. She has no opinion on the subject of Chris Hemsworth’s tautness.

You make it back to the apartments just before four-thirty, opting to drop the others off and make your way toward the park rather than pop inside and face the abject shame of returning home empty-handed. Laura and Layla can have all of that to themselves, thankyouverymuch.

Laura pauses by the entrance, glancing back at you.

“Do you require some company?”

>[X] Maybe.

Um…

“Yeah, I guess?” You shrug. “Do you want to come?”

She seems to consider this for a moment, before stepping away from the door. That’s a yes, then.

Walking briskly to keep ahead of the cold, you make your way out of the scar, into the ebbing throng of New York. Laura’s quiet, but you manage to poke a few notes of conversation out of her – when you confide that you have no idea who that movie star Layla was on about is, she confirms that this is unimportant, and she too has little knowledge of figures prominent in popular culture (with nearly those exact words).

Eventually you make it under the rickety old gate into the park, the sun hanging precariously over its arch, its light dimming. You check your watch - nearly half an hour to spare.

As you tread over the snowy path, it hits you that Parker probably isn’t expecting additional company, and you hurriedly explain what you think the situation is.

“Understood.” She states, her eyes remaining fixed on the path ahead. “I will remain nearby.”

>[X] “Nah, come with.”

“Nah, come with.” You grin a little. “It’s not like he’s gonna just vanish when he sees you.”

You two make your way deeper into the park, the sun fracturing between hundreds of tiny, overhanging branches. The late hour has tucked most types away – those few souls that pass you by are there one moment and gone the next, the bitter touch of winter driving them towards home, towards shelter and warmth and security. It’s almost like you’re displaced very slightly from time, moving through darker, stronger currents, while the world rushes on at either side, inobservant of the tiny, bleak instants in which your lives travel. You remember that Creeper had a word for this kind of thing.

Wading along in your frozen little world, you detach from the path, heading out over the snow-strung grass. Dead leaves crackle under your feet and, rising up beside the noxious blur of New York proper, the smell of moisture rising through undergrowth fills your nose. You like that.

You sit down at a bench overlooking a pond. It’s no Lake Michigan, small and murky and its banks clotted with over spilling weeds, but you like being near water. It calms you. The water isn’t ice yet, but you bet it will be soon. One day, two, three. Doesn’t matter in the end.

Laura eases down beside you. You breathe quietly for a short while.

“John?”

“Mhmm?”

“How do you intend to continue this?” You glance quizzically at her. She stares into your eyes as though no more explanation should be necessary, but soon relents. “There are six of us now. Together, you and Kevin can make”–

“Oh.” You interject. “Yeah, it’s going to get harder”–

“It’s going to become impossible.”

>[X] “I’ll just have to find some other way of bringing money in.”

That’s annoyingly negative. You’ve given it some thought, and it’s… daunting, but it’s not impossible. Right?

“I’ll…” You swing for ideas, grasping at anything that rushes by. The hooks of your mind come in empty. You clear your throat. “I’ll just have to find some other way of bringing money in.”

You were considering that stuff with the photos. And then, maybe, you can find somewhere else to hold down a shift at after your work at the Bugle’s done (though, you can’t say, with any great abundance of honesty, that your current hours are quite predictable). And maybe–

“Have you considered accepting the Creeper’s offer of work?” You feel your jaw fall slack. What. “Something insignificant and small...”

“Laura…”

“…With your abilities and my training, it’s probable that you could”–

>Composure Check >DC13 >+3 Relationship modifier Rolled 14

>17 >ruin my fun why don't you

>[X] Lots of stuff.

“Do you want us all to end in Creeper’s pocket?” You interrupt her, unable to keep a minor note of anger from invading your voice. It’s not her, it’s Creeper. He just gets to you. “Because that’s what will happen.”

“I want you to survive.” She counters immediately. You grunt out a plume of exasperated, hot air.

“Well, there’s… there’s no guarantees of that with this guy.” There’s no guarantees in anything. You know that – and you survived with him for a while, you guess. Maybe you would be better off working for him again. Maybe your chances would be better. But… no. “Listen… I’ve, I’ve thought about it…”

You look away. There’s a certainty in her eyes you don’t want to fight. You knead your fingers across your temple.

“…I have thought about it, and that’s bad enough. I helped Creeper put Jack on the streets, Laura. I mean, in a small, stupid way, but I was still there.”

Does she understand that? Does she realize what that means? Jack might not even be in the papers today if it weren’t for you. It probably would – every shred of logic tells you that the Creeper machine would have just trundled and churned and crept on – but this isn’t a ‘probably’ thing. This is a ‘maybe’. That’s where half your life is. ‘Maybe’. Maybe things would have been better if you hadn’t done this. Maybe they’d be better if you hadn’t done that. Maybe Noriko and Kevin wouldn’t even have problems with Creeper if you hadn’t, in some tiny, tiny way, helped prop him up.

“Part of it was still me. I don’t think I’ve ever regretted doing anything more in my life.” Anything that you could control, anyway. “And…” You desperately grasp for logic. For something that isn’t just pride or conscience. “…and there’s the Hellions, and”–

You feel Laura’s fingers wind their way around yours.

“Alright.” She says, quietly.

You sigh in relief. You feel her warmth mingling with yours, the cold suspending its touch, just ever so briefly.

“Thanks.”

She sniffs the air, and her brow furrows in confusion. You follow her gaze as she twists about.

A few yards back the way you came, Peter is rustling his way over the leaves toward you.

>THREAD 28: END

Thread #29

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You’re out in the freezing cold, sitting on a bench overlooking a small, shallow pond, rather than at home where it’s just cold and there’s a sofa. Why? Because you wanted to meet some kid that might possibly be a mutant, for reasons you’re not entirely sure you could explain properly to even yourself. Maybe because you like the idea of having something in common with a person who has central heating at home. Maybe because you feel like you owe him something. Maybe lots of things.

You didn't really think this through.

The last, gasping rays of the evening sun diminishing behind him, Peter approaches across the snow, his breath bulging heavily in the cold air. Laura shifts uncomfortably beside you, sniffing testily. She stops as Peter gets closer.

He glances a little bemusedly from you to her, and then back again. You think that’s bemusement, anyway.

“Um… hey. Who’s your friend?”

>Present Time: 6:04 PM >Current Funds: $147.80

>[X] See if he’s cool with her being there. >[X] Just introduce her.

“Oh. This is Laura. We’re…” What, exactly? “…Roommates. Of a sort. You okay with that? Someone else being here?”

“Yeah, uh… sure.” He pops out an awkward little wave. “Hey, Laura.”

She pauses, fixing him with one of her just-a-little-too-long stares, and smiles obligatorily. Briefly, too. The moment staggers on in ungainly silence a little longer, before he coughs intentionally and paces around the bench, sitting down.

“You guys… come here often?”

>[X] “Yes I meet a drug dealer here, it’s magical.” >[X] Try to edge the conversation towards mutieness.

“Yes I meet a drug dealer here, it’s magical.”

You think Peter just spat-took (spat-take? Spat-taked?) air. You can’t help but smile a little.

“Joking.” Well… technically, it was a joke, of sorts. The best jokes are based on true stories anyway. “Don’t worry, I’m not that kind of hobo.”

Not anymore.

“Man…” He looks at you with the demeanour of a kicked puppy going on. Somehow, you get the impression that he’s used to being the butt of most jokes. “Don’t do that, I almost spat out my teeth there.”

“Yep, you pretty much did.” You sit back, and watch a magpie pecking at something on the edge of the pond. How exactly is this supposed to go? “So, uh… you remember that stuff you asked me, a little while ago… that stuff?”

Peter crosses his arms and takes on a serious expression. “No, it’s fine, I understand if you don’t want to talk about it…”

Not quite the reaction you were going for.

“Uh, yeah, well…”

>[X] “…Were you interested for any particular reason?” >[X] “…You were right. I’m a mutant.”

“…You were right.” You sigh deeply, your breath coiling in the air. You watch it spiral out into the greying ether, slowly disintegrating. “I’m a mutant.”

His expression doesn’t change much – his eyes widen a little, you think. There’s a slight infrequency in his heart rate, but that’s it. No adrenaline. You’re getting more from Laura, oddly enough, but you supposed she’s just wound a little tight by the prospect of meeting a new human being.

He says nothing.

You pull back your hood, blinking a little as the cold seeps in under your hair. Your ears twitch involuntarily at the sudden freedom.

“Whoa, Spock ears.” He blurts out, quietly. “Uh, sorry, I just”–

“Nope, you’re right. I have Spock ears.”

“Well… Vulcan ears, technically.” You stare. A slight red haze fights its way through the cold across his cheeks. “It’s important to be accurate!”

“Hah. Well, yeah…” Silence. Urgh… look at that magpie go, all pecking at that whatever it is, look at that… “So, I was wondering… were you interested for any particular reason?”

He blinks.

“Like… like, for a school project or something? Nah.”

Damn you Peter Parker stop being difficult.

>[X] “Are you a mutant, Peter?” >[X] “I can’t help but notice that your bruise just sort of… vanished.”

The bird snaps up whatever it was digging for and shoots off into the tangle of branches up above. You watch it go in stilted, uncomfortable silence. Man, this is maximum awkward.

Might as well just get it over with. Enough of the dallying. One clean stroke. Either the truth comes out or everybody laughs and it’s all over.

“Are you a mutant, Peter?”

This time the skip in his heart is more pronounced. His whole frame shifts in a subtly defensive manner – his feet rear up on to their toes, as if he’s about to spring, and the muscles in his shoulders wind up. Laura seems to have noticed too, because she mimics him almost note-for-note. You silently pray that you’re not about to hear a metallic SNIKT ring out over the park ambience.

“Why… why would I be a mutant?” His brow furrows in lopsided bemusement. There are tiny holes in his tone, though – thought holes, escape holes. You recognize them well, as you spend most of your life hopping from one to the other. “I just noticed that you were kinda”–

“You had a bruise the size of this borough, Peter.” You cut him off. “It vanished in, what, a day? Maybe a little less.”

He quietens down. You can all but see the gears shifting erratically behind his forehead, grinding out stories, weighing events, twisting. Eventually, he just sighs.

“Alright.” He leans back. A little of the tension seeps out of him. “I’m”–

His confession is cut short by Laura’s voice.

“Someone else is nearby.”

Perception Check. >DC14 >+4 modifier Rolled 16 + 4

>20 >no crack bitch… yet

“Laura…” Feigning a casual shiver, you flip your hood back up. “…Do you smell paint?”

She shakes her head slowly.

“Hey, uh, guys…” Peter starts, but your senses stretch out beyond him, through the branches, over the gentle reverberations of the pond, building a detailed image of your surroundings in the black space behind your eyes.

Far away, a set of trainers clap-clap-clap against the snowy path. Musical notes dance on the fringe of your perception, somewhere further into the park. Someone breathes. Someone shifts nervously. Someone close, but not too close. Snow sighs gently under the minute movements of their feet. Beneath, dead leaves cackle shades of near-silence. You think you hear a human voice, but it’s etching strange shapes in the air. Strange noises. Titters, chitters. Weird things.

Six yards? Seven? They’re behind a tree, you think.

>[X] Relocate. >[X] Thermal vision.

You pull yourself up.

“It might be for the best if we continue this elsewhere.” You state, checking your shades out of habit. Laura nods in your periphery.

“…Maybe it’s just someone hanging nearby?” Offers Peter, cringing a little at, presumably, the sound of his own dumb ass proposition.

“Maybe.” You concede. “But maybe not. Come on.”

You sneak in a short glance with your thermal vision as you turn towards the park. The view you get is fleeting, but you catch enough to be somewhat perturbed. The cold blue vista of the park is disturbed by a shifting, near-amorphous clump of vaguely-human body heat. Eight yards, most likely. You can’t get a real bead on size or weight, mostly ‘cause in the brief glimpse you caught the shape seemed to be in a state of change. It almost looked like several small signatures all clumped together.

You make your way further into the park, staying close – but not too close – to the path. Peter trudges nervously alongside you, making signficantly more noise than Laura, who has apparently become a living, breathing spectre of some sort. His adrenaline levels have finally gone up. Heart rate, too.

You can hear the shape following, maintaining a safe but consistent distance with you. Laura is beginning to ball and unball her fists… >[X] Detach YOURSELF.

Well, this person thing clump other is not giving up. Which begs the question – who, exactly, is the clump following? Is this thing a co-worker of that horrific bitch from the church, tracking down Laura on the part of some shady government organization? Is it one of Creeper’s goons, following you in the hope that you’ll reveal your roost? Are they here for Peter, to…

…Yeah, you can’t really think of one for Peter. Maybe his parents are a shifting ooze of tortured mutant fleshstuff, and they’re making sure their No.1 Son Like On The Mugs isn’t falling in with a bad crowd? Maybe.

Or maybe that’s stupid and this person is almost certainly after you or Laura.

The path beside you splits up ahead, one route leading around the ponds, into the more densely forested reaches of the park. You choose this point to speak up.

“Okay. I’m gonna split here. If they follow me, we know who they’re after. If they don’t…” You glance at Laura. She returns to you a blazing, knowing green stare. “…we know who they’re after.”

“Uh, you sure, I mean this could really all just be”–

You cut Peter off. “It really isn’t looking like that, man. Just trust me for a sec.”

As you approach the parting of the ways, you veer off, taking the forested route. The canopy of gnarled, winter-withered branches gradually thickens up ahead, your eyes shifting somewhat into the beginnings of low-light perception as the sparse light dwindles further.

It takes a little while, but you soon realize that the clump is no longer shadowing you.

So, Laura, then.

>[X] Fade and follow the follower.

Well, only one thing to do here. You must shadow your shadow.

You glance about for onlookers, but the park is all but a desolate waste at this hour, everyone with sane thoughts in their head having gone home to appreciate the wonders of modern heating devices. You slip out of visibility and make your way back across the frost-licked path.

It’s not long before you’re within auditory range of your (or, rather, Laura’s) stalker. They’ve maintained that even distance from their mark, moving from tree to tree – you’re following coherent footprints now, proving that the clump does, in fact, have human-person feet. Small ones, too. You can hear that weird snicker-snackering of their voice occasionally, shifting through tones and notes that you’re not entirely sure the human throat was designed to deal with. Kinda reminds you that growl you turned out to be capable of.

You close in, staying near cover out of habit more than anything else. You can hear scratching and rustling and… flapping?

Finally, you get them in your sights… and, well, you know what? You did not expect this. You expected a lot of things, but not this.

It’s a small person in baggy, unflattering clothes, a broad hood flopping around over their head. This stuff would all be quite unremarkable if it weren’t for the squirrels and assorted avians crowding around them, crawling across their shoulders and clinging to their clothes.

You guess that explains the weird heat reading you got.

They peek out around the tree they’re pressed up against and quickly move on to the next, a carpet of tittering fauna following in their wake.

>DC18 (yes you're reading that right) >+2 modifier Rolled 1 + 2

This is honestly a little unnerving. You’re not entirely sure what you’re seeing here, only that it is strange and uncomfortable. You’ve known hobos with the near-magical ability to attract animals – bird-feeders that seem to accumulate a feathered entourage wherever they go, and lurching entropic goblinoids that bring out the rodent population, but this is something else entirely.

Maybe this is the hobo Final Form. The alpha and omega hobo. Like Dracula but for dirty homeless folks instead of vampires. Or it is a mutant.

You’ve got to get closer. You’ve–

CRRRR– You hear it coming but you just can’t stop it. One step. You can’t fucking believe it. You– RRAAACK!

The long, gnarled branch, hidden under the healthy layer of snow that coats the park, snaps noisily under your boot. A multitude of tiny heads turn your way.

“Oh shi”–

Birds everywhere.

>THREAD 29: END

Thread #30

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

After meeting Peter at the local park, you discovered that you were being shadowed by a mysterious onlooker. You trailed off and looped around, hoping to discover their identity, and perhaps their allegiances.

Now there are birds in your face.

Your world becomes a blur of errant feathers and snapping beaks. The cawing plugs your ears – for a second you can only cringe and bunch your hands over them as the sound sends lances through your skull. You know you’re making noises – yelping or something – and you think they’re trying to be words, but even you’re not sure exactly what you’re trying to say.

You grasp at mostly air, your claws unsheathing without your full command. The flurry twists tighter around you – you feel tiny, pointed talons raking across any inch of exposed flesh they can find, tearing shallow channels over your skin. They dig into your clothes, tugging this way and that, never giving you a second to orientate yourself.

A beak burrows into the soft flesh just above your eye, warmth spreading down your face and pain rattling through your head. For just a second, anger surges through the panic, and you swing your fist hard. You hit something, and there is an almighty crack, bones shuddering under your skin. The storm recedes, spiralling outward, finally giving you a moment…

...A moment in which you perceive a tree falling straight down on you.

The next thing you know, you’re in the snow. Your shoulder burns – you think it took the brunt of it. There’s blood seeping through your teeth. Must’ve bitten your lip.

Did you bring that tree down? Must have. Must have… punched through it, or something. It’s still on you, pinning you to the earth.

You can’t breathe.

>Present Time: 6:24 PM >Current Funds: $147.80

>[x] Try wriggle out from under it.

Strength Check. >DC12 >+2 modifier

Rolled 18 + 2

>[X] The liftwriggle manoeuvre. >20 >success!

Gotta get up. Can’t breathe. Chest screaming.

You feel your fingers, seeming apart from yourself, scrabble at the wood. It’s not a huge tree. Not some old, gnarled oak – it’s probably just over a ton, maybe. You can do that, right? You can lift it? You punched through it, so you should be able to lift it.

You push. Your lungs burn. A moment of seething, roaring tension blisters through your body, and you feel the weight receding, the breath returning to you.

You lap greedily at the cold winter air, and roll out from under the tree, letting it slam back down in your place.

A short, pained squeak snaps at your ears. You look up.

Your follower is crumpled against the snow, the top half of the tree pinning their leg to the ground. Fast, panicked breaths rise like puffs of smoke from under their hood.

Test your strength. Again. >DC13 >+2 modifier

Rolled 11 + 2

>[X] LIFT >[X] Write in >13 >perfectly acceptable

Oh, man. You really weren’t planning on putting someone in hospital. Maybe some kind of amorphous gibbering swarm thing – that you could send to the ER with few grievances. But a real person could mean real Mutated Assault charges. Which are bad things for someone with no lawyer and nothing to invest in one.

You stagger over, your shoulder complaining all the way. You think something’s broken in there.

As you get closer, your shadow starts tugging harder at their leg, but quickly gives up when something in that area makes a very undesirable sort of popping sound. Euuch, this is looking like dislocation at the very least.

You stoop down and dig your claws into the bark. Blood and adrenaline dance under your nose – it’s almost all you can smell. Yours, theirs… you think you can actually tell the two apart, just about.

You heave, feeling the muscles in your back tighten. The tree shifts and rises in your grasp, leaving a smattering of branches frayed about in the snow, like severed fingers. With surprising ease you lift the whole wooden mass and toss it aside. It wobbles through the air and comes down on one of its fellows, coming to rest at an awkward, tattered angle.

“…You oka”–

The air explodes from your lungs. Something hits you flat in the ribs and sends you sailing off your feet. You tumble down into the snow and feel yourself rasp involuntarily, your lungs fluttering in and out of shock.

You glance up.

Peter Parker is crouched over your visitor, his face contorted in a worry approaching panic.

>[X] Just rest a moment. This hurts. >[X] Tell him you weren’t gonna hurt them.

“Ow.”

You roll over onto your back. You didn’t see what exactly Peter hit you with, but it felt more like sledgehammer than an arm or a leg. Guess you can check ‘circus freak strength’ right alongside that aggressively noticeable (seriously, how has nobody at the Bugle noticed this?) healing on Parker’s list of mutant weirdness.

“Christ, man.” A cough rattles up through your chest. More like a wheeze, really. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him. The tree was an accident.”

It’s quiet for a moment. You can hear him murmuring to the injured whoever, and them trying not to whimper. Your lip isn’t bleeding anymore.

“Sorry.” He sighs. You roll your head back. In the upside-down world your vantage paints for you, Peter is carrying your tail to her feet – yep, her. It’s some short, mousy girl with long dark bangs and bright eyes. There are pigeons crowding round her shoulders, surrounding the two of them in a cloud of warbling babble.

Laura kneels nearby, beside the shattered stump that marks your flash of anger.

“Look… I’m really sorry, I just reacted.”

They plod over the snow toward you. Her left foot doesn’t touch the ground. She’s biting down hard on her lip and fighting back tears.

“Um, this is Sophia. My girlfriend.”

>[X] “She should probably be at a hospital.” >[X] “Is she a mutant too? With the birds and stuff?”

You drag yourself up. There’s this buzz, like static, bouncing along your ribs. You think that’s what it feels like when you heal really, really fast. Still hurts for now, though.

“Man…” You stutter a little. All that adrenaline has you pretty wired. Still can’t push your claws in – something that Peter’s girlfriend hasn’t failed to noticed, judging by the direction of her stare. “She should probably be at a hospital. Can, uh…” You glance at her. No fins, no pointy teeth, no weird eyes. No slime. “…can you do that? I mean, is she like us? With the birds and everything?”

She stares at him a little incredulously. He coughs artificially, and parades out the kind of smile that looks suspended on stilts. “…Yeah. Don’t worry, Chat.” Chat is the dumbest nickname ever. You hope he didn’t think of that. “He knows. He knows I’m a mutant.”

They exchange a stare that goes on far too long, before turning back to you. Something was said in silence there. You can feel it. It just… buzzes around them, in the air.

You're starting to think that secrets have some tangible element to them. Some taste, or scent.

“Hospital should be fine. I, uh…” His eyes dart at the fringes of his vision. You know that look. Escape. Away. Now. “…I’m pretty fast, so I can run her there.”

>[X] Ask if he needs help. >[X] Get his number.

Well, you don’t blame him for wanting to split. Even had his girlfriend’s leg not been in need of medical attention, today has been quite the unmitigated disaster. You guess you brought some of that atrocious Green Luck with you, and Parker doesn’t exactly need it.

Man, you wish you had Parker Luck. House, job, school, girlfriend... and not even a single scale or claw to balance it out.

“Look, I can’t blame you for bringing backup…” You glance over at Chat. Hah, backup. She’s almost as tiny as Laura. “…And I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t know I could do that.”

“You didn’t know you could cut a tree down with your hand?” Interjects Sophia. She appears to be dealing with the no doubt terrific pain with a stiff upper lip.

You shrug. “I don’t get into many fights.”

Strangest thing about enhanced hearing? The sound of your own heart fluttering just a little when you lie.

“…Anyway, if you need any help… I’m here.”

Peter pauses. Thoughts flicker through his eyes. Finally, he shakes his head, and tells you it’s no trouble – he can get her to help on his own. You stitch a smile up over your face and he does the same. Before they leave, his girlfriend insists that you exchange numbers, and the two of you awkwardly comply.

Eventually, it’s just you beside the icy path, beneath the shadow of the trees. You and Laura.

>[X] “Well, that went well.” >[X] “Wanna get something to eat?”

“Well, that went well.”

You wince your way over to where Laura is crouched at the feet of the downed tree, taking a moment to swab a great deal of blood off your shades. You dab at the sore flesh just above your eye, and find that that’s all it is – sore. No incision, no scab. It still stings to touch, but there’s no beak-print up there.

For a moment, she seems to almost ignore you, running her fingers along the old, scarred bark. Her eyes are still, fixed in thought.

“This tree weighs at least a ton.” She notes, quietly. “You’ve gotten stronger.”

You shiver a little – you think something clawed a nasty hole in your coat – and grin weakly. “I’m not complaining. Wanna get something to eat?”

She glances up at you, and nods.

>[X] Go through the rest of the park. >a little reward for fighting through all the crack bitch

You decide to take the scenic route. If you recall correctly – and you really should, considering how long the streets of NY have been your home sweet home – cutting through the park should be just as fast as heading back the way you came.

The evening stretches on. What was grey and yellow droops into roaring, defiant red, scattered like flecks of stained glass through the treetops. A great dark veil is descending on its heels, clear and cold, the wind that marches under its banner a harsher, crueller one. It will be a cold night tonight. No snow, and no rain. Just the cold.

As you pass beneath the thickening branches, something stammers through the air, your ears perking up. Soft, warm, elusive. Familiar. You breath in sharply as the sound patters down your spine, slipping under your coat, beneath your hood, through your skin and flesh and bone.

The trees part into open snow and you stop. You remember where you are now.

Just off the path, the ground slops into a gentle bowl, a set of long stone benches impressed upon the earth, descending conically, hypnotically, downward. At the bottom, a broad slab of stone stands as a stage, flanked by two long, curved arches. It’s an amphitheatre (just barely). You remember it being erected two or three years back, right after some giant super disaster.

There’s a few folks huddled around the central stage, all wrapped up in warm clothing. Students, probably. In the middle, under the reddening light, sits a piano.

Someone’s playing. Beethoven, it sounds like.

>[X] Go down and listen. >[X] See if you can have a go.

“Is something wrong?” Laura’s voice scatters the notes.

You blink, and feel reality momentarily slip back in around the music. You can feel your own pulse all askew. You wonder if Laura can feel it too.

“Uh, no…” It tiptoes through your veins. You can’t help but swallow a sigh, or a something. “No, I was just listening. Do you mind if we go down? Just for a little while.”

She holds you in her gaze for a moment, before nodding very slightly.

You two make your way down the stone slabs, the notes lightening your footsteps. The huddled shapes come into focus – definitely students, maybe a music society or something. Big glasses and anachronistically colourful scarves. Sporty beards, piercings. You smile a little smugly. Would you be like this if you stayed at school? If you went to university?

You can’t even imagine what you’d study.

You hang toward the back of the crowd. They’re not particularly great, really. But you just enjoy the notes – the individual notes – perhaps the same way a workman loves his tools. Each one is a familiar spark of something close to you. Something that has remained. Little bits and pieces that you can assemble in your head, that worm their way into your memories, that lift you, just very slightly, out of New York.

The piece comes to an end. A few people clap, someone cheers. There’s some awkward laughing.

“Excuse me…” They look at you. A few of them jumped a little – something you’re used to. You feel their eyes bore into you, feel them make a story for you. For your greasy blonde hair, for your sunglasses at night, for your ratty hood and your torn coat and your jeans that could have been worn by several generations of Greens. “Do you mind if I have a go?”

They glance around at each other. Eventually, someone with the distinct scent of pot clinging to their breath speaks up:

“Uh… sure, dude.”

You nod, and step up onto the stage. You feel yourself tighten up, your shoulders crawling inwards. The player – some ratty teenage chick with bright blonde white girl dreads and thick glasses – slides off the seat. You take her place.

You lick your lips. Mouth’s dry.

You have chosen to put yourself out in front of these people and [X] PLAY.

What do you think of when doing so? ONE thought or memory or person. Bear in mind, this will determine what piece you perform and the modifier you receive.

>family

Roll a D20.

Rolled 17

>17 >+3 >20

The silence waits politely, hanging over the night in a hundred vying shades.

The shape in front of you sits like a huge, haughty shadow, lounging in that orbital space between what is comfortable and what is strange. Slowly, tentatively, you slide the barest touch of your fingertip along the keys. It courses up your arm like an electrical arc, coiling up in your chest, fuming there, crackling and spitting and pressing at the borders of what you are. It has to be released. It has to be a complete circuit. It needs you to be its conduit.

You pull off your gloves. Your hands are shaking. It’s taking every inch of willpower to keep your claws sheathed. How can you play like this? How? How can you –

Your breath shudders in and out. You remember these nerves. You remember being nervous before a performance, being attacked by that sudden, inexplicable surge of unbecoming. That seeking for some excuse, some reason to be elsewhere, some reason why the piano is faulty or you don’t have the right type of seat or anything. You remember tucking it away in that pit beneath your gut, that steadfast place that has fallen for so, so long into decrepitude.

You hear a note.

You’re realize that you’re playing. You seethe in your skin, behind your eyes, in your heart. You can’t do this. The space between notes stretches out into a dark, cold lightyear of time and space and screaming. You hear the second quiver of sound, and the third, and the fourth, and the cosmic expanse between them gradually shrinks, gradually brightens, swimming around you, through you, from your fingertips.

>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OFHXmiZP38 (Chopin's Raindrop prelude)

You feel your mother’s hands an inch from yours, their thin, fragile warmth rising from the bedrock of your memory. Her nails occasionally brush at your knuckles, and she smiles. She tells you that you’re not just anyone and she holds you tight, she burns into nothing from the inside out, from that searing globule in her head, but every day that you visit her she holds your hand, and even when her mind begins to slip and her thoughts seem to splinter at the walls of her mind, she still knows your face, still knows your name. The day she died you sat with your sister all night.

You slam your fingers down on the keys. The notes leap into crashing heights and fall like hammers. Your sister becomes a porcelain giant and hurls you across the glimmering, night-time infinity. The fire blots out the stars and there is nothing but raging dark.

You walk. The notes walk you away into the horizon, far, far from home. You envelop yourself in green eyes and walk along a tightrope of searing, electric blue. You feel yourself breathe and it comes out cold, winding, stretching, and you sketch in the air everything that makes the scar home.

Those are the last notes. Those are the end. You fall away into a final spiral and let yourself drift toward the finality of things, let yourself sail, let yourself go.

You take your hands off the piano and feel yourself sigh. There is an applause of long, sacred silence.

You feel the cold cloak all of you, the far and the wide, the living and the dead.

>THREAD 30: END

Thread #31

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

After an ill-fated meeting with Peter Parker, you took a detour on the way back home, and ended up sitting at a piano in the middle of an outdoor amphitheatre, surrounded by vaguely-grungy student types. Chopin flowed back to you, and through you, and out into the night, and for the first time in a long while you felt removed from the painstaking drudgery of years gone by.

The silence settles around you. You’re breathing heavily, for some reason, but you’re not tired. If anything, you feel invigorated. The music was a nourishing fugue, like the sudden shock of clear, cold spring water – you’re not sure how well you played, and after four years without practice, you have little in the way of hope, but you know you produced something, at least.

You let your shoulders slacken, taking your hands off the keys. They’re shaking. It takes you a moment to realize that you shouldn’t really be without your gloves, and you fumble them back on. You feel somewhat deafened by the pall of silence that descended in the absence of your notes, the winter chill, the gasping sun, and the stone beneath your feet reaching you only in waves, as if reduced to pulses of light passing through a heavy mist.

You glance across the faces that dot the half-light. They stare with mystified, baffled wonder. You can see Laura at the back, her face arranged into an awkward, indecipherable expression. Your cheeks are wet.

“…Dude.” Says somebody. Someone in the front? You’re not sure. “Do you, like, teach this stuff or something?”

Hah. You guess your age might be a little fuzzy with the hood and the sunglasses keeping everything nice and vague.

>Present Time: 6:56 PM >Current Funds: $147.80 >Hunger Level: 6 >X-Points: 2

>[X] Admit that you’re a hobo. >[X] Write in.

You look around, trying but failing to anchor your vision on one thing, to find something appropriate or dignified or at least minimally shameful to say. For a moment you seek some kind of help in Laura’s eyes, but she says nothing, just staring back in verdant, unfazed silence.

What do they really expect you to say? That you just got back from playing at the Royal Albert, and you’re dressed like a hobo because that’s just what wacky artists do?

“I sell newspapers for a living.” You reply, wiping the thin streaks of moisture from under your eyes. You hope that, in the dying light, it looked like you were just adjusting your shades or something. An awkward cough rises from the back of your throat. “Like, on a street corner.”

There is another momentary silence. Finally, the girl that was playing before you arrived speaks up.

“…Why? You’re amazing. You could be playing anywhere.”

>[X] “Because life is unfair.” Leave. >[X] Write in.

Well, why aren’t you playing somewhere fancy? The answer is obvious from the inner sanctum of your own mind, but you can certainly see how it could come off as a mystery from the outside. You could be lazy, or crazy, or something else that society finds generally unsavoury. It chews you up that admitting to having an active X-gene would probably be a worse mark against your character than either of the above two flaws.

You slide off the seat.

“Sometimes, life just doesn’t take you where you wanted to go.”

Yep, that sounds about right.

You step down from the stage and head up out of the gentle slope that leads back up toward the path. As Laura begins to tag along beside you, you one of the grungy kids speaks up:

“You know, there are, like, loads of places that’d pay for a performance like that. Just saying.”

>[X] Ask if any of these places can refrain from asking too many questions.

You stop, turning back just very slightly. You must look like such a weirdo.

“And are any of these places relatively light on the questions?” What you mean, of course, is ‘are any of these places going to manage to avoid finding out that I’m a mutant?’, but you’re in no mood to end up lynched by a bunch of smelly students.

They pass a bemused glance through their ranks. This is probably the part where one of two of them start wondering if they’ve run into some kind of piano-master serial killer or a hobo with a horrible debilitating (and, most importantly, contagious) disease. Leprosy or something like that.

“Uh…” One of the girls leaning against the stage speaks up. “The Tabbycat, maybe?”

Huh. You actually know that place.

“That’s a mob club.” You state flatly.

She scratches her head and shrugs. “Yeah, I, uh… I don’t know anywhere else.”

>[X] Leave. Get food.

You linger awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how exactly to manoeuvre around this particular social situation.

“Thanks.” You murmur, eventually. “I enjoyed the piano.”

Leaving a well of peculiar hush behind you, you make your way back onto the path, heading back toward the bustle of NY’s streets. You’re pretty hungry, and as much as it helped, that little detour into nostalgia took a lot out of you. Soon enough the rusty old gates leading out of the park come into sight, and Laura’s voice cuts into the silence:

“I did not know you could do that. Do you play any other instruments?”

Is this small talk?

>[X] “Nope.” >[X] “I think it’d be good at the triangle.”

“Nope.” You grin a little. “I think I’d be good at the triangle.”

Laura’s brow furrows momentarily, as if she’s trying to dissect some element of your answer. It’s up to you to appreciate that sterling wit of yours, apparently. You continue on the path a little while, noticing her eyes wandering a little to the side, as if she’s trying to broach some secret subject but has stumbled at the first attempt. Her jaw works silently and subtly, half-forming the individual steps of a sentence.

Eventually, she opens her mouth once again.

“Will you consider taking this up as a profession? Playing at that…” Her eyebrows dip again, just very slightly. “…‘Tabbycat’?”

>[X] “It might be worth a try.”

Well… you’re not sure. You’ve only been inside once, but you know that The Tabbycat serves a very specific clientele – the kind that you’re not entirely sure you want to be mixed up with. It’s a haven for gamblers, swindlers, and pretty much anyone looking to spend some blood money on a good time. The last time you had a real bead on this stuff (and, admittedly, that was some while ago), Creeper wasn’t a regular, but quite a few other interesting individuals were. Silvermane, for one.

On the other hand, money flows to and from these people. Money that’s not necessarily well-earned, but it’s not like you’d be doing anything illegal. You’d just be in very close proximity to people who are.

“It might be worth a try.” You conclude, a little weakly. “It’d certainly pay a lot better than throwing papers at commuters.”

Laura pauses. “You are not speaking literally, are you?”

“Uh, no. I don’t actually throw papers at people.”

“I see.” There’s still the barest hint of a frown hanging across her face. “I thought you intended on staying away from organized crime. Your response earlier… seemed to indicate that.”

Ah.

>[X] “Well, I wouldn’t be doing anything illegal. I’d just be playing piano.” >[X] “That’s why I’m still thinking about it.”

You guess it might seem a little inconsistent, what with your reaction to the prospect of working for Creeper again. But, then again, fuck Creeper. Creeper is a singularly disgusting individual and there’s quite the marked difference between working for some minor crook and a possibly insane drug baron.

That said, you’re not actually sure who runs The Tabbycat. God, you hope it hasn’t been acquired by Creeper or Mister Negative or some other superpowered clown. You’ve had your fill of being threatened by people with superpowers.

“Well…” You scratch your neck absently. “I wouldn’t be doing anything illegal, you know?”

Your answer is a blank stare. You should probably stop inserting those little microquestions around Laura, because she will clearly never know.

“I’d just be playing piano.” For great tips. Blood money tips, but… probably very generous ones. “But yeah, I’m only thinking about it. The prospect of working with the mob doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

“I see.” She states, staring straight ahead. She is silent for a moment, before a thought occurs to her: “With your senses, such a position may be useful for reasons other than monetary gain. Information can be valuable.”

You hadn’t considered that.

The two of you make your way out of the park and into the arterial frenzy of the city. You stroll a short way before stopping for a bite beside one of the many hot dog stands that dot NY. The place is closing up soon, and you get the last, manky servings, but you needed something warm. You scarf your food down while Laura paces her way through the meal beside you.

The sun has dipped out of sight. There’s only clear, dark blue now, the occasional star fighting through New York’s oppressive corona.

>Present Time: 7:23 PM >Current Funds: $145.50 >Hunger Level: 4

>[X] Head home. >[X] Write in.

You head home, beginning the long walk back toward the scar.

As you navigate the human currents that hurry through the streets, you attempt to bring up something you’ve had on your mind for some time.

“Uh, so…” Laura glances up at you, her eyes, as usual, betraying very little. “You think we could go for another workout tonight? I think I need to clean up my act a little if I’m gonna be…” You chuckle under your breath, the words sort of failing to convey how truly strange the circumstances orbiting you have become. “…helping you get your government friends shut down or whatever.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, okay…” You feel yourself frown a little. “Pays to be prepared, though. Right?”

“…Yes.” She concedes. “I would enjoy another session. Is there anything in particular you wish to learn?”

>[X] MORTAL COMBAT

“Well…” You begin, fighting to stave off a sudden flood of Karate Kid flashbacks. “I think I need to know how to fight. I mean, I don’t like fighting, but, you know, just in case.”

You feel the tiniest hint of a lie clinging to your breath there. It’s… small, barely even a real falsehood, but it’s something. Sure, you hate fighting. Sure, it’s barbaric and stupid and it’s viable to get you in more trouble than it’s worth. Sure, beating dudes up for money was wrong. But you can’t deny that part of you found it thrilling as fuck. A good scrap used to satisfy some inner yearning that had no outlet before you started working for Creeper. The rush of the blood, the sharpness of breath, the crack and the thud and in some cases the splat… there was some itch in there that got very much scratched. There was something very, disconcertingly, natural about it.

And now you have claws. And fangs.

Laura raises one eyebrow very slightly. “You faced some kind of opposition Sacred Tree.” Sacred Tree? The orphanage, right. “Do you not know any means of combat at all?”

You grin lopsidedly.

“I know how to scrap. I’m not really much of a real fighter.”

“I see.” She considers it in silence for a moment. You catch a small, hesitant something at the fringe of her brilliant greens. “I can teach you how to fight.”

It takes you a little under an hour to make your way back. By the time you reach the apartments the wind has kicked pack up again, howling angrily across the snowy desolation of the scar, as if recalling the fire that brought the place low. You head in hurry inside, eager to be out of the cold for a little while. As you ascend the stairs Laura comments that you should rest a little before the two of you begin.

You arrive in the apartment to mildly enthusiastic greetings. The air is streaked with tatters of warmth, Noriko trying her hand at cooking up something palatable. You hope she’s not worse than Kevin. Gaby and Kev are chatting about something or other beside the sofa, and Layla appears to be contributing to the team by snoozing quietly on the mattress.

>Current Time: 8:14 PM

[X] Chat. >[X] Lend a hand.

“Man… you are not going to believe how weird today has been…”

You sit down to insert yourself into the chatter going back and forth between Kevin and Gabriella, occasionally leaning over to get a good idea of what suspiciously creative things Noriko intends on doing with her spices. You manage to laugh a little at yourself as you describe you re-enactment of The Birds, and you spend a little while nodding in somewhat baffled, half-participatory silence during the long detours into art history discussion between Gaby and Kev.

Gradually, you feel yourself centering, your senses stepping out of chaos as the cold recedes. The silly, meaningless involvement of the random conversation draws you in, and you begin to relax, tension slipping in long, hooked lines from your shoulders. You imagining it spooling around you like discarded string. You like this.

Eventually, Laura taps your shoulder, and you glance at your watch. Just over half an hour as passed.

Time to learn kung-fu, you guess.

>THREAD 31: END

Thread #32

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Sometimes you forget how dark the scar can get at night.

Reluctantly, you shrug your coat off, the cold settling over your shoulders. Normally you wouldn't dream of dropping a layer in these conditions, but Laura said it'd get in the way. So off it goes.

The apartment block you call home looms behind you as a lump of solid shadow. The rest of the ruins are the same, clumped together like strange, indeterminate creatures of skeletal gloom that can do nothing against the cold but huddle for warmth. Beyond them, the rest of the city glows, putting the impression in your heart of the scar as a long, deep valley, empty and dark and utterly barren. A land of the dead.

Laura seems at home in the dark. She moves through it in quiet, certain steps, folding up her jacket on one of the great concrete slabs that fell to the Earth when the scar was born. Her eyes regard you in silence for a moment, bright and unblinking.

“There are many means of combat.” She states, suddenly. In the dark her expression is even more elusive than usual. “I am versed in a large number of them, but I do not know how many I can teach. What do you want to learn?” >[X] Start with the basics.

“Uh…” You don’t really know of any specific martial arts except ‘karate’ and whatever Jackie Chan does. Table-ladder-fu or whatever. “…the basics? The basics sound good to me.”

She nods, and though you can’t disentangle her expression from the thick shadows of the scar, you get the impression that you’ve supplied some kind of right answer.

“Good.” She says, stepping beside you, her stance shifting into a low, wide pose. “All forms of combat are built upon a solid stance. You must learn to maintain a low centre of gravity while remaining free to move at your leisure. Copy my stance.”

>Roll a D20 Rolled 20

>20 >Perfect! >So perfect that a portion of your success will move on to the next part!

You lower your frame, glancing to and fro at every facet of Laura’s stance and edging your own body into synchronicity. After a minute or two of feeling progressively more ridiculous, you cough awkwardly and speak up:

“Is… is this alright?”

You can see Laura’s eyes flickering across you, flecks of bright green peeking ever so slightly out from under her hood. She stares for a moment, in which you can’t help but wonder if you’ve done something grossly inappropriate, before dropping her own stance and, without warning, shoving hard at your waist. You slide a little over the frosted Earth, but, much to your own surprise, stay standing.

“Good.” She commends, sliding fluidly back into the same pose. “Now, there are several basic motions that are most effective when defending from a low stance. Follow after my lead.”

>Roll again boyos. Rolled 14

>14 >Good

You keep up well enough. Laura leads you through a repetitive set of steps that mostly involve shifting forward or back and using your forearms to block or turn aside an invisible attack. You’re silent at first, but soon Laura tells you to breathe in during the lapses in motion and exhale sharply when blocking, and your motions become punctuated by a set of loud hisses.

She keeps going, you following in step, for what must be at least half an hour. Soon you start to realize why you dropped the coat – even in the withering cold of the New York winter, you find yourself building up quite a sweat.

Eventually, Laura comes to an abrupt stop, giving you a moment to catch your breath. Your arms and stomach ache, the rigors of keeping that low stance while in motion beginning to drag at your shoulders.

After a minute or two she circles around in front of you, falling once again into her stance of choice. Her eyes meet yours and, almost reflexively, you do the same.

“You retain new information well.” You guess that’s Laura’s idea of a compliment. “Combat is not rote, however. You must be able to put what you have learned into practice by reflex alone. I will attack, and you will defend using the forms you have practiced.”

Without warning, she rapidly closes the distance between you, and…

>Roll AGAIN >last roll in this chain

Rolled 19

>19 >Crouching Tiger, Hidden JJ

A swift kick slaps across your forearm, sliding you a few feet through the snow. The impact rattles your bones, reminding you just how deceptively strong Laura is, and assuring you in an instant that she’s not going to be pulling her punches with you. You barely have time to flinch before she follows up with a pair of swift jabs, your heart skipping in your chest as, almost without realizing it, you turn both aside.

She doesn’t stop there. Her breath pounds through the air as she hits you again and again, her lithe frame shifting dexterously from punch to kick and back again. You can’t help but admire that way she has of flexing like water between motions. Each blow is a thunderbolt of its own, unpredictable and without pattern, but there’s nothing staccato about it at all – she moves from one snap of motion to the next seamlessly.

You avert blow after blow after blow. Eventually you stop counting, or wondering how long you’ve been at this, and focus only on the here and now. You keep it up as long as you can, but eventually you feel your breath growing ragged, its cold touch burning in your lungs, spreading lances of hot, acidic fire through your limbs.

Finally, you react just a little too slowly, and a fist slams into the side of your face, sending stars spiralling through your vision.

The onslaught comes to an abrupt end. Your head buzzes. Laura regards you in silence as you massage your jaw.

“You performed well.” She says, suddenly. “Your reflexes did not fail you, just your stamina.” A soft quiet settles around her, before she eventually adds: “Are you alright?”

>[X] “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You reply, adjusting your jaw a little. The sharp burst of pain that scattered through your skull when her blow hit home was just that – a burst. You can already feel the bruise healing. “A little out of breath, maybe, but I can keep going.”

She nods. “You may have a minute to orientate yourself.”

You let yourself slacken, rolling your neck. You can feel sweat cooling across your brow, sticking warmly beneath your hoodie. You lower yourself down to sit for a moment, and just breathe easy, taking a break from the sternly regimented succession of hisses that punctuated your little workout.

Far sooner than you expect, Laura once again takes position ahead of you, motioning for you to stand. She really did mean one minute exactly.

You fall into stance.

“It is appropriate to end a session such as this with a short spar.” She states. Her eyes wander for a moment, and she pulls her feet together, dipping into a bow. You awkwardly replicate the motion, and immediately she shifts back into proper form. Her eyes bore into yours.

“Hajime!” She pauses, and adds: “That means go.”

Roll a D20. Give that thing a +1 modifier. Rolled 9 + 1

>[X] Fight defensively. >10

You go with what you know. You’ve only know it, however, for about half an hour.

Laura moves in quickly, directing a set of swift kicks across one side of your body. You deflect two, and let your shoulder absorb one, the force shunting you across the ground. You keep your footing relatively solid despite the precise strength of the blow, trying to hook your defending arm around her leg and let your strength do the work from there.

Like a shadow in motion, she slips her leg out of your grasp, circling around quickly. You shift rapidly to keep up, but keeping your stance solid while in constant motion proves more difficult than you’d expected, and she’s soon on your flank, delivering a set of punches to your upper body. You manage to sway just about out of their way, but you fail to notice her true intent.

You feel her foot hook around the back of your leg, just above the ankle. You have a flash-second to appreciate exactly what's happened here – that, with you forced to compromise your balance to avoid her attack, you’re no longer exactly grounded – before the world transforms into a dizzying blur and the earth smacks your back.

You let out a quiet, shocked groan. The night sky above parts as Laura teeters over you.

“You did not perform badly.” She assures, though you beg to disagree. “I am a much more experienced fighter, and you are tired. Your stamina will improve in time.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” You mutter back, heaving yourself up.

Laura crouches down to your level, reaching out tentatively to help you to your feet. There’s a slight, faraway smile perched upon her lips.

>Present Time: 10:51

>[X] “What’s up?” >[X] Head out to the Tabbycat.

“Hey. What’s up?” You see that smile. It’s small but it’s there.

Laura stares blankly in response, until you sort of vaguely indicate toward the lower end of her face. In hesitant silence, she brings her hand up to feel at the source of your question, fingertips tracing their way across the tiny smile.

“I see.” She says, keeping her tone even. She’s not even breathing hard. Her eyes linger in a nothing place for a moment, retreating from the sensory world. You don’t see that often. Not from her, anyway.

“I had a teacher, once.” She states, eventually. “It is… strange… to be on the other side of such an exchange.”

“Does it bother you?” You ask, quietly.

She seems to consider it for a moment, her gaze stretching on into what you now recognize as memory, before shaking her head.

Well, that’s good.

“Good.” You pick your coat up, just slinging it over your shoulder for now. “Well… I think I’m gonna go check out the Tabbycat. Feeling up to it?”

She spends another moment in silent consideration, before going for her jacket.

“I would not mind a walk.”

Strolling leisurely, you gradually warm down from the night’s exertions as you make your way out of the scar. You find yourself wondering what kind of life, exactly, Laura saw when she looked back into the land of her memories. Considering your encounter with Kimura, you’re kind of surprised that she found anything there to smile about.

As you make your way through the progressively more crowded streets, you suddenly realize something: you fucking stink.

Crap. >[X] Shower.

You stop in your tracks. Yes, this is not ideal at all. You don’t just smell like ass, you smell like sweaty ass. You have a pretty fucking finely tuned sense of smell, and you can say with almost total certainty that no club, bar, or fancy restaurant is going to let you spread your aroma of filth throughout its premises, no matter how fancy your suspiciously gloved fingers turn out to be.

“Hey, Laura?”

She cocks her head to the side, subtly raising one eyebrow.

“Wanna get a shower?”

There’s no looking into nothing or staring or quiet consideration this time. Just an immediate “Yes.”

You stalk your way down one of the alleys that branch out from the main arteries of NY, keeping an eye out for any promisingly dark windows. Occasionally you stop by one and listen, sharpening up your ears for the sound of chatter, or the murmuring drone of a television, or the periodic subtly of a light snorer.

>Perception Check >+4 modifier Rolled 15 + 4

>19 >I was gonna keep the DC secret for evil purposes, but I can't pretend that this isn't a Great Success

After a little while spent searching, you find a second-floor apartment that seems empty enough. You scale the nearby fire escape and press your freakishly pointed ear up against the glass, listening in for signs of life. No snoring, no slight cadences of random movement, no TV droning in the background… after a minute of dreadful silence, you decide that there couldn’t possibly be anyone home (something that, you hope, will last a while).

As quietly as possible, you slide the window open, stepping in to what appears to be a bedroom. Laura follows close behind, a pall of silence following her every move.

You make your way further in. It’s a modest apartment – five rooms, nothing too grand, nothing too shabby. A Christmas tree stands like a disapproving sentinel in one corner of the living room, its lights unplugged. You remind yourself that Christmas trees have no right to judge you, as they don’t need hygiene or money or any of the other stuff a functioning member of society must possess a basic standard of.

Laura showers first, while you wait at the door, appreciating the fragrant aroma of actual hair products. As kinda expected, she doesn’t take long, washing down and drying off in less than ten minutes. You, despite every reason not to, take significantly longer.

When you emerge from the bathroom you’re a brand new JJ. All bright and clean and smelling of stuff that isn’t totally awful.

As you make your way back to the window, you notice a fat, leather wallet left rather carelessly on the living room table. You bite your lip.

>[X] Don’t take it. >+1 Karma

You bite your lip harder, and keep going. They’ve given you a shower, and that’s enough. Not by choice, or knowingly, but a shower is a shower. Technically you should be paying them, but you don’t exactly have money to spare, so you think you’ll stay one step below that level of respectability until you do.

The Tabbycat is about an hour’s walk toward Brooklyn. It’s been a long while since you paid the place your one and only visit, but you’ve had almost four years to impress the city’s nooks and crannies upon your grey matter, and it’s only so long till enough streets line up with enough memories and you have a rough idea of where you’re headed.

Eventually, after a good while navigating the sidewalk traffic of NY, you see that big, bold neon sign come into view, and you know you've reached your destination.

The club is set into the side of one of the dingier streets you know of, but it emanates a ludicrous corona of bright pink, the name ‘Tabbycat’ flowing in delicate neon handwriting into the outline of a cat stretched out indolently across the building’s face. The building itself must’ve been a warehouse back in the day, but it’s been painstakingly refurbished, sporting an outer shell of faux-wood carved into exotic, leering patterns. The door, flanked on either side by very blunt-looking men, offers a glimpse into a world of dim, subdued glamour.

>[X] Watch the clientele. >[X] See if you can get in.

You wait. Across the road from a mob club probably isn’t the best place to be just hanging about, so you sidle around a nearby corner, keeping an eye angled at the entrance.

At first, there’s no one you particularly recognize. Business is apparently not abundant, and the assorted mobsters and crooks that comprise its regulars tend to leave in gradually-dispersing packs. At one point a rather rowdy group, followed closely by the scent of whisky and wine, emerge in a fit of laughter, one of them swinging a boomerang aloft and making some very interesting gestures with his spare hand. There’s a quiet one near the back of the group that, for some reason, is wearing full black biker gear, helmet an’ all. Weird.

Almost half an hour passes before you catch a glimpse of a recognizable face. An old, vintage car that you honestly couldn’t name to save your life pulls in, and out comes none other than fucking Silvermane himself.

Would any of Creeper’s thugs operate in Silvermane’s periphery? You don’t think so. He’s a competitor, after all, and not a friendly one.

Well, it’s now or never. You take a deep breath and head for the entrance.

>THREAD 32: END Thread #33 You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Egged on by the lure of a steady paycheck, you’ve sought out a seedy underground club known as the Tabbycat, in the hopes that whoever runs the joint likes the way you work the piano. You’re not entirely sure that this is such a great idea, but you’re here now, so you guess you’ll have to just pray for the best and expect the worst.

Laura lags a little behind as you make your way toward the entrance, the neon pink glow of the club’s exterior washing over you. You can’t help but feel markedly out of place as you meander up to those broad, black doors, all wrapped up in your tattered coat and old jeans. The huge fellows at the door seem to feel the same way, and one of them sidles ever so slightly closer to the entrance, regarding you with hard, cold eyes. He cuts the same vague outline as one of the men you pulled Creeper’s little heist with – a bald head squatting atop a bulging, barely-contained wall of musculature.

Where the hell do they get these guys? It’s like they come off a conveyer belt.

As you approach, he holds up a meaty hand. You stop in your tracks.

“I don’t think this is your scene, friend.” His voice is a low, self-assured rumble. “You have any invite?”

>Present Time: 12:10 >Current Funds: $145.50 >Hunger Level: 6

>[X] Tell them you’re looking for a job.

You clear your throat, mostly to give yourself a moment of thought. You tell yourself that, despite all appearances, you’re probably stronger than both of these guys combined. They’re not gonna hurt you, just possibly laugh at you.

“Um, I heard you’re in need of a pianist.” Eyebrows rise. You cough awkwardly. “Not you, personally, I mean. The owner. Of this place. I heard that they were looking for a pianist.”

Eurgh.

The man indulges in a long silence, looking you over.

“You can play piano?” He asks, eventually, a note of incredulity entering the tectonic grind of his voice. “You sure about that?”

“Y-yeah…”

He glances at Laura. “And, what, she plays the flute?”

Non-Threatening Persuasion Check. >DC11 >+1 modifier Rolled 12 + 1

>13 >Success! >[X] “Look, I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you, I’m just here for a job.”

You can’t help but sigh.

“Look,” You begin, lifting your hands in that universal, open-palmed gesture of honesty. People like that. “I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you, I’m just here for a job. I know I don’t look it, but I’m a pretty good”– You were going to say great, but sort of tripped up over the g –“pianist.”

The bouncer lets you stew in another brief moment anticipation, rolling his jaw in wide, pronounced circles, as if trying to grind the truth out of your assertions. Eventually he nods and steps aside.

“Alright, head on in.” He pauses, and adds: “Manager should get round to you if you ask for her at the bar. Watch yourself.”

“Thanks.” You nod in appreciation and step inside.

Huh. You remember this place being smaller.

It’s one big, dim hall, the light angled ever so slightly toward the crimson edge of the spectrum. The centre of the club is dominated by a long bar, internal lighting turning the counter into a curved, luminous band of soft white. Neat, faux-marble tables dot the floor, and little alcoves line the walls, providing discreet booths for the cautious kind of criminal. A spiral staircase leads up to a second floor.

A few heads turn as you walk towards the bar, but for the most part, you’re ignored.

You sit down at one of the stools lining the bar and wait. Eventually, a neatly-trimmed young lady with a heavily plastered smile asks you what you’d like.

>[X] You’re here to see the manager about a job.

“Actually, I’m here about a job.” You answer, smiling politely. “I heard you guys were looking for a pianist?”

She hides her reservations relatively well, only pausing a moment before telling you she’ll get the manager. Man, she’s probably gonna introduce you as “some hobo” or “some weird guy in thick shades” or worse. And, judging by the décor, this manager person has gotta be fucking loaded. They’ve probably never even shared air with someone of your scarce social standing.

This might be a seriously tough sell.

Beside you, Laura wrinkles her nose, her eyes slowly sweeping across the room. She’s tense.

>[X] Talk while you wait [insert subject]. >[X] Check the room for familiar faces.

“Hey…” You lean in a little closer, keeping your tone low. Laura twitches in barely-noticeable surprise, her eyes flickering toward you. “You alright? Anyone you recognize out there?”

The place isn’t exactly bustling, but only because its specific clientele aren’t the ‘bustle’ type of people. Most of the tables are occupied, but the collective of hushed conversations amounts to more of an omnipresent murmur than the sprawling hubbub these places generally pound your skull with. The booths at the back occasionally rattle with the sound of rolling dice, or the click-clack of some Asian game played with little numbered bricks, but their occupants keep to themselves. You don’t see Silvermane anywhere, and you don’t see anyone you know.

You guess Creeper’s lot really are too grungy for this joint.

“I’m fine.” Laura replies, at length.

“You sure? You seem kind of tense.”

She turns back to surveying the club. “You are not entirely comfortable either.”

Well, you guess that’s true.

After a few minutes spent inspecting the quiet gloom, you hear the click of heels approaching, and turn to see a slim woman in her mid-twenties descending the nearby stairs, her eyes fixed upon you. She’s impeccably neat, clad in a fitting, pinstriped suit and carrying herself in a manner that seems to suggest a mind made up of straight lines. Her dark hair is cut mercilessly short.

She clicks her way toward you, carrying a small, amused smile with her. You can’t help but get the impression that that’s her default face.

“You’re here to play the piano for me, are you?” She doesn’t extend a hand. Well, you weren’t expecting one. “You look just about desperate enough to be a musician. I assume this place was rather far down your list of openings, hmm?”

>[X] “Actually, it was my first choice.” >[X] Introduce yourself.

“Actually, it was my first choice.” You reply.

She cocks her head to the side, her eyes narrowing minutely, subtly changing the context of that little smile she wears. You feel vaguely like you’re being stripped of your nice warm layers, and are about to be told off and sent to the office. If you weren’t currently possessed of the extreme motor control afforded by climbing nerves, this would be the part where you gulp dumbly and blurt out something very embarrassing.

“Is that so?” A hand comes to rest on her hip, black nails glimmering very slightly in the half-light. “I think it was more like your only choice.”

“Hence, first.” Best to keep things short. You’re not entirely certain of your ability to be coherent. “I’m John Green, by the way. Nice to meet you, Miss…?”

“Hardy.” She states. “Felicia Hardy.” Her gaze moves toward Laura, who meets her eyes with one of those trademark opaque stares of hers. “Is this a double-act, or…?”

An excruciating moment passes as Laura slowly constructs something resembling a smile, her eyes remaining fixed in place. Eventually she glances at you, as if seeking the correct answer.

>[X] “Er, no, she’s just a friend.” >[X] Try to steer things back to business.

“Er, no, she’s just a friend.” You interject hastily. Another few seconds and Miss Hardy’s pointed gaze would probably be producing lightsaber sounds as it sears up against Laura’s verdant green bulkheads.

“-Just- a friend?” She whips around toward you. You get the faint impression that you’re about to be told you’ve been a very bad boy indeed, and that the wax is only a just punishment. It doesn’t go away when she turns back to Laura. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Minerva.” Replies the younger girl, hardly missing a beat.

Huh.

“So…” You cut in again, trying to move things back toward the subject of your employability. “I’m guessing I need to audition, or something?”

Her gaze washes over you. She seems to consider you for a moment, a vaguely predatory gleam clinging at the edges of her eyes, before she finally shrugs.

“Yes, I suppose you do. Follow me.” Her heels click and she heads back toward the stairs. “And, please, take off those awful glasses.”

Roll to not Spaghetti. >DC13 >+1 modifier for BOUNDLESS COURAGE >+1 modifier for being near a Trusted companion Rolled 13 + 2

>[X] Take ‘em off. >15 >Success!

Well, this had to happen eventually.

You consider your options as you follow her up the stairs. A few vaguely interested patrons glance at you, but they quickly return to whatever pursuit of ill-repute it was that brought them to the Tabbycat. Scars? Nasty scars? Nobody wants to talk to a guy with conveniently glasses-shaped burns across his eyes – that’s just weird, right? There’s always the possibility of some light sensitive condition. Those are a thing. You could even be blind!

Of course, all these excuses sort of fail to account for dreaded scenario in which Miss Kiss the Whip (or anyone else) turns around and asks you to prove it. At that point everything falls apart and suddenly you’re not just any mutie, but a filthy liar mutie.

You bundle up the nerves skitter-scratching across your skin and swallow them, reaching up for your glasses. Can’t. Can’t. You–

“John.” Laura’s voice slips through the collective purr of the Tabbycat. She’s barely whispering, but you can hear her just fine. “Are you having difficulties? Your heart…”

It’s doubled its pace, yeah.

You reach back, opening your hand, grasping. You feel nothing but empty, anxious air for a moment, and then Laura’s fingers fold their way through yours.

You remove your glasses and emerge into the upstairs portion of the club. It’s not as large, but far more lavishly decorated, broad, plump couches orbiting a selection of large tables. The floor ends abruptly on one side, becoming an indoor veranda that must overlook the rest of the club. In one corner, sitting holy silence, stands a grand piano.

You feel a vaguely interested gaze settle upon you. You glance back, but withdraw all curiosity immediately – sitting on one of the couches beside the railings, surrounded by cronies, is Silvio Manfredi. Silvermane, acting head of the New York Maggia. So that’s where he went.

Miss Hardy turns back to you, motioning toward the piano, and there is only a slight warble in her step as she catches the uncanny glimmer of your eyes. She looks away quickly and marches towards the hulking instrument.

“I don’t suppose those are contacts?” She asks, her voice retaining its sharp edge but lowering its volume.

>[X] Ask if there’s any kind of piece she’d prefer.

“Nope.” You reply, not bothering to embellish your answer. “Is that a problem?”

“Not for me.” Surprisingly gently, she urges you toward the piano, her hand brushing at your shoulders. She has a strange, vivid sort of touch – you can almost feel her nails through the plump fluff of your coat. “This sector has always been… open-minded… when it comes to its choice of employees.”

You suppose that’s a fancy way of saying that superpowers are useful for crime stuff.

You sit down at the piano, taking a moment to admire the pristine condition of the thing. It’s an old model, but perfectly preserved. Someone took a great interest in keeping this old warhorse primed and ready for use. It’s beautiful.

“Come.” You glance up. Miss Hardy is ushering Laura away to one of the tables. “Let’s give your friend some space.”

You clear your throat pointedly. She turns back to you.

“Is there any particular piece you’d prefer?”

Her smile widens very slightly.

“I have an affection for Liszt, myself. But I’m not the one you should be aiming to impress.” She nods toward Silvermane, who is still watching, his face in tenuous balance between vague interest and aged severity.

Right. You remove your gloves, and, for once, pull back your hood.

>NOTE: JJ has the VIRTUOSO trait in this particular skill. He is incapable of botching unless he rolls two successive 1’s. As his specialty is in Classical pieces, he receives a bonus when performing them.

>[X] Liszt.

Roll a D20 motherfuckers.

>+1 bonus for Classical >+1 bonus for existing skill >+1 bonus for MYSTERY EFFECT Rolled 15 + 3

>18 >HAIL SATAN

You breathe in. The air here is close and thick, and spiced with the eclectic scents of smoke and drink and rattish behaviour. You close the door on tired old Silvio and his rigid stare. You close the door on sharply-stepping Miss Hardy. She’s saying something to Laura as they sit down, but you fold it out, creasing the world into origami isolation, feeling only yourself, your fibres, your blood and meat and bone. You close the door on Laura. On the men downstairs arguing about chips, on the girl mixing drinks, on the velvety Cajun voice bragging of its invincibility in a game of cards, on the fading scent of cordite, on the world.

You let your fingers fall upon the keys. You feel yourself extend into the grand old monster of wood and string and music, its bones becoming your bones, its wooden hatch becoming your mouthpiece, its stories becoming your stories, and your songs its language.

>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJbg9V2KnD8 (Mephisto Waltz by Liszt)

The lady did wish for Liszt. And you, JJ Green, are a perfect machine from which the wishes and dreams of others flow. Your heart heaves in your chest and you play, and you play, and you play.

>THREAD 33: END Thread #34

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Slowly, the spirit of Franz Liszt fades from your fingertips, and you open yourself back up to the world. The Tabbycat, all gold and glamour, closes around you, feeling less like reality than some dim, distant underworld. You retract your hands from the grand old piano and tug your gloves back on, fidgeting nervously.

You almost wince as, behind you, Miss Hardy offers up a short succession of slow, pointed claps. You swivel around on your seat.

“Well.” She stands, pacing toward you. “You certainly are a very talented young man.”

She seems quite pleased. It’s hard to tell, though – that little smile of hers is a constant, never slipping. She glances momentarily toward Silvermane, who stares back in half-interested, stately silence. Eventually, he simply nods, and turns back to his drink.

“It seems you have the job.” Yes! Fuck yes! “There are, however, a few matters I’d like to discuss. Your natural abilities, for example.”

Less yes.

“What exactly are you capable of?”

>Present Time: 12:35 >Current Funds: $145.50 >Hunger Level: 6

>[X] “Do you really need to know?” >[X] Written in stuff.

“Uh…” You lick your lips anxiously. You’re not exactly eager to plant any ideas about invisible thieves or super-strong thugs in this woman’s head. She doesn’t seem like the criminal type, exactly, but if you’re reading the signs correctly, she works for Silvermane. And he most certainly is the criminal type – hell, he’s the fucking archetype. “Do you really need to know?”

Her reply is immediate and brutally curt:

“I do. Anything that could be harmful to my clientele is something I need to know about.”

Well, you guess that’s understandable. Annoying but understandable

“I’m… well, I can see in the dark, and I’m pretty strong…” She nods silently as you try to offer up just enough of the truth so as to be believable. “…And I can go invisible.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I see.” What was she expecting? That you’re radioactive, or something? That you’re actually made of spiders? Actually, you could totally see that. “Relatively inoffensive, I suppose. Now, on the subject of payment… eleven dollars per hour is the only offer. You won’t work every night, only when I have particular need of you. Is that acceptable?”

>[X] “Sounds fine.” >[X] Write in.

“Sounds fine.” Correction: sounds better than nothing. And better than nothing is fine enough for you, at least for now. “Uh… could you give me some kind of timeframe? I mean, how many hours would I be working?”

She nods, and beckons for you to walk with her. You get up and follow rather sheepishly, feeling vaguely like you’re about to be lead into a room full of lots of assorted leather instruments.

“I can’t promise that your hours will be particularly stable, but they can range from six to eight. As for your schedule…” She leads you back down the stairs, motioning for Laura to follow. The younger girl straightens up immediately, as if she’s been given an order. Which is kinda weird. “…You’ll usually receive one on a week-by-week basis. I assume you have some means of contact?”

“I have a phone.”

“Good. Now, clearly…” She glances back at you, a critical gleam in her eyes. “…You fail to meet certain aesthetic standards. I can provide you with proper clothing and a changing room, but you’ll be expected to arrive relatively clean and shaven. Is that possible?”

>[X] “Yes.” >[X] Tips.

“Yeah, I can try…” It won’t be easy, especially at first. You can’t be creeping your way into other people’s homes whenever the need to be hygienic comes upon you (that’s really an emergency thing. A creepy emergency thing). You’ll have to head down to the coast to use the public showers, which takes you a little out of your way. “It’ll be a little difficult at first, I mean”–

“How you get it done doesn’t matter.” Interrupts Miss Hardy, as you make your way off the stairs, the bulk of the club opening up before you. “Just that you do.”

Well, okay.

“So…” You can’t help but flinch here. “What about tips? I mean, is there a policy on that?”

In the corner of her face still visible to you, her smile lengthens very slightly, curving upward in a barely- perceptible arc.

“It’s acceptable. Though, I can’t promise that my clients are the most generous types.”

Right, criminals.

Her heels clicking, she turns around, rooting you in place with her stare.

“Well, that should be all. You can leave your contact details with Kathy – she’s minding the bar.” She turns to leave, heading toward one of the dim little alcoves arching into the side of the club, but glances back briefly: “If you want, you can indulge yourself in a drink, too. Tell her it’s on me.” Her eyes flash over Laura briefly. “And keep the minor away from anything alcoholic.”

With that, she leaves you to make your own way out. Huh.

>[X] Drop your details and leave. >[X] Look around a little. >[X] Write in.

You leave your details – just your number, pretty much, seeing as the closest thing you have to a permanent residence is an old wreck – with the bartender now identified as Kathy. She eyes you a little suspiciously, but takes the information down anyway. You guess you can’t blame her – you do not, in any way, look the part of a pianist.

You decide to decline the drink, mostly because you want to be up early tomorrow, and alcohol tends to go to your head. A night of incognisant, bleary oblivion would be a welcome relief, but the fallout not so much. You are an uncharacteristically busy hobo, and you have little time for play. Instead you decide to take a look around on your way out.

The tables at the back, where the club turns into a succession of wooden burrows, appear to be game tables. Smoke-ridden men in various stages of old age glare bluntly at one another, looking up to acknowledge you – or anything else that makes a noise – only momentarily. They play basically everything, even stuff you can’t really tag a name to. You notice that there appears to be another stairwell heading down, though you’ve no idea where. Looks far too well-furnished to be storage, though.

As you make your way out, you glance down at Laura.

“Hey…” She turns her eyes to you. “What’d you two talk about there? While I was playing?”

She pauses, fixing her gaze ahead of herself once more. You shiver as you pass out of the Tabbycat, into the bitter cold of the New York winter.

“She asked how old I am…” Her stare stretches onward, strangely concertedly, as if recalling but straining to comprehend. “…and how long I have been homeless for. I lied, but I think she knows. She asked me if I was alright.”

“Oh.” Relatively innocent, you guess. “I thought it was something else. You seemed kind of, um, hurried around her.”

She blinks slowly, and for a moment seems to be about to bite her lip. “I… have difficulty resisting authority figures.”

>Current Time: 12:41

>[X] Go home. >[X] Ask stuff.

You head home.

It’s a long walk, the bustle of the streets doing little to diminish the cold, and you soon find yourself asking Laura what she means exactly. And, so, she describes to you the various ways in which a human being can be conditioned. You find yourself growingly increasingly less comfortable as she moves on from waterboarding to exposure, from live burial to Chinese water torture, from sensory deprivation to sleep deprivation.

The empty, unreasoning snarl of that woman from the church rears up in your mind. Jesus.

You don’t have any particular idea how to respond to this, so, for the most part, you don’t.

You make it back a little past one in the morning. The apartment is quiet, crowded with dark, prone shapes. You and Laura edge in quietly, careful not to wake anyone. Smell of stew clings to the air – they’ve kept leftovers around. You eat in silence.

Eventually, you burrow into the sofa and send yourself off to sleep. Your dreams and quiet an unobtrusive, dark shadows moving between fields of mist. You ebb in and out, the mist sometimes an apartment, sometimes a windy beach, sometimes a girl.

The sun cuts through your eyelids. Mist flees, hissing wretchedly, into the corners of your eyes, strewing there. You groan, and glance at your watch, shivering a little as you become cognisant to the cold.

>5:46 AM

Urgh.

Somewhere in the apartment, you can hear people chattering away. Sounds like Kevin and Gaby, maybe with some flecks of Layla.

You make to get up, but quickly reel yourself in, becoming suddenly aware of the soft warmth nudging against your shoulder. You glance down, and find yourself looking at Laura’s sleeping face. She’s breathing in slow, even whispers of warm air, and you think she might even be snoring a little. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her actually sleep like this. Usually she just sort of dozes, like a cat.

>[X] Get up carefully. >[X] Rush to woooork.

Right. This going to take some finesse.

Stowing your breath, you slither across the couch, using your legs to shimmy your way to freedom. You stop occasionally as Laura stirs slightly, her warmth shifting across your shoulder, but eventually you make your way up without disturbing her sleep. Her eyelids flutter a little and she wrinkles her nose, but otherwise, she remains very much asleep.

You guess a proper rest was a long time coming.

And, with that, you bolt out the door. You hear hurried footfalls follow in your wake, Kevin crying out for you to wait up, but you can only afford to slow your pace a little, just long enough for him to catch up. There’s little time for morning pleasantries as you both rush your way down and out of the scar, conversation remaining at minimal as you struggle to push your way through the early-morning rush – all you really take in, aside from that he totally forgot about work, is that Gaby is teaching him Spanish now. Which is cool, you guess.

You make it to the Bugle a little late, hurrying to grab your papers and go. No time to stop for a chat with Peter - Kevin tells you he might be back late, as he’s gonna go collect some degradables after work, and you part ways.

You’re at your spot just in time to see that you’ve missed the initial rush. Curses.

>Roll for paper handing Rolled 20

>20 >HEEEEEERE WE ARE! >BORN TO BE KINGS!

Well, it’s time to take it to the limit. And possibly push it to the max.

You channel all your ability to be annoying, to be overbearing, and to generally be a hobo you want to get rid of as soon as possible, into the singular art of handing out papers to dudes on the street. They fly from your grip almost too fast for you to keep count, your stack growing slimmer with every minute that goes by.

Eventually, after two hours, you’re done. You’ve pushed it to the limit and reaped the rewards. And you are tired, holy shit.

You stoop down at the curb and relax for a moment, envisaging the sweet, sweet sixty dollars that will make all that limit-pushing worthwhile. As you ponder your next move, a set of fingers tap lightly on your shoulder, eliciting the standard half-jump from you.

You glance up, readying yourself to bolt. It’s some old guy – just as homeless as you, if his crusty attire and crustier beard are any indication – with bloodshot eyes and twitching fingers. He’s holding out a letter, as if urging you to take it.

>Hunger Level: 4 >Current Time: 8:45 AM

>[X] Take it. >[X] Ask him what it is.

…Well, what’s the worst that could happen?

Pushing your (very much warranted) suspicions aside, you take the letter, giving it a bemused stare. You were kinda expecting it to be made of cleverly folded Burger King wrappers, but no, it’s real. It has a fancy wax seal and everything.

“Hey, uh, what is this?” You ask, but your greasy messenger is already trying his best to disappear into the crowd. He’s not succeeding, but you can tell it’s out of no particular need to be mysterious – you can smell fear on him.

Tentatively, you open the letter. Inside is a simple note adorned with an address – you recognize it as a pier number, actually – and a few very floridly-written words:

“7 PM” “Tonight.” “Bring the girl or the deal is off.” "-Creeper"

Well, shit.

>[X] Money. >[X] Shopping. >[X] Food.

You head off to pick up your money in something of a daze.

When you arrive at the Bugle, you smile and node to Vanessa with mechanical absence, the letter churning in your brain. The girl? You wondered who that was at first, but, really, who could it be other than Laura? He doesn’t know about Layla, and he wanted Kevin & Noriko brought to his feet, he’d ask for both. And Gaby? No way, she’s the furthest from his radar.

So, Laura.

As you head out, you realize that you’ve been clenching your fist around the note. You make a concerted effort to leave it be, a slight sting dancing along your flesh as you feel your nails withdraw from your palms, and resolve to pick up a few supplies before you head back. It won’t keep your mind off the bad news, but it’ll give you something to do other than sit around and feel impotent.

You stop by a falafel place for a bite to eat. You’re not immensely hungry, but you might need your strength later. You tuck in as you walk, barely tasting the meat.

>Hunger Level: 1

Why?

Does he want her working for him? Probably – if Creeper had his way, everyone would be working for him. But he knows you won’t come back, so why would she? Is she worth money? A chill descends your spin as you consider, for a moment, the possibility that he’s somehow got into contact with Laura’s former captors. Would he hand her over to them?

You don’t know… you remember how much pride he took in his mutation, how hard he came down on anyone who dared to look down on him for it… but the Creeper of then is not the Creeper of now. He was different when you started working for him – or, at the very least, he was better at hiding his true face. You don’t know what exactly happened over the course of that year, but by the time you were ready to leave he had become something truly terrible.

You head down the highstreet, stopping to pick up a razor and, of all things, a few bottles of shampoo. Hah.

Your purchases swinging alongside you, you meander about for a while, taking the long way back through the criss-crossing net of alleys that perforate New York. You feel the fear in your belly wrestling with the pure, seething rage. Your fangs won’t go in. Your claws poke at the edges of your flesh. You want to hit something.

>Current Funds: $190.06 >Present Time: 9:55 AM

>[X] Go home. . >[X] Find something to hit.

You don’t think you’ve felt this kind of rage in years. The fire that took your life rushes through you, burning at your fingertips, beginning for some kind of escape. You remember the way your sister tore apart a man, like he was nothing but tissue, nothing but an overstuffed garbage bag.

Could you do that now?

You stop to breathe. Fangs still aren’t going in, dammit. Your claws are just short of bursting through your gloves. Just.

Picking the pace back up, you head back to the scar. Can’t do anything stupid. Mustn’t do anything stupid. And if you stay around people much longer you will do something incredibly stupid.

You pass into the scar as a lurching thundercloud of rage, like a storm returning to level what remains of the battered wasteland. You head past the apartment and on into the remains of the furniture place, and there you release every inch of your hate.

You blur. Your vision streaks red. You tear into the remaining shelves, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions, sending them crashing down upon each other. You imagine yourself finding the men that came to your house and tearing their jaws from their faces, ripping their guts from their bellies, using them to strangle Creeper and all his lackeys to death.

Finally, you feel yourself reeling back in. Your knuckles are smeared in coppery red and your breath is pounding at your chest.

You feel a rush of abject shame at what you’ve done to yourself, and head out to wash it off with the snow that lies heaped through the scar.

The shadow of the apartment falls over you. You have to tell the others.

>THREAD 34: END

Thread #35

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

A few hours ago, you received a message from Creeper, telling you to show up tonight, at 7 PM, and to bring Laura with you. And, just like that, your otherwise inoffensive day is pretty much ruined.

Your knuckles still sting. You shuffle back into the apartment, dumping your provisions in the corridor, where the draft will keep them cool – it doesn’t occur to you that nothing in there has a particular need to stay frozen. Your brain is elsewhere.

You should never have gotten involved in all this. You should have scrapped together some money and paid Creeper back. You definitely shouldn’t have stolen for him. It feels… you feel like you’re digging your way out of some underworld, but one look back, one bite off death’s table, and you’re back where you started. This whole thing was a bad–

“You left in a hurry.”

Layla is sitting on the mattress, munching her way through a packet of potato chips. You nod dumbly in her direction, that being just about the only acknowledgement you can muster right now. Noriko is lying with her head in Layla’s lap – it’s only been a few days since she went cold turkey, and you suspect she’s still not quite 100%. Laura’s still snoring on the couch. You don’t see Gaby or Kevin anywhere.

“You alright?” Layla pauses between bites. “You look kinda pale.”

>Current Funds: $190.06 >Present Time: 11:02 AM >Hunger Level: 1

>[X] Ask where Gaby is.

“I’m…” You swallow. Where are Gaby and Kevin? “I’m fine. I just… there’s just a bit of a problem. With Creeper.”

Right. Right. Kevin said he was gonna go look for some stuff he could practice on. So…

“Where’s Gaby, Layla?”

Her eyes follow you across the room as you trudge over to Laura’s side. You guess you don’t hide your anxiety all too well. “Uh… she Kevin called her on Nori’s phone. She went out to meet him or something. I think he said he’d be back in, like, an hour?”

Okay.

You kneel down beside Laura, a little wary of disturbing her. You don’t see her sleep like this often – it almost seems a shame to wake her. Current events, however, trump beauty sleep, and you reach out, shaking her shoulder as gently as you can. Soon enough her eyes creak open, pupils wincing at the transition into wakefulness. She stares groggily for a good minute, before finally pulling herself up.

“John?” She blinks slowly. “What is the time?”

You glance at your watch. “A little past eleven.”

Her eyes wander over the room, thoughts circulating behind them. “I see.”

“Yeah… uh, I wouldn’t have woken you, but… this is kinda important.” You withdraw the letter and place it on the sofa before her, handling it like some kind of explosive. She stares at it briefly, before looking back up at you.

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

What?

>[X] “If he wants you to do something, it can’t be good.”

You screw up your face in uncomprehending, baffled exasperation. Why in god’s name do you even have to be explaining this? Creeper is a bad guy. Being involved with bad guys is not good, as they are bad. It is a thing on the far side of the room from where good is sitting. It might not even be in the same room. It could be all the way down the stairs.

That’s how bad Creeper is.

“If he wants you to do something, it can’t be good.” Duh. Big duh, perhaps biggest.

Laura stares in silence for a moment. Eventually, she speaks up, her tone quiet and level:

“And the things he asks of you, they would be ‘good’?”

You squirm a little. “No… but that’s different.”

She nods.

“It is different.” Huh? “You cannot imagine the things I have done, John. A small task on behalf of this man makes little difference to me.”

In the background, Layla stares intently at the two of you, the potato chips crunching between her teeth.

>[X] Point out that he’s just going to keep asking for more. >[X] Accept Laura’s point.

That look in her eyes. That yawning death. Maybe you can’t imagine it.

You sigh.

“You’re right, I suppose.” You grumble, undignified in defeat. “He’s just going to start asking for more, though. He’ll try to wring everything he can out of us.”

Her stare doesn’t waver.

“John Green, have you developed the ability of precognition?”

“What? No.”

“I assumed as much.” She smiles, just very slightly, and rests a finger upon the back of your hand. “You don’t know what will happen tonight. If you go, I will go too. And if you are correct…”

SNIKT. A single, gleaming blade bursts through the soft flesh between her knuckles.

“…we will have to deal with it there and then.”

>[X] “‘If’ I go? You think running’s still an option?” >[X] Ask if Laura found other places to hide out at. >[X] Draft up a contingency plan.

“‘If’ I go?” You note, quietly. “You think running’s still an option?”

She stares lengthily, as if carefully putting together her response. Her eyes seem to fidget occasionally toward their edges, just very slightly – not something you’re used to seeing from her. Kinda makes you feel like you’ve put her on the spot somehow.

“I won’t think any less of you if you choose to run.” She says, eventually. You get the impression that that was Laura’s attempt at a diplomatic answer. “It would be difficult, but not impossible.”

“Run? As in, like, out of the city?” Layla has set aside her chips, and his looking rather apprehensively at the two of you. Her arms are crossed, but you can tell she’s just itching to do that thing she does where she clutches her shoulders. Quite the nervous twitch, that.

You shake your head. “No… not unless there’s no other option.”

That seems to put her somewhat at ease, though you can still smell a small cloud of anxious fear around her.

You set about putting together a meagre plan of action with Laura. Firstly, you decide that if anything goes awry, the first thing you should do is contact the others, get them to relocate. Luckily, Laura has singled out two rather innocuous spots – one disused house on the very edge of the scar, and a now- empty subway station nestled further into the wastelands. Laura suggests that the two of you meet up elsewhere before returning home, singling out the diner you ate at not long ago.

As you conclude your plans, you hear Gaby’s soft, warbling laughter echoing through the skeletal corridors of the apartment, and she and Kevin bustle in. Time to break the news.

>[X] Put Kevin in charge.

Well, they look all happy and shit. Sound it too. They roll in talking that art history language of theirs, Kevin carrying a bundle of various wooden scarps and debris under his arms. Gaby beams at you with those big, gleaming eyes of hers, but the light in them fades rather quickly when the general atmosphere of the apartment envelopes the two latecomers.

“You two should sit down.”

And so, you explain the situation, watching as Gaby’s expression runs the gamut from shocked, to horrified, to mortified, and back around some. Kevin just sits there looking chronically guilty, though he chimes in more than once to note that he’s kicked his Jack habit. Especially when Gaby’s expression veers towards the edges of horror, and she can only express any further awfulness by cupping those furry hands of hers over her mouth.

When the tale is done, you close your eyes, affording it a moment to sink in. Eventually, you have to say something.

“Gaby, if you want to leave all this behind, you can. I understand that you want to figure out…” You strain to find the right words. You’re still wrapping your head around the stuff with your father. “…whatever was up with my dad, but whatever it is, I doubt it’s worth your life.”

She stares at the floor, chewing her tongue.

“…Where would I even go?” She asks, finally. “It’s not so bad here, not compared to other places.”

You think you hear a sigh of relief from Kevin. Speaking of whom…

“Alright. Kevin, you’re in charge while we’re gone.”

He shoots you a panicked look, chortling nervously. “That was a joke, right?”

You shake your head.

>Meet is scheduled for 7 PM >Present Time: 12:30 >[ ] Write in Action.

>[X] Encourage Kev.

Kevin stews for a bit, taking on the shifty demeanour of a caged animal. For a moment you can’t help but reconsider, but really, who else is there? Noriko honestly seems tougher than him, but you get the impression she’s not often herself right now – you’re not even sure you’ve met the ‘real’ Noriko yet, or if she’s still halfway through the tunnel, still edging tentatively into a reality without lots and lots of drugs. Layla is a non-option, and if Noriko is a shade tougher than Kevin, Gaby veers toward opposite end of the spectrum.

“Can I be in charge?” Interjects Layla. “If Kevin gets run over or something?”

What a delightful notion. You roll your shoulders and shrug. “Yeah, why not?”

“Really?”

“No.”

You get up to… do something, you guess. You’re not sure what the hell you should be doing. You’ve got a few hours before you need to be off, but you’re not sure you can take much more waiting. That hard, cold anger still seethes in you, coiling in your bones. You just can’t get comfortable.

As you think on the matter, Kevin speaks up.

“You know… I know Noriko hasn’t really been with it lately, but she’s a much better survivor than I am.” He licks his lips nervously, fidgeting around a little. “I mean, I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for her.”

You think for a moment.

“Maybe so.” You relent. You suppose he knows her better than you do. “But she’s not in great shape right now, and you’ve been a real help. I think you can handle this.”

He leans back against the wall, reclining into deep thought.

>[X] Make sure Gaby is okay. >[X] Eat. >[X] Train with Laura.

As you dawdle about, considering exactly how you want to go about driving your life into complete disaster, Kevin quietly excuses himself to the prior bedroom, mumbling something about preferring to practice in silence. Gaby watches him go with a worried expression furrowing her brow.

You cough to get her attention.

“Uh… you okay there, Gaby?”

She freezes up a little, looking vaguely guilty.

“I, um…” She looks this way and that – you’ve noticed she has a habit of doing that, even when there couldn’t possibly be anyone nearby. “…are you sure Kevin took, um…” Her voice tightens up, thinning down to barely a whisper. “…drugs?”

You nod. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

She seems to struggle in place, suddenly very uncomfortable. “No… I mean, yes, I suppose… He just seemed like such a nice person.”

Jeezus.

“He is a nice person.” Is pretty much all you can say to that.

Checking your watch, you say your goodbyes and very pointedly don’t promise to be back, heading out with Laura.

>Roll a D20 for sparring Rolled 12

>12

“Hey…” A thought dawns on you as you and Laura descend the worn, blackened steps down to the scar. You feel Laura’s gaze swivel into your back. “You mind if we have a quick match, like last time? I…”

You want to hit something. You want to let some of that anger out before it grows to a deafening pitch blaring at the forefront of your brain. You want to get it out of your system before you see Creeper, because if you don’t, you might just strangle him where he stands. And as fucking great you’re sure that would feel – as fucking wonderful as it’d be to feel his throat squirming and his life slipping away between your fingers – you know it’d be a terrible idea. You know it’d just mean more trouble.

“…kind of want to get warmed up before we do this thing.”

She is silent for a while, only your soft steps despoiling the withered quiet of the scar. You feel her staring at you, deciphering. Does she know? Can she smell it?

“As you wish.” She mutters, her voice tiny and cold, like a dagger.

You spend the next hour or two pretty much getting thrown around by her, becoming intimately acquainted with the snow that carpets the scar. At first you try your best to use your strength against her, trying to get a good grip on your opponent, but you soon learn that without the ability to actually touch her, all your strength means next to nothing. You eventually feel yourself settling in to a sort of rhythm, growing acquainted with the way she moves, the way she feints, the way she counters. You can’t match her, but you’re beginning to see the clues in her body language.

Eventually, you call it quits, and the two of you wander out into the closing evening. You suggest a bite to eat before you brave death and destruction, and she goes along with it, seeming to relish the opportunity to spend more time out of the apartment. You guess it can get pretty stifling.

You settle on a little Chinese place just a stone’s throw from the edge of the scar. You ignore the obvious stares you receive from real people customers and order all the dumplings you could ever want. You gorge your face and teach a perplexed Laura how to use chopsticks, while, in the corner of your eye, the clock ticks ever onward…

Eventually it’s time to go. You try not to think of that awful, static-ridden face and its bloodshot eyes, and you head for the docks.

>THREAD 35: END

Thread #36

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Tonight, you pay your debt.

By the time you reach the docks, the sky is yawning darkly over the city. Across the waters, the Isle of Manhattan is a distant, gigantic bonfire, its immense boughs lit by thousands of tiny gleaming pinpricks. Following along the edge of the water, you check the address scrawled on Creeper’s letter, and begin to realize that you recognize this place, albeit only very vaguely. Creeper used to bring in shipments via these channels.

Absently counting the piers, you wonder where Jack comes from – where they grow it, or synthesize it, or whatever. You know Creeper started producing within the city, but he had to get the original sample from somewhere. Cuba? Brazil? Columbia? Or somewhere far less mundane?

Laura nudges you, stopping suddenly. You pack your thoughts away and follow her gaze.

Up ahead, under the shadow of an anchored cargo ship, a gaggle of men move a succession of heavy crates to and fro. That must be it.

>Current Funds: $165.05 >Present Time: 6:53 PM >Hunger Level: 1

>[X] Check out the surrounding area.

Call you paranoid, but you’re not entirely sure your double-dealing, drug-peddling, possibly psychopathic partner in crime is entirely on the level about all this.

You ask Laura to stay put for a moment and fade into invisibility, taking a brief tour of the area. You find yourself maneuvering through a dense maze of long, tall shipping crates, some clearly empty and forgotten. It doesn’t take you long to find several possible routes out of dodge, and you don’t run into anyone particularly suspicious (or anyone at all).

On your way back you pause to observe the operation. There's a good twenty, maybe thirty guys dragging boxes around. Seems like they’re moving cargo on, not off, a row of trucks sitting at the waterfront, engines humming. The crates make you kinda edgy - they're too big to be carrying drugs. Unless Creeper has happened on enough cocaine to keep the entire East Coast high for a year.

Soon enough you loop back around and rejoin Laura.

>[X] Go ahead, look for Creeper.

You sigh. When the thought of sleeping in a dilapidated ruin with a pair of recovering junkies is an appealing one, you know you’ve lost control of your life.

Glancing about nervously, you approach the scene, inviting a few unsavoury glances from the men getting the cargo loaded up. You’re looking for an invisible man, so you’re pretty much looking everywhere, feeling and probably appearing very profoundly lost.

In the corner of your eye, you glimpse a gaggle of figures standing beside the trucks, one of them glancing in your direction, his mouth suddenly moving. You look over at the person he’s addressing, and your heart shrinks down in your chest. You know this guy. Kind of.

The biggest, swolest black guy you’ve ever met, he stares at you with one good eye, the other whited-out by some horrific act of violence. The huge wifebeater he wears just barely keeps his muscles from popping out all over the place as he holds his hands up high, his grin a flash of gold. Even from there, a good twelve feet away, you can just about make out the F U C K etched into his four front teeth.

He worked for Creeper once or twice – contract, not regular. They called him Barracuda.

He struts toward you, grinning broadly.

“Ha! I ain’t seen you in years, dawg! What’s good? I heard you done run out on Creeper!?” Everything he says sounds like it should have an exclamation mark at the end. “Nobody though ‘choo had them kinda balls!”

He laughs like thunder.

>[X] “Uh, hey, is Creeper here?” >[X] Ask if he’s working regular or contract for Creeper.

“Uh, hey…” What else are you supposed to even say? You thought this guy was kinda funny back in the day, but, in hindsight, his stories of cannibalism and extreme property damage probably shouldn’t have been all that hilarious. “…Is Creeper here?”

He shakes his head. “Naw, paranoid fuck flew me in ‘ta run this lil’ exchange for him.”

“You’re working for him now?” You really hope he isn’t.

“Just one job.” He corrects, his grin broadening further. Whew. “All this Jack shit he’s got goin’ on, that’s good, but I don’t like bein’ tied down, know what I’m sayin’?”

You’re pretty sure that was rhetorical.

He teeters over you, a towering mass of barely-contained force. You very vividly recall him literally punching a man’s jaw off. His good eye regards Laura for a moment, before turning back to you.

“Way I heard, you been doin’ pretty good. Taking on Spider-Man? That’s some hardcore shit right there!” You see it coming and brace for impact as he slaps you across the back. You think your lungs just moved an inch or two out of their proper place. “You a harcore muthafuckin’ gangsta now, huh!? Say it with me – I’m a hardcore muthafuckin’ gangsta!”

>[X] “I’m…. I’m a hardcore motherfucking… gangsta.” >[X] Tell him you didn’t fight Spider-Man, you just got away.

“I’m….” You glance momentarily at Laura, a surfeit of awkward, coiling embarrassment rising in your stomach. She remains impassive. “…I’m a hardcore motherfucking… gangsta.”

Barracuda’s hand envelopes your shoulder. He grins down at you and you feel your claws struggling to stay sheathed.

“My nigga.”

“Haha… yeah…” You swallow, and scratch the back of your head. Words cannot describe how vulnerable you feel at this moment in time. “…You know, I didn’t really beat up Spider-Man, I just got away…”

“That ain’t how Creeper tells it, dawg.” You feel yourself being lead, surprisingly gently, toward the ship. “Way he tells it, you an’ your girl straight-up fooled his ass. So what he’s got for ya’ll tonight is some simple shit – he wants this here deal to go down smooth. You an’ me an’ my boy Mortimer”– You glance about. That was one of the guys with Creeper, right? You don’t see him anywhere. –“we’re gonna sit tight ‘till it’s all done. Anyone comes starting shit, you’re gonna pop some of that gangsta shit you pulled with Spidey on ‘em.”

You swallow. Again.

“You dig?”

>[X] Yes, you dig.

“Yeah…” You feel a cold chill run through you. This will end in blood. “…I can do that.”

You can do that.

He leads you and Laura up to the ship. It’s a behemoth vessel, stocked with scores of crates, and it seems like more and more just keep coming. Meanwhile, you’re keeping an ear out for anything out of the ordinary, scanning the scene in all spectrums available to you. It doesn’t take you long to pick out a low heat signature standing atop one of the crates, core temperature at substantially less than normal. Is that Mortimer? He felt kinda cold to the touch.

Oddly enough, the containers themselves are huge bundles of heat. You almost want to ask what the hell’s inside them.

As you make your way onto the deck, Laura wrinkles her nose, breathing sharply.

“Whassup, girl?” Booms Barracuda. You’re a little surprised he noticed that. "You got somethin' in your nose?"

“It's nothing.” She replies, quietly.

>[X] Patrol around the ship. >[X] Sniff the containers. >[X] Ask what’s in the containers

“Er…” You pull your coat in tighter as a breeze patters along the water. “…Laura and I are gonna take a look around. That alright?”

Barracuda grins back at you both, and you see enough quiet intelligence in that one good eye of his to feel thoroughly scrutinized. He shrugs.

“I ain’t expectin’ all too many problems, but ‘choo might as well.” He nods for you to head on. “Get on wid’ it.”

Did he just wink at you?

You wander quietly along the length of the ship, glancing across row upon row of shipping crates. They’re packed so tight, even the open sky above feels kinda claustrophobic here. You cough awkwardly and fix your eyes on Laura. She’s staring straight ahead, her nose occasionally twitching.

“You know what’s inside?”

She nods.

“Do I want to know?”

She stops, and turns toward you. Her eyes linger on you for a good few seconds.

“I don’t know.”

You feel a lump settle in your throat. You sidle along a little and lean close to one of the crates, sniffing.

Sweat, blood, adrenaline, piss.

Christ.

You throat is going dry. You want to heave. There’s so many crates.

“Those…” You motion toward the container nearest you. “…Those are people?”

Or just lots of organs? No, that doesn’t account for all the piss. All the heat. Oh, Christ.

Laura nods.

Fuck. Was Creeper always doing this? You don’t remember hearing anything – not a peep – of this crap. But he didn’t tell you everything, did he? And he only got worse and worse as time went by, he only got stranger, and sicker, and, well, creepier.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“No – no, I do.” As much as it eats you up, what else are you gonna do? You gonna waltz out and blow all these fuckers away? Maybe if Noriko was here, maybe you could do something, but what are you? You’re just one guy, and one guy amounts to nothing. “I do.”

You breathe.

“If anything does happen, we let it.”

She nods.

You keep walking, trying not to stare too long at any one container.

>[X] Move around the ship randomly.

You wander at random, not really entirely sure what you should be doing. Creeper has a few thugs watching his cargo, no doubt armed with an assortment of firearms, but they mostly ignore you, the occasional furtive glance being the only contact between you and them. You wonder if they all know you’re a mutant.

You cycle between heatvision and the mundane spectrum. Every now and then you catch a glimpse of maybe-Mortimer jumping to a different container. He doesn’t seem to be following you, but he’s never far away.

The night deepens. An hour passes in slow, agonizing quiet.

You’re dawdling with Laura at the bottom of a set of stairs near the stern of the ship, when your ears catch a familiar, sharp hiss passing through the air. You delve back through your memory.

>D20 >+3 >DC14 Rolled 14

>17 >Great Success!

It’s just a split-second, but in there are eons of stretching, burning black. You fall away into the lake and the night, and you remember the streak of white that arced out along the beach and blasted out into fire.

You throw yourself down. Like an arrow of smoke, the RPG sails by, slicing through the night and on into the ship. Your ears sting as a bellow of fire and light erupts from further along the deck, smoke bulging out into the sky. People scream and you hear Barracuda shouting in his ridiculously loud voice, and suddenly Laura is helping you to your feet.

“John?” She’s calm. She’s too calm. “Are you alright?”

You nod frantically. You're alright. You're not dead.

>[X] Look at where it came from. >[X] Check out the blast site.

You wobble up onto your feet, your ears ringing, and squint out into the vast black of the waters. At this range even your eyes find the dark a little enclosing, but you’re pretty certain of what you can see – there’s a speedboat racing over the water towards the ship. In fact, there’s more than one.

Shit. Shit.

“Come on.”

You race your way across deck, heading toward the site of the blast. You see it almost immediately – a huge, fiery wound, seeping streams of black, roiling smoke into the night. You don’t know what the rocket hit, but it collapsed a whole bunch of containers. One of them leans awkwardly atop another, dislodged by the blast, a thin gaze of fire lapping at its doors.

Fire. You feel yourself freeze up.

Around you, men with guns mill about, racing to the edges of the ship. Barracuda strides toward the mess, surveying the flames with the silently furious demeanor of an warrior-god. Scenes of reputed cannibalism and human sacrifice fill your head, like visions of ancient and lost Teotihuacan.

>[X] “Someone has to move those crates.” >[X] Tell everyone there’s boats coming in from the stern.

“There’s, uh…” God, what are you even doing here? You point back the way you came. “…There’s boats, coming from… coming that way.”

Barracuda fixes in his one-eyed grin on you. “Right then. Y’all hear that!” He bellows at the top of his lungs, addressing… pretty much everyone. “Some sonsabitches wanna play!” His voice lowers as he turns back to you. “Best get ready, dawg.”

You swallow, staring past him, at the fire licking its way along the downed crates.

“Some-someone has to move those crates.”

He glances back, his expression indicating that this is the absolute first thought he has afforded to them. His throat rumbles and you realize he’s chuckling.

“Naw, you ain’t bein’ paid to play construction hero, boy.” He motions toward the stern, striding past you. “Jus’ get ready to blow some mutherfuckas away.”

>Courage Check >DC15 >+1 modifier Rolled 20 + 1 roll another D20. Only the first roll counts. No DC. It's more like a Random Encounter roll than a skill check. Rolled 1

>21 >AMAZING >so amazing you got a free Strength and Perception check out of it

Fire. There’s always fire.

You mumble something about the goods. No use to anyone if they’re damaged. No way you’re giving Creeper an excuse to cheat you out of your freedom. Somethingsomething. You don’t know if he heard, don’t know how much of it you even said.

The fire is your universe now.

You charge across the deck. Perhaps you shout or scream. Barracuda does, he shouts something at you, but you don’t hear it. Your heart thunders in your ears, drowning the world in blood.

The heat washes over you and you close it out. You hit the container running, fire lapping hungrily at your bootheels, metal hot to the touch. It groans aside, sparks flying as you shunt it across the metal flooring, your shoulder leaving a deep impression in the steel. You expound on the initial shunt and push, throwing your back into it, feeling the sweat pool across your brow and blood charge in your veins. This thing is a lot heavier than a tree, but slowly, laboriously, it shifts.

You heave it out of the hot-zone, though it’s still leaning precariously against one of the other crates. And it’s still hot. They must be –

Wait. Wait a minute.

It was ridiculously hot a second ago. Nearly burned you right through your gloves. And now it’s… not.

>Reflex Check >DC13 >+1 modifier for Agility >+1 modifier for Already Suspicious Rolled 11

>13 >JUST >JUUUUUST

You can’t just sit here and let this go. Who cares if you open just one container? It could’ve been opened by the blast.

You reach out to grasp the huge, metal hinges that line the crate, pulling with all your might. They groan and buckle, and you feel the entire structure loosening slightly. Just a little more now. Just a little more time, a little more strength.

Your heart flutters. You feel the slightest hint of strangeness, the slightest little pulse circulate briefly through the door, through the metal, through your hands and feet and up through the hairs on your head. Life shuts down around you and you sense the tiniest fractures spread through the door, the steel concaving outward, the air shifting.

For the second time today, you throw yourself down, falling straight on your back. The entire door, hinges and all, soars over you, flying out into the night. Life rushes back.

Something heavy lands on your chest. You wheeze. Someone. People run. Footfalls flood the metal under your back. They rush past, swarming. The someone is skinny, night blurs around them, no stars, just smoke.

They punch you in the face. There are stars now.

>[X] Grab their hands.

Shrill voice. Young.

They wail on you. You flinch and flail out at them, grabbing, grabbing something – hands, wrists. They keep fighting, but you’re a whole lot stronger than they are. The reprieve gives you a good look at them. Him.

He’s thirteen, maybe fourteen, dark skin, short hair, stern, outraged features. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. At first you think his eyes are bloodshot, but they’re not – they’re just red. Pure, bloody, luminous red.

“Knock it off!” Feet thunder around you. Everyone who was in that big box is now very much outside. “I let you out! I’m helping!”

He stares down at you, his eyes backed into a corner, furious and uncertain and desperate.

Some of Creeper’s men are turning around. Some of them don’t seem to know whether to stop the flood of ‘passengers’ or stand in defense of the place. Barracuda just stares in disbelief, his huge grin making the look on his face all the more unreal and bemused.

You think you might have just fucked everything up.

>[X] “They’re decoys! Honest!”

>[X] “Lay low, get to cover.”

You push yourself, keeping ahold of the kid’s wrists. Despite his best efforts, he doesn’t make it particularly hard for you – whatever titanic force he wielded to split the crate asunder, it was, apparently, situational. You glance around in horror as escapees run to and fro, not particularly cowed by the shots a few of Creeper’s men fire off into the air. The deck is chaos, a few of the hired thugs resorting to rifle butts, but there’s little they can do to stop a good forty, maybe fifty scrawny, desperate slaves-to-be from swarming toward the shore.

Shit.

“Get down, kid.” You let go. He stares at you in shock. “This is about to get real ugly.”

You implore Barracuda with your eyes. Not for any sense or mercy, but for a sudden stupidity, an assault of idiocy powerful enough to believe what you’re about to say.

“Now… now we have decoys!”

If it were possible to have silence, what with the roar of the speedboats down below and the thunder of feet and the occasional chatter of gunfire, there would have been an ample stretch of it. You swallow, and watch as one of Creeper’s boys is hurled down and trampled by a trio of escapees.

You may have wanted to think that through a little longer.

One of the men further along the deck, standing in baffled, enraged silence, raises his rifle. You tense up. His eyes are bursting with anger. His adrenaline cuts through the crowd. You taste his terrified, hateful sweat. Shit. You’re about get shot.

“Are you fucking retarded or somethi”–

SNIKT!

>THREAD 36: END

Thread #37

You are John James Green, mutant vagra–

SNIKT!

A bright, metallic blur streaks through the night, and the would-be-shooter’s head flies from his shoulders, striking the ground with a dull, wet thud. Huh. So, that’s what that looks like, then. You kind of expected more, you know, spray. Or something. Instead, the bloodied stump that was once a man’s neck just sort of bubbles pathetically, before the corpse buckles to the floor. Laura stands behind it, a single blade gleaming upon her knuckle.

If it weren’t for all the shooting, there would have been silence. A few of Barracuda’s (Creeper’s?) men just stare dumbly, unsure of what exactly comprises the greatest threat to their lives – the speedboats racing toward the ship, or you.

“Damn, girl.” Growls Barracuda, his voice trailing off into a low whistle.

Then he levels his gun in your general direction, still grinning, and…

>Current Funds: $165.05 >Present Time: 8:45 PM >Hunger Level: 2

>[X] On the other hand, you can’t just leave Laura. Dodge and take cover.

You hurl yourself aside, scurrying behind the now-empty container you previously hauled out of danger. Bullets patter off metal behind you. You slam your back against the crate and bite down on your lip, trying to conjure up some way of disentangling yourself from this whole mess. The kid that was first out of the box follows behind you, a trail of gunfire close on his heels.

Shit, what happened to Laura? She was out in the open.

You push your head into your palms. God dammit.

Something detonates loudly, way off to your right. The entire ship shakes.

>[X] Invisible it up and look for Laura. >[X] Release some more captives. >[X] Find out what the kid can do.

You turn to the kid, trying (mostly failing) to keep your voice even.

“What can you do, kid?”

He stares at you, more shocked than terrified. “Wha”–

“Your mutant thing back there!?” God fucking dammit just answer you are on a clock here. “What can you do?”

“…I, I can absorb stuff...” He pauses as a particularly load chatter of gunfire passes through the air, flinching. Didn’t sound close, but your ears are better than his. “…And shoot it out?”

Stuff like heat, you guess. You wonder if he can take in electricity.

“Alright, okay…” You scratch through your brain for something. You get… you get not much. A gamble, then. “Be quiet, alright?”

You grab his wrist and concentrate. He pulls back for a moment but you hold on, pushing that invisibility button in your brain as hard and fast as you can. At first, he just flickers, looking over himself in surprise, but then both you and he fade away into the relatively safety of invisibility. Ha. Haha! That’s never ever worked before!

Keeping ahold of the kid, you run into the maze of crates, searching around for Laura. Eventually you find her crouched behind one of the containers near the stern, her jacket riddled with bloody tears. Ouch.

You materialize beside her. She doesn’t react – she probably smelled you coming – save with a short glance.

“There are three men nearby.” She notes, and she’s right. You can smell them. “The exit is covered extensively. I could make it through, but you…”

You don’t heal quite like her. Yeah.

But you have an idea.

>[X] You free captives, Laura and Kid provide a distraction.

You take a moment to still your nerves. You can’t believe this shit. You can’t believe you dragged Laura into this. You can’t believe what you’re about to say.

“Can you two keep them busy?”

Yes, JJ. Throw your friend into the deep end. Again.

She stares impassively. “While you do what?”

“I’m gonna open more of these cages.” You tell yourself you’re just fishing for karma – for some silver lining to a very bad day. But what you really want is a distraction. Possibly hundreds of escaping captives is a pretty okay distraction.

“What… what can I even do?” Asks the kid, eyes wide and wild. “I’m not bulletproof! I can’t absorb gunfire!”

Well, that’s a problem.

>[X] Give him an electrical charge. >[X] Amend plan. He helps you.

“Okay… you can help me then. Alright?” You extend your hand. He regards it suspiciously (might have something do with the claws). “Come on. You want to get these people out of here, right?”

Way to be manipulative.

Swallowing, he takes your hand, letting you envelope him in invisibility.

“Great. I’m gonna start charging you with electricity in a second, so turn you powers on. That alright?”

He nods.

“…Be careful.” Says Laura, glancing out over the top of the container.

“You too.”

You sneak away, keeping a steady charge flowing into the kid’s arm. You run at first, but he asks you to slow down a bit so he can concentrate. Eventually you make your way to one of the crates, stopping beside its hinges. You nod to the kid.

>Roll 10D20’s. Rolled 9,19,15,20,4,18,17,1,2,6

He barely touches it, sending a weird ripple of force through the metal. The hinges snap outwards and the entire door twists slightly, before teetering toward the ground.

You stagger back to avoid the rush flailing arms, legs, and tentacles (tentacles?) that spills across the deck. As the tide thins, you manage to just about catch sight of a man soaring out into the night on feathered wings. Wow.

You edge past the stragglers to the next crate, bursting it open. In the ensuing rush you barely perceive a man-shaped blur speeding past you, further up the ship. Immediately, the gunfire near the stern intensifies and panicked cries fill the air. As you advanced down the line, opening crate after crate, you become convinced that not a one of these people is your average homo sapien – there are blue people, there are gelatinous people, there are people on fire and people with razorwire for hair, but no plain-ass normal people. How the hell did anyone get this many mutants in one place?

Eventually, as you watch the contents of the tenth container spill out over the ship, you feel another something strike the side of the vessel, sending shudders through its bones. You think… you think it’s teetering a little to one side. You have a very, very fine perception of balance, and you’re pretty sure that you can feel it being disrupted just a little.

>[X] Open more crates.

You could almost certainly slip away right now. You don’t know what’s happening with those speedboat people, but you know that since you started opening these things, there’s been a 60-70% increase in random explosions further along the ship. Nobody’s looking for your fine lizard ass.

You feel the kid tugging you toward one of the other crates, his eyes alight with determined fire. A sudden wave of guilt washes through you.

“Yeah…” You force out a grin. “Just a few more.”

You open another container, standing aside to avoid death by stampede. As you wait for the deck immediately in front of you to become navigable, a familiar, loamy smell coils under your nostrils, and you feel a shiver pass up your spine…

Oof! Something smacks you in the back like a ton of bricks, slamming you forward. You feel your grip on the kid loosen, just before you feel metal in your face, whatever bulled into your back pushing you straight into the side of one of the containers. The smell of iron fills your nose and you taste red. Something detaches from your back as you slide down the side of the crate.

Groaning, you turn around. Standing atop the opposite container is Mortimer, a long, serpentine tongue retracting back under his hood.

“Bad move.”

>[X] Tell the kid to find Laura and run. You’re dealing with this slimy asshole. >[X] Grab and electric.

You glance over yourself. You're visible - it's really, really hard to stay invisible after blunt trauma like that - and there's blood pouring from your nose. You can, just very faintly, feel it healing already. Your gaze returns to Mortimer as you pull yourself up.

“Really want to do this, Mort?” Might as well. Worth a try, right? Anything’s worth a try (except, like, cancer and stuff. That’s probably not worth a try). You glance at the kid. “Get going. Find that girl.”

Mortimer pulls back his hood, revealing a pasty, pale grin and a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. His eyes gleam a vague yellow.

“Do I want to do this?” He cocks his head, frowning out a mockery of deep thought. Here it comes… “Well, I’m not sure. I guess I could just”–

His tongue flashes out at you.

>Combat Check >DC16 >+1 Agility Modifier Rolled 19 + 1

>Modified 20 >Glorious

It’s fast.

It’s fast like a bullet, almost. But it’s not exactly subtle. You’ve been getting used to an opponent who bobs and weaves around you, striking only from the most inopportune angles. Compared to the kind of pressure Laura puts on you this seems a little basic and unimaginative.

Your arm snaps out almost automatically, fingers closing round a handful of slime and tongueflesh. Mortimer has just time to croak in surprise before you flood him with electricity, his tongue spasming madly in your grip. He shrieks in pain and collapses to his knees, allowing you to swing him straight off that container he’s perched on.

He lands a heap of coughing, disorganized limbs.

>[X] Advance and pummel him to shit.

“Didn’t know I could do that, huh?”

Not the best one-liner, but truthful and to-the-point. If Mortimer was going by Creeper’s description of your powers, that must’ve been quite the shock (pun entirely intended. Man, you should’ve gone with something like that. “That was a SHOCKING surprise, huh?” Would’ve been a lot better). Well, at least you didn’t say some half-baked shit about what happens when toads get struck by lightning, seeing as it’s mostly the same shit that happens to everything else.

You advance on him, very much intending to turn him into one very large bruise. You’re close when you notice that his throat is bulging ridiculously, like some kind of nasty, fleshy balloon.

Eurgh, what? What the fu–

He raises his head and lets loose a burst of compressed air. It hits you like a brick wall, hefting you straight off your feet and sending you shooting though the air. You land on your back, your entire skeleton aching.

You pull yourself to your knees just in time to see his tongue sliding back between his teeth. He rushes at you.

>[ ] Wait for him, dodge. >Combat Check >DC16 >+1 Modifier Rolled 14 + 1

>15 >Almost

You steel yourself, waiting for the right moment.

He closes quickly, swinging at you with a set of short, stubby claws (claws! Fuck! You didn’t know he had claws!). You step aside, letting his momentum carry him into your place, and ball your fist, ready to dish out some black eyes.

You swing. He, unexpectedly, lets himself fall rather than trying to right himself, twisting in mid-flight. Your fist passes harmlessly over his head as his tongue lances out at point-blank range, striking you right in the middle of your chest.

You sail through the air, blood pooling behind your lips. Feels like a god-damn sledgehammer.

Your flight ends abruptly when you slam into one of the containers, though you manage to stay on your feet this time. The tongue retracts instantly, vanishing behind Mortimer’s teeth. Kinda reminds you of a boxer’s jab, just… more elastic.

This guy is clearly not the joke he looks like.

>[x] Try to fade and run. >Stealth Check >DC16 >+3 Modifier Rolled 13

>16 >Perfectly Acceptable

This isn’t turning out in your favour.

Mortimer releases a particularly menacing croak (not the most menacing thing ever, but, context) and advances on you. You promptly engage smokebomb mode and fade into invisibility, eliciting a hiss of exasperation from your foe.

Slowly, you edge around him. His gaze seems to float close to you, but never quite on you, following your steps. Can he see you? Hear you? After a few agonizing moments of silence, you rush him, intent on delivering a quick, invisible finisher.

He starts and dodges your first blow, ducking under your arm (how the shit is he doing this?), but doesn’t notice your foot circling around his. He trips like a fool and hits the floor hard.

Heh. Thank you, Laura.

You promptly punt him about ten feet straight up.

>[X] Combo! Punch him as he falls. >Combat Check >DC17 >+1 Modifier for confused as shit target Rolled 7

>8 >Fail

You step back, and click down that little switch in your head that fades you out of sight.

He drops. You swing. You miss.

Huh.

At least nobody saw that shit.

Mortimer scrabbles to his feet, backing away and wheezing. He leans heavily against the container at his back, the last ten feet having apparently taken great deal of fight out of him.

>[X] Cheese it while he's tired.

Your face is bleeding, your ribs are complaining, and you’ve yet to find a part of you that doesn’t feel sorely bruised. Time to check out of this utter disaster.

Leaving Mortimer to his wheezing, you slip away, weaving through the now much less tidy maze of containers in search of Laura. You can’t help but note that quite a few more are open than you yourself were responsible for – in fact, you think they might actually outnumber the few that remain shut. Towards the stern of the ship, the chaos still has sway, gunfire providing a constant punctuation to your search.

Following your nose, you reach the gangway heading down to the pier. Bodies lie strewn around you, some filled with bullets, others covered in cuts, burns, and all manner of grievous injuries. It would seem that Laura and the kid made it off the ship.

Suddenly, the ship lurches to one side, a distressed wail rising up from its belly. The containers nearby slide a little across the deck.

Yep, definitely at a bit of an angle now.

>[X] Open crates.

You could just leave. You could.

But those unopened crates gnaw at you, sitting like tiny, smoking bullets in the back of your grey matter. Bullets that you would have, in some small way, have had a part in firing off. You didn’t put these people here, you didn’t want these people here, and really, none of this shit has anything to do with you. But if you just leave, you’ll be at least partially responsible for whole lot of people dying if this ship goes down.

A metallic whine reverberates through the skeleton of the vessel. Christ, you can all but feel it come apart under your feet.

You turn back.

Moving silently behind the noise of the melee, you open every container you can find. There are still quite a few, and each one only adds to the chaos, another flood of colourful, noisy mutations bursting out into the night.

Eventually, you stand at the open door to the last one you can find. You’re not certain that it’s the only one left, but you can’t see any others.

The ship groans. Behind it, you pull something else out, something lower, slighter.

You sharpen up your ears. At the back of the crate, in deep shadow, there’s a tiny heartbeat still sounding.

Something huge explodes against the hull. Everything lurches. The beat quickens as the entire ship shakes, teetering inland.

You think she's about to go down.

>[x] Go in for them. God dammit.

Being nice is terrible.

You jump on in, and, as if in answer to your sudden descent into heroism, the world swerves on its side. You feel the inner workings of the ship collapsing beneath you, metal folding, supports screaming, the night outsight whirling. Christ. Christ. You choke on your own stomach, the nausea of a world suddenly plunged into chaos striking through you.

You scrabble through the dark, suddenly fighting sidewards, than weirdward, then pretty distinctly upwards. You feel the air rushing outside and the water churning, the walls screeching as they slide away around you. You’re struggling against gravity, against the dark, against yourself, your nerves searing, your eyes darting, your mind bellowing in fractured fury. What a fool you are, what a hero you are, how stupid you are, how wonderful you are.

Your arms close around something small and breathing. You feel tiny fingers digging into your back. The heartbeat melts into yours, both terrified, both bursting at the seams.

You feel the entire universe fall on its head, and then you fall with it.

>THREAD 37: END

Thread #38

You are John James Green.

You’re fifteen.

Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-yy-ou’re-

“…hydrogen bonding holding along the seventh…”

“…know him, reader, this delicate monster…”

“…gotta be some kind of attack, right? Like Al Qaeda or something…”

“…not just anyone…”

“…genome is estimated to be roughly 3.2 billion base pairs long…”

“…the leper was removed from the world, and from the community of the Church visible, his existence was yet a constant manifestation of God…”

“…go far, boyo…”

“…doesn’t make sense anymore, all these gods and monsters…”

“…indicate a 15% greater likelihood of schizophrenia manifesting in the mid to late teens…”

“…like animals…”

“…she’s gone, John.”

You’re with Creeper.

He’s meeting a bunch of guys from further up into Queens. You don’t know why – it’s not your business to know. But he’s brought you along, down to the old, industrial-scale boathouse by the docks. You heard it used to belong to Oscorp before they ran into all that trouble with the Green Goblin. Now it’s just a wreck – a huge, damp mess, rusted metal and chipped paint, rattling faintly as the breeze skips by.

“…way I see it, you don’t have much choice in the matter…”

He’s talking to a man in a dark suit. His face could be any face. They bleed together eventually, him and the others, the significantly less well-groomed men standing just a little behind him. He’s not happy. You half-listen, but it’s not really relevant to you. You asked to come along, but you don’t even know why you’re here.

The burnt-out yacht that floats behind them ebbs lazily as the tide breathes in and out. You wonder what happened here, but only briefly. The sound of the water rolls over you, lulling your senses, closing around you.

Then, suddenly, something disturbs the steady to and fro. Your eyes follow the sharp metallic sound up to one of the windows on the yacht. The scope gleams like a tiny, prophetic star.

You freeze.

>[X] Push.

No!

You throw yourself at Creeper. You don’t remember hitting the ground. You don’t remember letting go. You remember him shouting in surprise, and then the sudden bark of the rifle, ringing out over the water. You remember him swearing loudly and the others drawing their weapons.

He grabs you and throws himself behind one of the old, rotting cargo lifts. The sound of gunfire rattles in your ears.

The seconds become dull here. You…

>[X] Invisible, go after the marksman.

You make yourself small. You think about being unseen. You think out vanishing. You let the fear in, let it reach as deep as it will go, let it cloth you, coddle you.

You vanish.

You run out over the damp metal. You remember the cold breeze and the smell of rust stuffing your nose. The guns chatter in the air, sparking brightly. The yacht shifts almost imperceptibly as you leap aboard. You find the shooter priming for another shot, his eye against the scope. You bull into him, tossing him down across the deck. Your invisibility flickers away and you recall a pure surge of terror striking through you as he glares into your naked face.

He grabs your wrist. Time unwinds again here. You…

>[X] Bite. >[X] Try to push him into the water.

Your teeth are in his wrist. The scream shakes your skull and you feel his fist in your ribs, in your ear, across the side of your face, again and again. He’s dropped his gun. You burrow your teeth in deeper and taste blood bursting along your gums, filling your nose with iron. You feel him slacken just a little.

Something made you want to push him off, over into the water. Some bull in your head told you that was a good idea. Then you’re sailing through the air with him, his hand still tight around your wrist, and the water suddenly cold and dark around you, and he’s still hitting you.

>[X] Try to get away.

You panic. Your arms flail out, mouth gulping, the taste of blood washing away. He holds tight, pushing you down, dragging you under. He’s going to drown you. You’re going to drown to death. To death.

You don’t know what’s under and what’s over the water. You get your hands in his face and push, and rip, and scrabble. You have to push away from him. You have to get away. You can swim away. You’re good at that. You wriggle and writhe and push desperately, and then, there is that terrible thud, that sound that strikes through the water and the fear, and sticks to your skin like glue.

It was a great hinge, or a link, or something – the big metal fixture that kept the yacht, or what was left of the yacht, moored. You remember the bloom of red and the sharp horror that struck you when you pushed his head against it, then again, then harder, then more, over and over, the fury in you, the red bounding up and down your arms.

Eventually, he grows still, and you watch the water blacken around his head.

You pull yourself out, shaking. The blood on your hands is thin, but red.

You throw up noisily.

>[X] Look for Creeper.

You find Creeper standing over the mangled body of the man in the dark suit. You remember that ruptured, split face, those teeth splayed out across torn, lifeless lips. It was a crowbar, you think.

You cry into his shoulder. He doesn’t mind you getting blood on his shirt – it’s just a shirt, he says. He smells of dust and washing powder. He tells you it wasn’t your fault, the guy killed himself really, you don’t have to worry, he was probably a terrible person anyway.

You did good.

Time skips. You sit with him on the roof of the old junk house, the sun dimming out across the coast. You feel much better. He got you a drink – you remember the stamp, Asahi. It’s bitter. It is the first time you have drunk proper alcohol, and you're not sure you like it very much. You drink it anyway.

He pats your shoulder.

“You’ll go far, boyo.”

His ring finger twitches, as if counting every other second. You point it out and he laughs, he says he hadn’t noticed. Probably nerves.

It doesn’t stop, though. And it gets worse, as time goes on.

Your eyes creak open.

You’re John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Your head throbs. You remember the crate hurling, the dark rattling around you. The ship. The ship went over, capsized or whatever. You were in one of the crates.

You still are. You’re lying in the dark, the metal twisted and shorn about you, night leaking in through the open doors. The walls aren’t ebbing, so you’re on dry land. You shift, your bones growling complaints, and become aware of the soft warmth bundled in your arms.

Yes, you went back in for someone.

Turns out that someone is kid, maybe nine. You can’t really tell whether it’s a boy or a girl, its features caught in some awkward, weirdling place. Its head is bald and its skin is a light, almost translucent grey. Its fingers dig into your back and its eyes are screwed shut. It’s breathing. Alive.

You're both alive.

>Action.

Got to… head pounding… got to know where you are.

You heave yourself up, very much aware of every bruised muscle, every bleating bone. Must’ve fallen far. The kid holds on to you.

You stagger out into the night, shielding your eyes from the sudden glare of fire leaping along the ship. You’re at the docks, where Creeper’s men were originally dragging the crates up from. Various containers and other debris lie strewn along the waterfront, crumpled and broken. You and your crate must’ve slid right off the ship.

And, speaking of, the ship sits on its side like a downed giant, lurching over the shore, the pier leading up to it crumpled under its belly. You can see great, horrendous tears strewn across its hull, fire drooling out into the sky like blood from an open wound. Someone really, really wanted this little operation to go sour.

In the distance, you hear sirens.

You remember the plan. Call home. Check the backup shelters. Laura’s probably called already.

>[X] Go check the backup shelters.

Sirens getting close. Got to get out of here.

You make your way inland, keeping to the side-streets. You fade into invisibility as you pass by one of the main roads at the same time as a convoy of shrieking police vehicles. Something slices through the night overhead, trailing little streamers of light. Was that Iron Man?

The walk is long. You try to talk to the kid, but it doesn’t answer. You’re a little surprised when it looks up at you with big, black eyes. Something about that reminds you of those little grey guys from the X-Files.

Well. Either it can’t speak, or it won’t speak. Whichever it happens to be, you tell it that stuff’s gonna be okay, and you’re not taking it back to another box. Though, really, you might as well be.

It takes you hours. By the time you reach the dilapidated pile of a house Laura pointed out on the edge of the scar, it’s already 2:23, and there’s nobody in. The subway, then.

You trek further into the scar. The cold clings to you and drives you on. You don’t know what you’re doing, or what you’re going to do. Everything has fallen apart. Again.

Eventually, you find yourself at the entrance to the subway. It yawns downwards, seemingly into nothingness, but you can see pretty good in the dark. You step in, walking on into the dark. You feel the kid’s heart flicker to and fro and hold it a little tighter. You head on past the dusty old ticket machines and down the escalator toward the platforms below, and the sound of Kevin’s voice floats up to you, stirring a relieved sigh in your chest.

You find the gang huddled around a blazing pile of scraps, the wreckage of a disused, partially-melted train trailing along behind them. Silence descends as you approach, and they look up at you.

Noriko speaks first.

“Laura told us what happened.”

Right then. That’s good.

>[X] Plan now.

You sigh, sitting down around the fire.

“Sorry.”

Not much else you can say.

“You tried.” Offers Noriko. Yes, you guess you did try. And fail.

You glance along the various faces lit by the fire. Laura’s not there, but the boy from the ship is. He swallows nervously when he sees your eyes fall upon him.

“Hi… I’m Lucas, by the way.”

“John.” You respond, and glance down at the kid in your arms. “And I don’t know who this is, but they’re with us for now.”

Another pall of silence drops. Eventually, Kevin interjects, posing the very good question of what the shit you guys are going to do now.

>[X] Ask where Laura is.

“I’m… I’m not sure.”

Lame. Almost unbidden, you feel your fingers kneading along your forehead. Everything’s bulging along at the front there, like a stormcloud growing fat and heavy with thunder. You have no idea what you should be doing. There’s probably only one person who does.

“Well, firstly, where’s Laura? She should be here for this.”

“She said she was checking the tunnels.” Replies Gaby, her small, mousy voice barely making it over the fire. “For… stuff?”

Right.

You guess you should find her? You really don’t know what the hell you should be–

“We could leave.” Utters Noriko, suddenly, her voice slamming through the silence. “Us, I mean. Me and Kevin.”

What?

“What?” Kevin echoes your thoughts, staring incredulously over the fire at her. “Are you crazy? We’d still have this guy aft”–

“We brought all this.” She interrupts, her tone hard. “We’re the ones he knows. Without us, John could just…”

She looks up at you. Her expression is strange and distant, a circle of sparks passing around her eyes.

“…disappear.”

>[X] Nope. >[X] We’ll talk about this after I find Laura. >[X] Creeper would find me anyway.

“It won’t work.” You interject. “Creeper’s likely more pissed at me than any of you. I can hide, but I can’t hide forever. And, frankly, I kind of like having you guys around.”

Layla nods vigorously, edging a little closer to Noriko. “I do, too. You can’t go. You’re, like, the only person here even half as cool as me.”

Considering the gravity of the situation, you’ll let that remark slide for now, but you are clearly cooler. You wear sunglasses at night.

Noriko glares at her hands. Sparks disentangle themselves from her hair in bright, electric-blue bunches.

“I’ve messed everything up again, haven’t I?” Her hands ball into fists. The taste of ozone sputters briefly through the air. “This always happens…”

“I think it was me this time. Look…” You set down the kid, standing up. “We’ll talk about this when I find Laura. Could somebody take care of this little…” You pause. “…guy while I'm gone? Find out if he’s got family in the city or something? He won’t talk to me.”

Noriko nods and shifts over slightly.

>Roll Perception >DC15 >+3 modifier Rolled 9 + 3

>12 >you guys suck so much at this

You sniff at the dark, catching Laura’s scent.

It leads you through the ruined train, where the seats melt into one another and the ceiling constantly feels like it’s about to crumple in on you. You make your way through the vehicle, all the way to the tunnel outside. The tracks stretch on into an impenetrable dark.

You remember very little about this place. It was one of the two subway stations caught in the devastation of the scar, the other caving in entirely. If you recall correctly, the damage was so extensive that a bypass was constructed, leaving the place to rot in silence. Or, in almost silence. As you plod through the dark you feel the occasional, distant thrum of trains running. You could probably make your way around the whole city from here. It’d be faster than dodging through alleys. More discreet, too.

You walk. The scent waxes and wanes, occasionally fading into the clinging, unsavoury miasma of smells that thrive in the dark. After an hour, you realize that you’re not even sure you’re following her scent anymore, and you’ve no idea where you are.

Shit.

You retrace your steps. Simple enough.

Another hour and you’re still stalking through the dark. You must’ve gotten turned around somewhere. Just one wrong turn.

Fuck.

You keep going, eventually reaching a divergence. You think you can also see another opening along the side of the tunnel. It reeks of all the worst shit.

>[X] Horrible reeking side passage.

Possessed by a sudden surge of curiosity, you step into the side passage, steeling yourself against the god-awful smell.

After fifteen minutes later, you are absolutely certain you should not have done this. You appear to be walking through a thin sheet of shit, piss, and everything else human beings flush down into the earth. You think you can smell a hint of methane and one point you pass by the rotting cadaver of a very drowned kitten. Almost reflexively, you press down on that little button in your head that sends you seeping out of visibility, though your steps are still accompanied by soft, wet thuds.

The air is warm down here. Thick.

Eventually, you make your way to an arched chamber where three other passages converge. The smell of rot hangs in the air.

You’re about 90% sure that this is some part of the sewer system.

On the opposite wall, something catches your eye. Looks like graffiti.

>[X] Investigate.

Well… you’re already here and everything, so…

You plod through the unthinkable mixture of fluids at your feet, trying to avoid anything particularly solid. The dark is hard and all-encompassing, but you can still see pretty well, your eyes working to expand on the barest scraps of light.

It’s a symbol. Two lines curving inwards, intersecting, little prongs at the bottom. For a moment you think it’s some kind of super-stylized bat, but then it hits you – the brickwork on either side of each line is discoloured into a domed shape.

It’s a helmet. A Magneto helmet.

Huh.

“It appears that these passages extend out into the sewer system.”

You shit ten bricks, your claws unsheathing instantly. Had you not swallowed it, there would be a very girlish squeal echoing through the chamber.

It’s Laura. It’s Laura’s voice.

You turn around. Her eyes gleam against the dark, the only visible asset of her expression.

>[X] “Jesus Christ I had a heart attack.” >[X] Ask her what she’s doing. >[X] Tell her you guys are trying to formulate a plan.

“Fuck shitty…” You’d do a little jig if you weren’t sure it’d cover you in crap. You’ve got that energized, uneasy feeling, that overabundance of unneeded adrenaline. “…Jesus Christ I almost had a heart attack.”

Laura frowns through the dark.

“I’m sorry. I will be noisier in future.”

“No, uh… that’s alright.” You breathe out slowly. “So this is where you were. Thinking we’re going to need a shower or seventy when we get out. What’re you doing out here?”

“Reconnaissance.” She replies quickly. “You should also try to develop a working knowledge of these tunnel systems. They are an invaluable escape route.”

“Right…” Invaluable and smelly. “Well, we were trying to think up a plan… for, y’know, our next move. You have any ideas?”

Please have ideas.

For a moment you think you see a confused dimness pass through her eyes. If you did, though, it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

“I thought our course of action was obvious.” Well, she’s the only one. “Leaving the state presents multiple difficulties, and conflicts with your personal mission.”

Personal mission? What?

“We have to kill Creeper.”

>[X] “That’s not going to be easy.” >[X] “Are you really alright with that? Won’t you risk exposing yourself?”

“That’s…” You have thought about it (read: fantasized about it). Creeper, for all his influence and power, a mortal man. He’s just as vulnerable to you are to being shuffled off the mortal coil. “…that’s not going to be easy. He’s a made man, Laura. The Kingpin has his back.”

She’s silent for a moment, as if considering her words carefully. You see a tentative glimmer pass across her face.

“…It… it has been said, I believe… that nothing worth doing is easy.” She fidgets very slightly, and returns to her more formal tone. “Wilson Fisk does not worry me.”

“He should.”

“I’ve killed for Fisk. Creeper is not part of his inner circle. He is expendable.”

You pause. She watches you intently. You had no idea she’d worked for someone like Fisk. You wonder just how many people she has killed for, but squash the question before it can take shape.

“What about you? This could expose you.”

“The other option is leaving the state.” She cocks her head to the side slightly. “It’s an acceptable risk.”

You swallow. You don’t like this, but she might be right.

Maybe you do have to kill Creeper.

>THREAD 38: END

Thread #39

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You live in the subway now.

With Laura’s help, you make your way back through the criss-crossing net of tunnels to the station under the scar. The fire is burning low now, but that doesn’t make it any less agitating, and you make sure to give it a wide berth. Kinda funny, really – you’re probably the only one here more afraid of the light than the dark.

Sitting down, you explain Laura’s plan. Responses are mixed.

Kevin is surprised that you’d even consider it possible. The idea of you actually killing someone seems to not align with his personal idea of the world and how it works. Gaby is quietly horrified, while Noriko just listens intently, offering no objections and no support, only a silent acknowledgement. Lucas, the newcomer, seems eager to shut down whoever put him in one of those metal boxes.

Layla doesn’t speak for a while. When she does, you can’t help but notice that she’s eying Laura a little suspiciously.

“Is this really what you’re gonna do?”

>[X] “At the very least…”

“At the very least, we have to make coming after us too costly for Creeper.”

You make sure to leave the whole ‘murder in cold blood’ thing up in the air, as an intangible, looming maybe. Creeper probably deserves to die, but wilfully killing a guy, no matter how shit-eating despicable, doesn’t sit well with you. Which you should probably be thankful for, really. You’ve known hobos that’d gladly stab a man to death over the most trivial of scraps. You’re still, in some small way, intact.

“I still think we should just fuck him up.” Says Lucas, his fists balled at his sides. “We’ve all got superpowers, right?”

“And half of us can barely use them.” Interjects Noriko. Funnily enough, her tone doesn’t suggest disagreement.

“Also, some of us don’t have any.” Layla adds, a little sheepishly.

You nod.

“They’re right. This is… complicated.” To say the least. “Creeper has resources. We can’t just roll up to him and punch him out. If we could, somebody would’ve done that years ago.”

“So, then…” Kevin tentatively edges his toes into the conversation, looking vaguely guilty already. “…how would we do this?”

>[X] HELP! I NEED SOMEBODY! HELP! NOT JUST ANYBODY…

“Well, for starters, we find help. We can’t do this on our own.”

“Who exactly would be willing to help you?” Asks Layla, an eyebrow raised. “Um, no offense.”

“None taken.” Yeah you’re a smelly hobo you know it.

But, oddly enough, you can think of a few possible helping hands. You know that Tombstone had a beef with the Creeper Clan back in the day, and he’s under the employ of one Silvio Manfredi… who you kinda technically work for, too. You’re quite certain that Silvermane and his boys would love a nice big power vacuum to take up residence in. Then there’s those guys from the thrift store, the Hellions or whatever. They seem like total tools, but tools are better than Creepers.

And, you guess, there’s Peter. He could maybe do something at the Bugle? Some newspaper thing?

“…I have a few ideas.” You state, holding on out on naming any names till you’re certain there’s some merit in them. “For now, though, I’m getting some sleep. We can get started in the morning.”

As much as you’d rather get started now, you’re tired and bruised and your mouth tastes like smoke. You need rest.

You curl up on one of the mattresses they dragged down into the station and try to get to sleep. Eventually, you feel cold hands surrounding you, and you know that it will be morning soon…

…They drag you, kicking and screaming, into the light. Except there’s very little light here.

You open your eyes, vision quickly adjusting to the dimness of the station. Fire’s out, just a pile of ashes and rags now, a black stain standing out against the half-dark of the air. The others are huddled nearby, vague shapes plastered against the gloom. Something moves in the corner of your eye, amidst the wreckage of the train, and your eyes pick up the neon blue of Noriko’s hair. You guess she’s up, for whatever reason.

You pull yourself up and check the time.

>Present Time: 9:34 AM >Current Funds: $165.05 >Hunger Level: 4

Well, no reason to rush, you guess. Not like you’re going to work today.

Though, you have other matters to attend to. There’s the Creeper matter, and then there’s that creepy grey kid who won’t talk, who should really be somewhere else. You’ve been meaning on getting Lucas’ take on what was really going on at the docks, too.

You shuffle around, generally getting your bearings and notice that there are two missed calls and a text on your phone. All from Peter. Huh.

>[X] Check your texts.

Well, well, well. Aren’t you suddenly popular.

You pull up the text.

“You alright you were at the ship last night right? At the Bugle right now, theres a story running, your description’s all over it. What happened?”

It’s dated to just over an hour and a half ago.

Shit. How they hell did anyone get a good look at you? You were invisible half the time, and Creeper’s secret slave boat wasn’t exactly open to the public.

>[X] Phone back. >[X] Get food.

Okay, okay, think. This isn’t too bad, is it? Last time this happened, the Bugle was far from unkind to you. And as long as the description they have of you is only general, then who cares? You’re Mr. Invisible.

Noting that there’s little left in the way of supplies, you head out into the scar, dialling Peter’s number. You shiver as the winter cold rises to meet you, and listen to the phone ring for a good thirty seconds before you hear Peter’s voice on the other end.

“Hey, uh, hey, John?” He’s practically whispering.

“Yeah, it’s me. Why’re you whispering?”

“I was kinda in class.” Whoops. “Don’t worry, I told my teacher it was a family emergency. Have you seen the Bugle yet?”

“No.”

“It was you, though, right? At the ship?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a short pause.

“Oh, uh… wow. You okay?”

“I’m fine. For now. Look, I need to know a few things about the story…”

>[X] Insert Questions.

Well, what do you want to know? You want to know just about everything, really.

“What does the story say? Is there a detailed description?”

“Right now, they story is that you”– You recognize the sound of air rushing by on the other end of the line, and Peter interrupts himself with a short grunt –“or, this guy that is you, busted some kind of trafficking deal. There’s no word on who was responsible, how the ship got totalled, all that stuff. I guess the description of you… well…”

You don’t like that pause.

“…It’s not great, but one of the witnesses – one of the, uh, captives – said you were flickering, like in and out of sight. So I guess it’d public knowledge that you can do the invisibility thing. Oh, and, um, the story notes that your description matches the one from Sacred Tree fire.”

He sounds a little out of breath. Is he running? What’re you doing over there, Peter?

“Are they calling me a supervillain yet?”

“What!? Heck no.” Another grunt and a heavy thud. “Jameson loves you. He’s got the whole story focused on how there’s some Good Samaritan mutant out there, running around without a mask, helping people. I can’t say the same about other papers, though…”

Huh. Okay then, that’s not all bad.

“Oh, something else. Right before I left, these people showed up looking for any information on you. I don’t think the Bugle had anything they didn’t put in print, but they had badges or something. Vanessa had to let them into see Jameson.”

That’s less promising.

>[X] Ask if he got a good look at then. >[X] Ask if the police have anyone in custody. >[X] Ask what’s happening with all the box mutants.

You contemplate the subject of badges as you trek by the remains of a burnt-out school. What could badges mean? Could be Mutant Control, but considering that Peter’s a mutie himself, you doubt he wouldn’t have recognized them. And said ‘people’, not ‘cops’, so we’re not talking Officers McAverage Police Guy here. Creeper’s boys, then? FBI? CIA? NSA? SHIELD?

God, there are way too many scary acronym people in the world.

“Did you get a look at them?”

“A bit, yeah. It was a guy and a girl. The guy was blonde, kinda thin, had glasses. The girl was pretty tall, tanned, and…” He pauses. “…kind of thick, I guess? She had muscles under her suit. Oh, yeah, they were in suits, both of them.”

…Do you know anyone like that?

“Anyone get caught? What’s going on with all the mutants?”

“Police won’t say.” Says Peter, a little bitterly. “I don’t think they know where even half the mutants are, though. Other papers are focusing on that, how it’s gonna increase crime and stuff. Apparently most of them weren’t from here. What’s going on, John? What is all this?”

>[X] Tell him you're in trouble with a bad guy. >[X] Write in.

Well, what did happen?

You grimace to yourself.

“I did the right thing at exactly the wrong time.” Again. You had your way out and you shat all over it. “Look… I don’t know everything, but I know I’m in trouble with a really, really awful guy.”

Peter attempts to chime in, but you cut him off.

“I have to go now, but I have an idea I’d like to fly by you. Alright?”

The line is quiet for a moment. Then: “…Yeah?”

“I want to talk to the Bugle. To the guy who was following up on Kingpin’s Jack connection. Somewhere safe, if possible.” You take a deep breath. “You can tell him it’s an exclusive interview with the guy from the ship, and from Sacred Tree. That I know for a fact that Kingpin has his cronies hustling Jack across the city, and that I worked for one of them for almost a year. Does that sound like something the Bugle would be interested in?”

“…Yes. It definitely does.”

“Good. Anyway, I’ve really gotta go… Oh, and watch out for those guys the Bugle. I think I know who they are, and one of them is extremely dangerous.”

You lick your lips. That was a lot to get out in the open.

“That’s fine, I’ll… call you, I guess.” He sounds a little stunned. Well, he should. “Oh, and, um, John?”

“Yeah?”

“It may not have been the right time, at least you did the right thing.”

“…Thanks.”

You hang up and head on out of the scar, onto one of the sidestreets nearby. A 7/11 catches your eye, and you make your way toward it, silently counting the number of mouths you have to feed.

You stop.

The Bugle job is shot. You’ve no idea if the Tabbycat thing will come through. And now this thing with Creeper. Can you afford to spend money? Would it be wrong to just go in and take what you need?

>[X] Don’t. >+1 Karma.

Well, you’ve still got some money. For now, you can afford to pay for your shit like a real person. If it doesn’t last, it doesn’t last, and you find new ways to keep the wheels turning. Until then, you’re JJ Green, upstanding citizens who is not that mutie from the exploding ship story, and is in no way associated with that mutie from the exploding ship story.

You head on in and load up on supplies, bagging a bunch of tinned foodstuffs and random snacks – anything you can boil or eat raw, basically. You check your items out, making sure your shades are secure and your face is never quite in full frontal profile, and get out of the store.

You check the time.

>Present Time: 10:12 AM >Current Funds: $144.05

The sky is grey and lifeless up above, clouds bunching like together, like huddled pilgrims grasping for warmth. Snow again. Soon.

Well, what to do?

>[X] Drop off food, have some eats.

You head home, trekking back over the grey desolation of the scar.

It takes you a little over half an hour to get back, and you descend into the (barely) subterranean depths of the station to find the gang scattered about the platform. Layla and Laura seem to be watching the little kid… who, as far as you can tell, doesn’t do much other than stare. Noriko sits by the remains of the fire, her fingers knotted through Lucas’, who looks wholly uncomfortable and a little sheepish.

You don’t see Kevin and Gaby anywhere, but you can smell them nearby.

You dump the supplies by stairs, where it’s a little cooler, and grab a packet of chicken. Seems about the right time for lunch.

>[X] Talk to Laura about possible handler stuff. >[X] Talk to Layla about the kid. >[X] Talk to Lucas about the events at the dock.

You put the stove on, and call Layla over to handle the matches. She appears to find it absolutely hilarious that you a tough ghost hunting mutant vagrant like yourself can’t get close enough to fire to strike a match, so scrabbles over pretty quick. As she’s setting the fire around the top of the stove, you clear your throat.

“So… has the kids said anything?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head sadly. “I dunno what’s up with him. He won’t say anything. I’m not sure if he can’t talk, or if he’s scared, or anything.” She furrows her brow and leans a little closer to you. “We are sure he’s a he, right? It’s kinda hard to tell…”

You shrug. You’re not finding out anytime soon.

“Just… just make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or something.” You conclude, not entirely sure of the protocol here. “I’ll figure something out.”

Maybe the Bugle can help. They have investigators and stuff, right? You’re leery of handing a mutant kid over to social services or the police – they don’t really have such a grand track record with this stuff.

You turn your attention to Lucas.

“Hey.” He ignores you. You raise your voice. “Hey!”

He blinks, and turns his head toward you. And, immediately, he hisses in pain and snaps his hand back.

“Ow, ow , ow…”

“Sorry.” Noriko grins a little. “Should’ve told me you were gonna switch off.”

“I didn’t mean to…” You guess he can absorb Noriko’s charge, then. That’s useful. He sucks on the tip of his finger momentarily, glancing over at you. “Uh, what’s up?”

“I was just wondering about the ship…” You begin, trailing off a little as his features harden. This kid is all armour. Reminds you a little of another brusque young teenager that shall remain unnamed. “What was going on there? What was Creeper doing?”

He looks down, a little apologetic.

“I don’t know, man. All I know is these guys grabbed me in the street, and then next thing I know, I’m in one of them boxes, all cramped in with all these other guys. Sometimes you could tell we were on a ship, other times it’d stop and we’d get some new arrivals.” His face contorts in disgust. “It must’ve been days, man. Some of us just up and died in there. I spent like nine hours hustled up against some guy’s corpse.”

Jesus…

“I’m sorry. That’s…”

“Don’t be.” He cuts you off. “If you hadn’t stopped by, I’d still be in there.”

You let that sink in.

…What the hell were you doing, Creeper?

Finally, there’s the bad news.

You glance over at Laura. As if sensing your gaze, she looks up from watching the kid. Her face is static, but you’ve gotten pretty good at disentangling some meaning from those big green eyes of hers. She’s waiting for you to tell her. She knows you have something. She can smell it, maybe.

“Hey…” You begin. This is kind of hard to explain. “Um… I think, maybe, one of your…”

You can’t say ‘handlers’. That’s what she calls them, but it doesn’t sound right. It’s creepy and weird.

“…Someone from your facility may have turned up at the Bugle.” It flickers through her eyes. You barely see it, but it’s there. Something like fear. “Probably looking for me.”

She’s quiet. You can hear heart beating oddly, though.

“Or maybe not, you know… it could have just been”–

“Was it Kimura?” She asks, quietly.

You pause, trying to skirt around the question. But, no, there’s no dodging aside or slithering around what you heard from Peter.

“…It sounded like her.”

She leans back a little, as if trying to distribute the weight of it evenly across her. Her eyes focus distinctly inward, at something only she can see, some memory or thought. You remember how quickly she lost her composure the last time Kimura turned up – till now, that had been a shadow at the back of your memory, hidden behind the taciturn, precise girl you’ve gotten to know over the past weeks. But yeah, there was that, wasn’t there?

Laura Kinney, human after all.

>[X] Insert Dialogue/Action.

“I’m sorry…”

You pause, watching her. There’s a lot of stuff in your head, and getting it all in line is a little tricky.

“All… I’ve they’ve got is that there’s an invisible guy in New York. They don’t even know what I look like.” You sidle a little closer. She’s staring at her hands now, but not really at her hands – her eyes are still drenched in memory. Her fingers are shaking. It’s almost nothing, nothing anyone else would notice, but you see it. You just about see it. “They’re probably checking every newspaper in New York, and none of them know anything much. They don’t know you’re still here, they’re just shooting in the dark. We just have to be careful.”

You feel like you’re adding plasters to a split stomach. They go on and the blood just soaks through them. The bucket tosses the water out, but the ocean’s still there.

“We’ll get through this.” You hold your breath. Your fingers edge their way over hers. She starts, as if suddenly returning to the living, and pulls away minutely, staring silently at you. “We will. Don’t worry.”

She’s still. She lets your hand envelope hers. Her fingers are small, you forget how small.

>D20 >+3 Relationship Modifier Rolled 18

>Success? >Failure? >??????

>THREAD 39: END

Thread #40

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Laura tears her eyes out of the past, slowly turning towards you. You can feel her heart pulsing in her hand, along her fingers, a steady shiver in the warmth of her skin. Her systems cool down, her beat realigns itself. Her eyes swim in uncertain places – she was afraid before, but you don’t recognize their glimmer now. She almost looks a little confused.

“Now kisssss.” Bleghcha. You cough up a small chunk of awkwardness and turn toward source of the interruption. Layla sits cross-legged nearby, her grin divided by a pair of comically puckered lips. “Mwah mwah mwah.”

Laura slowly retracts her hand, shooting the younger girl a thoroughly unimpressed stare. You sigh and tend to the meal, unable to hold in what you’re sure is an expression of ultimate exasperation.

“What?” You’re not sure if Layla is feigning being dumbfounded here or if it’s legit. Either way, you ignore it. “What?”

You stir away the rest of the morning making sure you have something edible to eat. Chicken and assorted bits again, but you don’t mind the repetition – your life has become pretty damn unexpected as of late, and something safe and boring is almost a relief. As you eat your portion, you consider the rest of the day.

>Present Time: 12:22 PM >Current Funds: $144.05 >Hunger Level: 2

>[X] Hellions.

Well, you guess the task at hand is finding ways to bust up Creeper’s business interests, and possibly his face. You’re sceptical of Silvermane (or anyone else that regulars at the Tabbycat), so that leaves those Hellion douchebags as your go-to busting-upping implements. They were shaking town a charity shop (a charity shop, seriously) when you ran into them, but they’re just kids, not the sleazy hardened criminals of Creeper and Silvermane’s brood. And they’re mutants.

And that guy, the big guy, he could probably flip a truck on its back.

Getting up, you tell the others you’ll be out for a bit, and head out into the scar. The cold bites, tiny flecks of newborn snow greeting your emergence from the dark, and you pull your coat tighter.

Now… where do you start?

>[X] Head back to that thrift store, the place you first met them.

Okay. You don’t know where they’re going, but you know where they’ve been. So maybe it’d be best to retrace both your steps and start searching back where you first crossed paths.

You head uptown, out of the scar, toward one of the main arteries that run through Queens. It’s kinda weird, retracing your steps – your nose has been getting better and better, and now everything you’ve seen glows with a different light. Everything’s brighter, more detailed, more strange. You slip through crowds and you catch tastes of their breakfasts, of their holiday flu, of their spouse’s sweat. People are like canned tuna here, all mushed up together, all trailing little bits of one another.

It takes you a little over and hour to find the spot you want. You turn up at the doorstep to the thrift store and pause momentarily, considering your approach. Last time you were here, trouble quickly followed in your footsteps. And depending on how attentive the volunteer at the counter was, the staff here may have you singled out as a filthy mutie.

>[X] Go in visibly, question the clerk.

You shuffle in, regarding the wares for a moment in a pointless attempt to act natural, and head towards the desk. It’s not the same guy (lucky) – it’s some girl this time, wearing fake glasses and dirty green shirt with something about the ‘Arctic 30’ on it. Some band, probably. She’s typing furiously at her fancy touchscreen phone.

You cough loudly. She glances up over the fake rims of her fake glasses and sets her phone down, stitching a smile on.

“Hi.” Her eyes dart down to your hands, and her brow furrows a little. Are your gloves on? Yep, yep, false alarm. “Can I help you?”

“Uh… yeah, you can.” You lick your lips and consider how to phrase this. “There’s these guys that come in here every so often, right? Call themselves the Hellions?”

Her expression falters and she steps back a little, her arms rising minutely.

“H-hey, look, I don’t want any trouble, just take whatever.”

Guh.

>[X] “I’m not one of them.” >[X] “I was just wondering if you know anything about them.” >[X] “When did they last turn up here?”

“I’m not one of them.”

You hold your tactically gloved hands aloft, demonstrating that you mean no harm. And, you guess, that you don’t have a gun or a knife or whatever. Of course, you have ten basically-knives worked into your skeleton, but she doesn’t know that, and you’re certainly not telling.

“See? Not gonna hurt you, or take anything.” Even if Laura kinda does need a new jacket after someone filled her current one with bullet holes. And Lucas could do with something heavier. And– “I just want to talk to you about them. When where they last here?”

She eyes you with no small amount of trepidation, her arms still raised defensively. You can almost see her thoughts raking backward, scrounging through her memories.

“Uh… I guess, like two days ago?” Not very precise info there. “I mean, I think…”

“You were here?”

“Y-yeah.”

Hmm. You consider trying to catch their scent, but you’re not sure you can brush through two days of interference.

“You hear them say anything?” Aside from ‘give us your money’, that is. “Anything at all that could tell me something about them?”

She glances toward the door anxiously, and then looks you over.

“You’re… you’re not a cop.” Damn these ratty hobo threads. Why’re you interested?”

>[x] “I just need to find them.” >[x] Write in. Persuasion Check. >DC12 >+1 Modifier Rolled 20 + 1

>21 >GREAT SUCCESS! >FAMIRY PROUD!

“I’m the Punisher.” You just couldn’t help it, man. “I’m shorter in person.”

Little clouds of confusion grow in her eyes. Out of all the things she was expecting from his conversation, you’d bet that dark humour was not at the top of the list.

“Seriously though, I’m looking for my cousin.” You pull the lie out of deep memory, like an anchor from the depths. You’re actually a little surprised at yourself. Guess you did learn a useful thing or two from Creeper. You remember him telling someone that, years ago. “They’ve kind of fallen in with the wrong crowd.”

Ahh, the ambiguous, mercurial shadow of the ‘wrong crowd’. So good for excuses and scapegoats. Though, not so ambiguous here, you guess. Kind of specific actually.

“Oh, uh, yeah okay…” She bites her lip and thinks back. “Well, there were three of them. This blonde girl, and the big guy, and then this black dude…” You think you recognize the first two. The last one, though, is a Hellion you’ve apparently yet to meet. “…Oh! They said something about meeting at the Groves.”

“Excuse me?”

“Uh, the Groves.” She pauses. You stare, nonplussed. “It’s… it’s a bunch of apartment blocks. Oak Grove, Ash Grove… the Groves. There’s like five of them. They’re just, like, a little East of here.”

That’s interesting.

>[X] Say thanks, leave. >[X] Pick up some stuff while you’re here. >[X] Ask if she saw any of their powers. >[X] Ask if she caught any of their names.

“Catch any of their names?” Pays to be prepared. “What about powers?”

The clerk nods vigorously.

“Yeah, there were, like, mutant powers. The huge guy, he was so huge it was almost a joke, like he was ten Arnies.” She waves her hands in a broad, circulator motion and puffs out her cheeks, this apparently being the only way to full describe how huge this huge guy was. Of course, you know that, you’ve met him. “Like a tank, man. And then black guy, he, like, touched me and made everyone run away.”

“What?”

“It was like, I dunno, he made everyone in the store run away from me. Cleared the place out.”

Huh. That’s a super weird one.

You thank her, and, a little sheepishly, pick out a bunch of items for Lucas – a nice warm hoodie – and Laura – this old, thick white jacket with a scorpion on the back. It’s faded to shit and looks like someone had to remove a whole load of stains from it, but it’s cheap as hell. The clerk checks them out with an expression of dazed apathy on her face, as if you’ve officially filled her daily weird quota.

You bag your stuff and head out onto the street. What now?

>Current Funds: $136.07

>[X] Drop stuff off at home. >[X] Find the Groves. >[X ] Laura.

You head home, dodging the midday crowds that litter the high street and weaving your way back towards the scar. You make it back soon enough, checking the time as you descend the dilapidated steps down to the station.

>14:12 PM

You titter a little. Where’d the day go?

You present Lucas and Laura with their stuff. The former is almost a little too enthusiastically grateful – you suspect that several days in a box, only to emerge into the winter chill with merely a vest and some trousers for protection, have coloured his responses somewhat – while Laura sniffs a little trepidatiously at the jacket, before noting that a great deal of blood has been washed out of it. Apparently that’s fine with her, though, and after explaining to Layla that you have nothing for her and she should never expect anything, ever, you’re ready to set out once more.

As you make your way out, you ask if maybe Laura wants to come. You figure she could do with some time away from the depressing depths under the scar, and maybe also would be a real help if things go sour. She considers it for a moment, before rising wordlessly and following after you.

>Navigation Check >DC13 Rolled 19

>19 >Bueno Excellente

You retrace your steps again, remembering that the clerk said these ‘Grove’ places were a little east of the store. It doesn’t take you long to find your bearings, the streets slowly becoming more and more familiar, and you soon find yourself heading away from the high street, out toward a residential sweep of Queens.

Soon enough you find yourself standing before a faded sign proclaiming “WEL OME O SIX GROV S”.

Like many of the places in Queens that you’ve gotten to know, it’s a fucking horrible, grey, depressing hellscape. Six rows of huge, ugly apartment blocks stand like a phalanx against the sky, broad, long untended yards spaced evenly between them. At one point the place must’ve pretty green, but ‘one point’ is not today. A small playground stands nearby, but nobody’s playing.

“Lovely.”

Now that you think about it, there are six of these bigass ugly buildings, and you’re looking for some very specific people. Where do you start?

Sensory Check. >DC17 >+3 Modifier Rolled 20

>23 >WHEN YOU SMELL LONG INTO AN ABYSS THE ABYSS SMELLS ALSO INTO YOU

As the two of you pass by one of the smaller signs indicating that the closest bock is ‘Elm Grove’, you spy a group of teenagers huddling in the shadow of the building, nearby one of the entrances. You could drop by for a few questions, but you’re not sure you trust a bunch of random strangers. What do you trust, then?

You trust your nose.

You breath in, closing your eyes. Six Groves rushes through you, a moving stream of information and sensory fire, breathing as deeply of you as you of it. Dead leaves, old rain, smoke, blood, tires, rusted metal, clogged pipes, strangers, dangers, bird shit, Magpie nearby, tobaccomarijuanaheroinphencyclidine, then something, something out of place, familiar, weird.

You open your eyes. It’s faint, but there’s a hint of something that doesn’t belong. The whole place is made of up of a certain type of stone, but there’s a particulate trail of something else, something from outside, wilder, loamy, fresh. You remember the huge guy, you remember this on him, on his sweater.

“This way.” You state, almost automatically, your nose driving your legs onward. Laura glances curiously at you for a moment, before following after you. She was right, there was blood on that jacket. Looks good on her, though.

You make your way past Elm Grove and Oak Grove and Pine Grove, the scent leading you to one of the entrances set into the side of a block marked Ash Grove. Door’s locked, there’s a buzzer.

>[x] Try smelling for the right buzzer. Sensory Check Again. >Lowered DC for previous Crit. >DC15 >+3 Modifier Rolled 18 + 3

>21 >Suspicious, this is getting suspicious

Nose, I choose you! Again!

Checking over your shoulder for observers (don’t want to come off as some kind of crazy creep), you lean in to the buzzer, sniffing experimentally. The nasal prints of a good hundred different fingers crawl their way up into your nose, staggering you back a little. You hook out the one you need, though, the one clogged with that alien rock, and grin triumphantly. You have the best nose, yes you do.

You push the button, eliciting a low, electric whine from the machine. You wait.

You wait for a minute. Slightly deflated, you try buzzing again, a little more urgently. While you wait, Laura clears her throat.

“John…?”

“Mhmm?” Maybe you need to press harder. Or in groups of three. Or maybe no one’s in and this is pointle–

“Why are we here?”

You turn to her, all triumph vanishing from your face. You replay the last few hours, and proceed to smack yourself upside the head. You didn’t tell her. You must’ve gotten so wrapped up in all this that you just forgot. You apologize profusely and give her the CliffNotes on today’s objective, explaining that you ran into these Hellion guys a while back and you think they could be a good weapon against Creeper.

She almost smiles, you think, and says it’s alright.

And, just like that, the door clicks open. Apparently someone is in after all.

>[X] Fuck caution.

You proceed into the building, heading up the long set of stairs nearby the door. There’s an elevator, but judging by the half-open door, busted-up buttons, and numerous helpful scribbles of graffiti, it hasn’t been in working order or a while. The number on the buzzer was twenty-three, so you’re guessing second or third floor.

The place is a mess. Paint’s peeling so profusely, you think you can see about two decades of history fluxing and flowing across the walls. You can smell old, rancid water emanating from somewhere, and occasionally the pipes whine awkwardly behind the walls. As you emerge onto the second floor, your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out. You’ve got a text from Peter.

“Phoned the Bugle they say yes ben wants to get it done soon as possible, he can do tonight 7 onwards”

You guess ‘Ben’ is the guy from the Jack story. Huh. Cool.

You follow the long, dingy corridor until you come to door 23. It’s shut tight.

>[X] Knock. >[X] 9:30 (compromise)

You quickly text back that nine-thirty would be good. You’ve got a busy schedule ahead of you, after all, so later might be better. There’s teenage delinquents to seduce to the JJ side, possible theft of drug money from petty dealers, and the very real possibility of being cornered in an alley and stabbed full of holes on your table.

You’re a busy lizard mutant person.

Squirreling away your phone, you knock loudly at the door. Laura takes a very deliberate step back, balling her fists. You’re about to ask her what that was about when a hoarse, female voice answers, stuttering and slurring in the process of forming words but generally getting the message across.

“H-hey whoisit?”

>[X] ALL HOPE LIES IN DOOM.

You put on your big voice.

“DOCTOR DOOM approaches.”

There is a pregnant silence. You feel Laura’s eyes bore into your back and grin a little lamely. Someone fumbles with the chain on the other side, and the door swings open.

The smell of marijuana and alcohol almost overwhelms you, the air thickening noticeably. You squint automatically, your eyes watering, and through the squint you see a shapely assortment of curves and messy blonde hair arrange themselves into a short young girl. Her hair’s all over the place and her lipstick is smeared, but it’s clearly that Tabitha girl from the thrift store, eyes about 70% more bloodshot and body about 80% more naked. Aside from a pair of dark panties, a bra, and some kind of jacket, she’s pretty much nude. One of the fattest spliffs (seriously, we’re talking table leg league here) you’ve ever seen wobbles from her lips, and a bottle of Budweiser hangs loosely in her grasp. She stares at you with vacant, uncomprehending eyes.

“Yurr not doctor doOM.” Dear Lord, she’s so high she can’t even capitalize DOOM properly. “You’reee…”

She squints, and some form of recognition passes through her eyes, shock forming on her face. She tips toward you and raises her hand and… and… she tips away… and back again…

And then she vomits on your boots.

>[ ] Insert Action.

Okay.

Um.

“Hey, uh, I’m looking for…” You catch her as she stumbles forward, very much cutting you off. “I’m…” Softness up against your chest. Perfume. Sweat. Blood, pumping. She somehow manages to stumble again, despite you keeping her on her feet. You glance over at Laura, whose face is a blank void of ideas.

You guess this wasn’t covered in tactical espionage school.

“Yurr big.” You’ve always thought of yourself as kind of malnourished and weedy, actually, but hey, gotta take them compliments where you can get ‘em.

“Okay, let’s go inside…”

You help her back into the apartment. It’s actually less of a mess than you expected. The living room smells of all manner of recreational drugs, and there’s a few forlorn pizza boxes hanging around, but somebody seems to be pretty meticulous about dust and stains, at least. You half-carry-half-lead Tabitha over to the sofa at the back of the room and set her down.

She burps and takes a swig from the bottle in her hand. Ye Christ.

“Anyone else in?” You ask Laura, who sniffs the air and shakes her head. Guh.

“Okay, so, um…” You kneel down in front of Tabitha. She promptly breaths a puff of smoke right in your face. Charming. “…Hey, I was kind of here to talk to Jules? You remember me, right?”

She stares for a moment, and slowly nods.

“Julianssssssss… not herenow.” She glances at a few random corners of the room. Okay. “We got a big TV.”

You glance over your shoulder at the flatscreen mounted against one wall. Yes… you can see that they have a large TV.

>[X] Ask her to take a message. >[X] Leave a written message.

“Right, so…” What should you be telling the burnt out half-naked chick? What will stick? “…Can you leave a message for Julian? Or whoever else lives here?”

She nods dumbly, staring through you. Hmm.

“Okay… I’m the guy from the thrift store, and I have useful information...” You make sure to stress every other word. “…On Creeper. You know, the guy that runs this neighbourhood?”

She nods. “You reckon that, that, that scenentists have bigdicks?”

“…Sure. Now, I can meet Julian, or whoever, tomorrow, at 1PM. Okay.”

Another slow, uncomprehending nod. Fuck it.

You get up and fish around for a piece of paper. You find some magazine on games or whatever and embark on a short quest for a writing implement, which you find in the form of a big, red marker. Perfect. You write a short message down for… whoever… and place it back down on the table at the centre of the room.

You stand up, glance at Laura, shrug, and bid the drunk/stoned lady good evening. She remarks that she’d like to feel a scenentist’s (scientist, probably) dick, and you take that as her wishing you a good evening too.

“Impressive.” Notes Laura, as you roll out.

Why, you do believe she’s utilizing humour.

>THREAD 40: END

Thread #41

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You just got a little bit vomited on by a drunk-stoned-naked chick. You’re standing in a peeling, dilapidated corridor in a horrible shit-end apartment block called Ash Grove, and there’s a teenage clone assassin girl standing next to you. At 9:30 tonight, or around then, you intend on snitching copiously to the Daily Bugle on the subject of a very horrible drug lord and his horrible drugs.

Your weird life is accelerating at an uncomfortably rapid pace.

You check your phone for the time, and notice that Peter as okayed the 9:30 meeting. He’s also supplied an address – somewhere in Queens, not all too far from the Bugle. Hopefully pretty far from Creeper’s headquarters, wherever that is.

“…Are you certain that this will be helpful?” Asks Laura, as you head down the stairs. You blink, and realize she’s talking about the Hellions (one of whom being the aforementioned drunk-stoned-naked lady).

“Well, one of them is a giant, so maybe.” You quite abruptly realize that you don’t actually know what any of them can do, mutation wise, aside from one. Huh, maybe this wasn’t such a grand idea. For all you know they have the power to shoot spaghetti and butterflies.

>Present Time: 16:12 PM >Current Funds: $136.07 >Hunger Level: 3

>[X] Head home, chill till it’s time to leave. >[X] Shopping.

Glad to be getting the hell out of Ash Grove, Pine Grove, Elm Grove, and the Groves in general, you strike back out into the city. Honestly, if it weren’t for real heating and stuff, you think the scar might actually be preferable to this place. It’s snowing a little heavier now, the soft white encroaching on the omnipresent grime of the surrounding tenements. Laura shivers a little beside you, her breath bulging through the cold.

You take a slight detour on your way back, crossing out into the nearby high street to pick up a few items. You round up some blankets, Lucas and Greychild being sorely lacking of them, and after running the idea by Laura you procure a few canisters of febreze. Apparently, air fresheners aren’t a perfect solution to enhanced olfactory tracking, but they can be confusing. A pair of cheap flashlights join them, and soon after, you decide to splurge on a ratty old backpack from your new favourite thrift store.

By the end, your pockets are considerably thinner, but you needed most of this stuff.

The two of you head back into the scar, down into the abandoned station that serves as your home. You find Gaby looking after the kid this time, while Kevin appears to be practicing his deathtouch on some plywood. Refreshingly, Noriko seems to have joined him, and is releasing periodic bursts of bright blue voltage into a thoroughly burnt plank. Layla’s watching her intently, but glances up as the two of you descend, smirking wryly.

“How did it go, then?”

You couldn’t pack any more insinuation into her tone if you tried. >Current Funds: $112.3

>[X] “It went not at all..” >[X] “We met one of them.”

“It went not at all.” You answer. “That thing you’re thinking did not happen.”

She does that thing, that motor lips sound, halfway between disbelief and bemusement.

“Why not?” She grins like a hyena. You know, in a few years, Layla could very well be a carbon copy of the young woman you were just vomited upon by. You could definitely see that. “You’re both boring and preachy, you can be boring and preachmfffph”–

She’s cut off by Noriko’s hand on her mouth. “Shhh.”

You glance at Laura, you stares back impassively.

“…I don’t think Laura’s preachy.” You can’t really bring yourself to say the same for you, but… eh. “Anyway, we met one of them. They were kinda baked out of their head, but I left a message. So… maybe it won’t be a waste of time.”

Maybe.

You drop your loot and sit down near the stairs.

>[X] Tell everyone where you’re going at 9. >[X] Ask if anyone wants to come along.

You take a glance at the time.

>17:48 PM

Right. Not exceptionally long now.

“So…” Time to break the news, you guess. “Tonight I’m gonna meet this guy from the Bugle and basically spill everything I have on Creeper.”

Heads turn.

“Seriously?” Asks Lucas, shuffling a little closer. You nod.

“Damn. That’s kinda ballsy.” Is Noriko’s input, to which Kevin adds his concurrence.

“Would that be… safe?” Asks Gaby, her tail twitching nervously. “This crime man is very bad, no?”

“Well…” You shrug. How much worse can it get. “Creeper already knows who I am. He already wants me. At this point, I cannot possibly be more of a target for him. Just more of a threat. This could really hurt him, maybe give us some room to breathe while he’s on damage control.”

Laura nods in silent approval.

“So, uh, Lucas.” You continue, realizing that you’re not all too comfortable with that name yet. “You want to add tell your story? Could help.”

“Hell yes.” His fists bunch. “There’s some scores to be settled between me an’ that asswipe.”

You smile. That makes two of you.

>[X] Talk to Laura.

You ease yourself back, but you find thoughts nagging at the dark space in the back of your brain. There’s more, isn’t there? More to do, more to think, more. And the clock, whirring, turning, shifting onwards…

“Laura.” You turn to her. She’s just sat down into the lotus position, her eyes snapping open. “I was thinking contingencies. You know, in case we get mobbed on the way there…”

“I have also.” She curtly informs you. “It would be best to reach high ground as quickly as possible, utilizing your strength and adhesive abilities. From there we split up and return to this point once we are certain that all pursuers have been lost.”

O-kay.

“That… that sounds good.”

>[X] Suggestions/Questions. >[X] Talk to Gaby.

“…What, um… what if one of us gets caught?” You ask, a little wary of that subject.

“If we cannot return within six hours, it should be assumed that one or both of us have been caught.” She pauses, and looks straight at you. “Or killed. In which case, the remaining group should move once again, and determine whether the missing one of us is dead or alive. If you are captured, there are protocols for surviving captivity and resisting torture. I can brief you on them during the journey.”

Well, that’s sure to be an enlightening conversation. “Thanks.”

Leaving her to her centering, or meditation, or whatever exactly it is she does, you get up and head over to Gaby and the kid. She smells you coming a turns to you, at which point you immediately as if the child has said anything. She shakes her dead. Damn.

You sit down beside her, crossing your legs.

“Hey.”

She glances to and fro, as if expecting to be surrounded, or judged somehow. “…Yes? Hello?”

>[X] See how she feels about all this. >[X] Ask her how she’s finding the subway life.

You unpack one of the blankets, folding it over the kid. He glances at you with those big, watery eyes, and grips it tighter, but that’s all he offers in response. It’s like he’s not even fully awake, or he’s not seeing you properly, or something.

“So. How is the subway life?”

Gaby smiles, though you can still feel some anxiousness bunching in her, like she constantly expects something awful to happen.

“It… it is better than being alone.” She swipes a lock of her away nervously. “Everyone is kind, if, um…” She trails off.

“So, this is all alright with you?” You follow up, feeling vaguely as though you’re testing alien waters. “This Creeper stuff? I mean, I could have to kill someone, and they might try to do the same to any of us. They don’t know about you, so you could still get out.”

Her nose twitches and she seems to cringe inward slightly.

“…I-I know that you’re just defending yourself. And where would I go?” Her jaw tugs upward a bit, and you realize it’s a smile. “Besides, I have the best power for getting out in the nick of time, right?”

“Hah.” You can’t help but smile back. “I guess so.”

“It’s good that I ran into you. You can’t be a bad person.”

There it is again. She’s look at you, but not at you. She’s staring through you, through your blood, your genetics, at someone else entirely.

>[X] “You know… I don’t really remember my dad the way you do.”

“You know… I don’t really remember my dad the way you do.”

Understatement.

She shifts on her thighs, leaning in curiously.

“What… what do you mean?”

“Well, he was…” You scratch the back of your neck, your eyes angling upward as you search through a parade of half-glimpsed shadows. You remember that fuzzy image of a man, that smell of coffee, the giant over the desk. You remember him buying you your copy of Marvels, and walking with you beside the lake, and reading… reading something… to you before you went to bed… So he was there, kind of. He just wasn’t there enough. And then, he vanished.

“…He could be a very distant man sometimes. He was obsessed with his work.” You swallow and avoid her eyes. “He’d stay in his study for days. I mean, he wasn’t… he wasn’t a bad guy…”

Oddly enough, if someone called your dad a bad guy, you’d probably still be angry. Weird.

“…He just seemed to fade in and out, you know? And then he faded away forever.”

She looks down for a moment, as her eyes searing with memory. Eventually, she speaks.

“I remember that he was kind.” You guess he was kind. Like, he wasn’t unkind. “He had a photo of you, you and your sister.”

What?

“He said you were the most important things in the world to him, and that he wished he could spend more time with you.” Buzz. The image bursts and seethes in its boundaries, like static, like fire. You feel yourself unwinding, just a little. “When he left, he said it was because he had to see you, that he… he thought he was bad for you, or something, but he was wrong. I always thought went back to his family.”

>Willpower Check >DC18 Rolled 19

>19 >where is the crack bitch? >where have you gone classic JJ?

The image in your brain explodes in a fury, searing through your mind. You swallow and clench your fists. You feel all your strength bunching in your arms, like dynamite waiting to go off, like fire waiting to break loose.

You hold it in. You imagine him saying those words, words like that. They don’t fit in his mouth. Do they? The walk along the beach and the lines at the bookstore resurface, and the stories to… the Silmarils, brightest lights in the world, Cuchulainn and his rage – your mother told you that one, too – and the One Thousand and One Nights.

You might tightens. Your muscles tighten. You feel like you’re prying at a wound.

“Can… can we talk about this later?”

Gaby sits up straight, looking a little surprised.

“Oh…, um, yes. Sure.”

“C-cool...”

You get up and stare down at your hands. Your nails have left deep, bloody bites in your palms. You quickly stuff them in your pockets.

>[ ] ANYTHING you want sorted out before GO TIME?

You sit back and rest up till it’s time to go. You’d try to be a bit more sociable, but you’re not feeling all too sociable. You feel like you might burn straight out of your skin, or maybe implode inwards to the crawlspace of the soul, where you can diminish away into nothingness, just twinkle away, vanish. Just like your father vanished, like ‘Doctor Green’, like Joshua.

You cool down quite a bit while you wait. Eventually, you check the time as 8:40, and you realize that if this place is near the Bugle, getting there might take some a while. You leave Noriko in charge, which Layla accepts as the ‘second best choice, but not the best’, and head out with Lucas & Laura.

As you march across the cold vista of the scar, Lucas remarks that he can’t believe you see this every day. You tell him you get used to it, and ask him where he’s from. He tells you he was snatched in Chicago – this is his first visit to New York.

What a way to hit the Big Apple.

You follow the main road nearby, using the Bugle as your point of reference. Eventually you come to a sweep of notably more modern apartments, just a half-our-ish walk beyond the Bugle. You make your way to the door and glance at your phone, making sure you have the right address.

Door 13. Okay.

>Present Time: 21:28 PM

>[X] Ring the doorbell. >[X] Check the area for anyone suspicious. >[X] Leave someone outside to keep watch.

You glance warily across the road, and then to your left and right. There’s a gaggle of kids crossing the street on the other side, but you wouldn’t really peg them as Creeper’s type OR the ideal agents for Laura’s fucked up facility. Speaking of…

“You mind looking out?” You ask Laura. “You’ve got the best nose here.”

She nods silently.

Pausing just for a moment, you ring the doorbell, imaging for one dreadful moment that Kimura will open the door. In a way, it becomes a little, private fantasy – your rage burns to the surface, tearing through you, usurping your skin and flaring out, and you punch her so hard her brain shoots out her ears like steam. No Kimura answers, though – the door just clicks open automatically, ushering you through into a small lobby with a set of stairs at the end.

You head up to the second floor and make your way to door thirteen. Luckily, it’s not hard to find, as there’s a man in his early thirties craning his neck out into the corridor, his chin shaded by a thick beard and long hair swept back. It is so hard to refrain from congratulating him on pulling off a near-mullet in this day & age.

He catches sight of you and frowns.

“You’re the guy?”

You nod. He glances behind you, at Lucas.

“Who’s the kid?”

“He was on the ship.”

His eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise and he motions for you to come in.

You find yourself in a pretty nice studio apartment. Everything’s impeccably neat – the bookshelf sitting against the wall, the sofa, the carpeted floor… until you catch sight of the desk cramped into one corner, which a paperswept mess.

“Make yourself at home.” States your host, rushing past you into one of the other rooms. “Peter couldn’t make it, by the way. Said he had some emergency with his girlfriend or something. I swear, that kid…”

>[X] “I’m sure it’s something important.”

“…I’m sure it’s something important.” You offer, still standing by the door. You cannot fully describe how out of place you feel here. If you sit on that sofa it might catch something from you. “I mean, he doesn’t seem like the kind of kid to just ditch for no reason.”

You hear the guy laugh in the other room. He returns holding a set of recording devices, grinning very slightly.

“Oh, it’s always important. Peter Parker…” He pauses, fiddling with some switch or button or something. “…is a great kid. Could be a really great journalist one day. But he can be a bit of a flake.”

He sets the stuff down on a table beside the sofa and returns to you, holding out his hand. You shake it, doing your best to hide your surprise.

“Well, I’m Ben Urich. I’m the guy who keeps failing to get the Kingpin dropped into jail.” He pauses to shake Lucas’ hand. “I won’t as your names, but I will ask you a few things about the events of last night. I gotta make sure you are who you say you are, you understand?”

You nod. Makes sense.

He sits down on a chair on the other side of the table, motioning for you to take the sofa. You sit down carefully. As you get comfortable, or as close to comfortable as possible, he shoots you a hard look over the top of his glasses.

“The police caught sight of a noted felon, an African-American man in his early thirties, at the scene of the debacle. He’s a killer with an extensive military history and a noted reputation in criminal circles, and it’s believed that he was orchestrating the night’s events. What’s his moniker?”

Easy. “Barracuda.”

Urich smirks.

“Good. Well… before we begin, is there anything you’re not comfortable with discussing? Anything at all?”

>[ ] Anything, guys? You think carefully.

“My powers.” That’s the first thing that springs to mind. “Just can’t release that information. It puts me at a… pretty distinct disadvantage.”

“Okay.” He responds. “Witnesses stated that you could turn invisible, or partially invisible. Would you mind proving that? It’d further assure me that you’re the real deal, and I can promise that no confirmation on the subject would leave this room.”

You glance at Lucas, who looks back at you with “what’s the harm?” pretty much written all over his face. You briefly shimmer out of visibility, just for a moment. Urich leans back a little, his brow rising.

“…Cool.” He clears his throat. “Anything else?”

“Anything before I became homeless. I can tell you how it happened if you really want, I can tell you how I met Creeper, but nothing from before. Nothing.”

“Sure.” He nods, and turns to Lucas. “What about you?”

“Uh… just, the same, I guess.” You get a very distinct impression that feels very nearly as out of place as you do. “Nothin’ about my powers.”

“Right. Well then…” He reaches out and presses something on one of the devices between you. It murmurs to life in fits of static. “Could you begin with how you came to work for this Creeper person?”

>[X] Tell everything.

You spill it all. You tell him about the alley, about the beating, the dreaded threat of fire. You tell him how Creeper saved you, how you did pretty much whatever the hell he asked of you after that. How you beat people into bruised mounds, how you stole, how you ran drugs in a school uniform…

He listens intently, occasionally jotting something down in the little notebook resting over his legs. Nothing big, just one or two words. Eventually, he speaks up once more.

“You said that this Creeper is a mutant? Can you tell us what his abilities are?”

Hmmm…

“Well… I don’t exactly understand it all too well, but he can kinda become unnoticed.”

“He can turn invisible?”

“No. It’s more like the part of your brain that notices him just shuts down around him. He doesn’t disappear, he just… isn’t noticed if he doesn’t want to be. He can be talking right next to you and you want know he’s there till he wants you to.”

“That’s… rather terrifying.”

You certainly agree.

“On the subject of mutants…” He takes a deep breath. “You’ve told me that several mutants aside from you worked for this man. Do believe it’s common for mutants to resort to crime? And why do you think that is, if so? Why do people work for this guy?”

>[ ] Why, guys?

“Well, we can’t really get a job anywhere legally.”

You notice one of Ben’s eyebrows rising.

“I mean, sure, you can register, but even then most companies are gonna steer the fuck away from anyone with an X-gene. And if you’re homeless, like most of us end up when our parents kick us out, or some fuckwit burns down our house, or whatever… well, what else can we do?” You swallow, and lean back. “If you can’t afford basic living, you can’t afford to get registered. Everyone’s out to get you and you have nothing. You need something, you need to survive. Honestly, Creeper? At first, he just made me feel safe, you know? I mean… I didn’t know what kind of guy he was then, or… or…” You cast back your mind. The image surfaces, half-formed, almost like dad in that way. Always missing a piece, always fuzzy. “…what he was becoming, but being part of his gang made me feel safe. And I hadn’t been safe for a whole year.”

You dab nervously at the tiny wounds on the inside of your palms, making sure that they stay hidden.

“I mean, this is it for us. We don’t have anything else. We either take what we can or somebody kills us. Or we starve. Or… whatever.”

Urich nods along, eventually breaking his silence.

“You’ve described your past in this man’s organization, and how you came to be there. How would you describe your current situation?”

>[X] Just tell him that Creeper is trying to rope you back in. >[X] Tell him about Noriko & Kevin (not by name, obviously).

You tell him about Kevin and Noriko, about how you blundered into their story, and how Creeper latched on to that. How he used that to goad you into stealing for him again, and how he wanted you to play guard duty on that ill-fated ship of his. You tell him you just couldn’t deal with what he was doing at the docks, that it was just way too far, and you basically burned your bridges in the most spectacular manner possible, freeing as many of Creeper’s captives as you could and escaping into the night.

“Quite a story.” He remarks. After this he uses the subject of the ship to ask Lucas a few questions, mostly about the conditions he experienced, how he was taken, what he thought was going on… Eventually, he turns back you.

“You’ve mentioned that Jack is by far the most profitable, and nearly the sole, drug Creeper produces and distributes. You’ve even documented your own encounters with addicts, and how destructive the effects of the drug can be to their lives. Why would you say has this particular mixture proven so profitable to Creeper?”

>[ ] Insert.

“It helps people get away.” You state. “From their powers, as much as reality. Look…”

You lean forward, looking him in the eye.

“There are a lot of mutants. Probably more than people think. We’re not some isolated incident, we’re a demonstrable chunk of the population. We’re not something that is going away. Jack provides all those people with control, or at least the illusion of it. When you get your powers, you don’t know what’s going on and you’ve got no idea what you’re doing, and you’re… you’re constantly afraid that you’ll do something wrong, and people will find out. You feel like you’re not in control of a part of yourself. Jack provides a solution for that.”

“But it’s been demonstrated that Jack can occasionally cause mutant abilities to, for lack of a better term go ‘haywire’…?”

You shrug.

“People don’t care. Your average druggie is willing to risk an overdose for his high. Your average Jack user needs it – they don’t want it, they need it, or they think they do – to keep themselves hidden, because they know what happens when they get shoved outta the closet. They’ll risk a meltdown for that.”

“Interesting.” Very deliberately, he turns a page in his notebook. “Would you mind talking about the Sacred Tree incident? What happened there?”

>[X] Don’t mention the demon as a demon. >[X] Don’t mention Layla.

You have to spin this one a little. You make sure to assure him that it had pretty much zilch to do with Creeper or Jack or mutants in general. You tell him that you bumped in one of the kids from Sacred Tree trying to run away, and that HE told you something at the orphanage was hurting the children there. As you’re used to being ignored and disregarded, something in that resonated with you, and you decided to check it out.

“So, what was hurting the kids? There was something, right?”

“Yeah…” Hard subject. Demon. Demon-you, at one point. Demon kid. Demon demon demon. “…It claimed to be a lot of things. Personally, I have no fucking idea what it was. I’m certain it wasn’t human, though. Maybe, like, an alien or something. A psychic alien? It claimed to be a demon.”

“A demon. As in, an actual”–

“That’s what it said. I have no clue what it was, but everyone who was there has told you that there was something other than me, right?”

He nods.

“Well, it claimed to be a shit ton of things, some of them totally nonsense. I can’t tell you what it really was. I just don’t know.”

“Okay…” He sets his notebook aside. “Just one last question.”

Oh, the anticipation.

“Who’s your favourite superhero?”

>[ ] Who is it, guys?

“My sister.”

He gives you a long, somewhat bemused look.

“Your sister is a superhero?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“She’s a mutant, too?”

“Yep.”

“And she’s saved people’s lives, using superpowers?”

“As far as I know, just the one. But yes.”

He leans back, his eyes considering you, working their way up and down you.

“Well, alright then.” He stands up, reaching for a scarf folded up at the end of the table. “I’m going to have to get this over to the Bugle pretty damn quick. Thank you for your time, it’s been a pleasure.”

You smile, and shake his hand again.

“Yeah, it’s been alright.”

>[ ] Anything you want to add before you leave?

>[X] Warn.

As you head down the stairs with him, a thought strikes you, and you quickly be sure to ask if he saw the two fellows that came calling at the Bugle for any information pertaining to you. He nods, and asks why it matters.

“Stay away from them.” You state, sparing him any details concerning Laura. “They’re trouble.

“What exactly to you mean by tha”–

“They’re more trouble than you can handle. Stay away, and don’t give them anything.”

He stares a little as you head out into the cold, eventually nodding.

“Yeah… sure.”

You nod back to him, loop around the block for Laura, and head home.

In the ether of the world above, in the fire of your mind, you feel the bullet sliding into the chamber. The silver bullet, the Freeshooter bullet. You hear the click of the mechanisms and the gigantic turning of the wheel, edging the round into place. Your silver bullet shoots out into the streets, toward the Bugle.

Shots officially fired. No turning back now.

>THREAD 41: END

Thread #42

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You awaken to… nothing, much. Soon enough the nothing gains definition and texture, weaving away into the tiled ceiling of the subway platform currently serving as your home-away-from-home (away from home, which burned down a long time ago).

You grunt slightly and shift uncomfortably. As the distribution of mattresses is rather meagre, you elected to be without tonight, and now you’re paying for it. You blink away a wad of sleep and peer through the half-dark of the station. Your eyes eventually come to rest on Gaby’s small, huddled silhouette, and you are drawn back into the conversation you two had yesterday afternoon, just before you left to rat your face off to the Bugle about all of Creeper’s ridiculous bullshit. The fuzzy, creaking image of your father emerges from the gloom, half-realized and quaking with fits of anti-recollection, and, like a puzzle, you try to fit him together with the weird, unrecognizable shards of him that seem to exist in Gaby’s memory.

The shadow seethes and falls into dusty tatters, reclining away from reality, back into memory, back into total dark. You can’t do it.

Yawning, you check the time. 9:51, AM. You guess that without the monotonous spectre of work hanging over you, you don’t have much reason not to oversleep.

You’re meeting the Hellions at 1. Three hours, geagh.

>Present Time: 9:49 AM >Current Funds: $112.3 >Hunger Level: 5

>[X] Get up, cook some food. >[X] See if anyone’s awake.

You dredge yourself up, rolling your shoulders in the vain expectation that it should somehow ease off some of the aftereffects of floorsleeping. You amble over to the stove, tentatively lighting it (this really takes a lot longer than it should) and grabbing some bits of liver from your gradually thinning food stocks.

As the water boils, you glance around for signs of life, and notice that both Laura and Layla’s blankets are unoccupied. You sniff the air, and catch both their scents trailing down from further up the stairs, toward the light.

You wait a while, adding spices as necessary, and have yourself a nice repetitive pile of chicken livers. Yum yum.

>Hunger Level: 3 >Present Time: 10:09 AM

>[X] Go upstairs, check on the two up there.

Forking out another two portions (note to self: running out of paper plates), you ascend the long, dark stairway up toward the surface. You find the two missing girls sitting together on one of the broad steps – or, rather, you find Laura sitting, her knees tucked in close to her chest and her gaze fixed on some point outside. Layla is really more slumped. Her eyes are shut tight and her chest rises and falls in slow obliviousness, her lips broken by the occasional snore. She’s asleep.

“Hey.” You sit down on the step below, placing their plates down. “Breakfast is served.”

Laura doesn’t move. She’s quiet for a short while, before muttering a small, distant “Thank you.”

“You… you been awake along?” You ask.

“I did not sleep.” Is the reply, again at length.

>[X] “Better eat up. It won’t be warm for long.” >[X] “Why’s Layla up here?”

“Better eat up. It won’t be warm for long.” You say, kinda hoping to coax out a bit more of a response.

She slowly turns, and stares down at the plate, regarding it as one might a known illusion, or a wisp of shadow. Eventually, she plucks a piece up – a still piping hot piece – with her bare fingers, and transfers it to her mouth. That must really hurt, but she doesn’t so much as blink. You think you probably flinch more profusely than she does.

“So, uh…” You cast around for something. You gaze settles upon Layla’s sleeping form. “Why’s Layla up here?”

“She woke up early, and decided to talk.” Responds Laura, pausing between bites. “She asked questions, but eventually she fell back to sleep.”

“…What questions?”

Laura glances over at Layla momentarily, before quickly turning her attention back to the food.

“How many people I have killed.” Alright. Morbid. “How they were killed. How it felt.”

Hmm.

She plucks up another steaming shred of chicken. You cringe a little again.

>[X] “Did she ask you anything else?” >[X] “Did she say why she was asking?” >[X] “Do you not feel pain? Is that part of your mutation?”

“…Did she ask you anything else?” You venture, not entirely sure that you want to know the answer.

Laura is quiet for a moment, just eating in silence. Eventually, she pauses, and speaks up:

“She asked me if I had ever been so hurt, I was essentially dead.” She picks up another piece. You’re getting used to it, but it still makes you frown a little. “She wanted to know how that felt.”

“Right…” You feel your very slight frown contort more toward a grimace. Right. “She say why she was asking?”

She shakes her head slowly. You try to forget about it, at least for now, and move things on.

“Say, um…” You motion to her hand, still holding aloft a shred of chicken. “Do you not feel pain? Is that part of your mutation?”

For the first time this morning, Laura looks straight at you, her eyes finally fixing on something in the here and now. She glances down at the scrap of poultry grasped between her fingers and her gaze seems to focus slightly, twinkling with sudden understanding.

“No.” She explains, her tone flat. “Pain tolerance was part of my training.”

>[X] Paper. >[X] Wake Layla.

“…I see.” Is your only response. What else is there to say? You very obviously do not want to know more, and, in all likelihood, Laura doesn’t want to tell.

Very gently, you nudge Layla’s shoulder, stirring her from her slumber. She snorts a little and coils up tighter, as if trying to vanish from the universe, into sleep deep and pure, but eventually her eyes flutter open and she glances dimly at you and Laura.

“Come on. Get up. Time to be awake.”

She mumbles mostly incoherently, ending with the assertion that “'stoocold.”

“It’s warmer inside.” You counter, and just scoop her up, taking her back down into the relative warmth of the station. You set her down on her blanket and decide that she’s awake enough – she’ll get up eventually. If it’s later rather than sooner, then she’ll have to warm up that chicken herself.

You head back up and tell Laura you’re off to pick up a paper. You want to see the damage. She nods and states that she’ll remain there for now.

Driving out into the cold, you note the new layer of snow and move on, heading into the nearest populated stretch of the city. You avoid anywhere near your old paper spot, giving the Bugle and its surrounding territories, instead making your way to a subway exit you remember seeing the paper being peddled at once or twice before. The crowds are thick, but you make good time, your nose guiding you through the less populated streets.

Just under an hour after you set out, you come upon the station. The flood of commuters you’ve become so well acquainted with have long dispersed, and the shaggy mess of a guy handing out papers is too eager to get them off his hands to possibly notice anything off about you. You grab the issue and vanish into one of the adjoining alleys.

>Present Time: 11:23 AM

>[X] Read through it now.

Ducking behind a set of charming metal bins, you glance down at the headline.

“HOMELESS HERO REVEALS ALL: DRUGS FLOODING OUR STREETS”

Oh my. That seems a little direct and sensationalist for that Urich guy. You bet someone else wrote the headline. Is that how it always works.

A mote of pride swelling in your chest, you read on.

It’s all there. The Jack, the night at the docks, Sacred Tree, Creeper – all of it. There are lengthy parts composed almost solely of transcriptions drawn straight from your mouth, followed by Urich’s own commentary on the subject. Towards the end the article almost transforms into a thinly-veiled accusation levelled at the people of New York, and maybe even the people of the world – that, by the rampant criminalization of an entire population, they have flooded their city with a criminal underclass with nothing to lose, making money off a dangerous and unpredictable narcotic. You’re particularly glad to see small, accompanying text near the end, in which it is stated that:

“It is the opinion of John Jonah Jameson, publisher and editor-in-chief of the Daily Bugle, that the individual who chose to step forward with this information is, despite their past actions, a true hero. It is a true shame that the city cannot reward him for his good deeds, and for choosing the better angels of his nature over the worse.” – J. Jonah Jameson

You just smile for a little while.

Then the nasty thoughts, the thoughts of Creeper tearing his hair out and being repeatedly bludgeoned by a giant, cartoonish edition of the Daily Bugle, worm their way into your head. It feels a little unheroic, a little dirty, to sully the truth by weaponizing it so precisely, but you suppose that’s what people have been doing since news was news. So whatever.

>[X] Head to the meeting point.

You fold the paper away under your coat, make sure not to ruin too badly. That little afterword by J.J.J. is pretty much something you want to show off. You got called a hero, but a person person, not a homeless person, not even a mutant person person, a normal sapien person person. A normal sapien person person who owns a big newspaper business and whose opinion kinda matters. Or, whose opinion people trust to matter.

Better top this off by going to meet some angry people who steal from charity shop. Yeah. That’ll keep the day golden.

You strike out along the street, manoeuvring around the busier, more intimidating crowds with some minor help from those sticky Spider-Man hands of yours. It doesn’t save you a huge amount of time – you’re mostly just concerned about being around too many people right now, what with Creeper undoubtedly searching high and low for the merest trace of your faintly scaled ass.

Eventually, you find yourself at the old, rotting gates to the local park. Remembering that you met Creeper once or twice nearby, you fade into invisibility, keeping to the path to minimize your tracks. Only when you’re far out of sight of the clear grass upon which you and Creeper met, the trees verging up further into the park, do you drop your cloak and trudge out into the deep snow. Your recollection of the place isn’t perfect, but you can navigate by subtly familiar scents and notable landmarks (oh, look, it’s that tree you knocked over before you broke Peter’s girlfriend’s leg). After a short while you’re in sight of the sudden, stepped bowl you noted as you meeting place – the amphitheatre. You slog through the snow to its rim, surveying the stage below. No piano today.

You don’t really know why you chose this place. No reason at all, most likely. It just stands out in your memory.

Anyway, nobody’s here yet. You check your watch.

>12:51 PM

>[X] Fade out and wait by the stage.

You slip into the cold nothingness of invisibility and make your way down toward the stage, hoisting yourself up onto the cool stone. You kinda wish that piano was still there – Phantom of the Opera would be quite the entrance, if a little excessive. You get the impression that ‘excessive’ very nearly defines the Hellions – excessive posturing, excessive property damage, excessive threats of property damage, excessive substance abuse… in one case, excessive stature of the truly ginormous kind.

Time rolls on by uneventfully, the lack of much pressure in your frontal lobe soon becoming pretty noticeable. You guess you’re getting better at keeping yourself cloaked. You check the time, frowning a little to yourself.

>13:07 PM

Come on, guys, its cold out here. You pull your coat in tighter and refuse to budge, at least for a little while.

Eventually, you notice a figure emerging at the top of the amphitheater. It – he – comes into focus as he descends. Sixteen, seventeen, probably, long brown hair, covered up against the cold but sporting a look you’d probably describe as faintly ‘grunge’. You get the vague impression that this guy should have torn jeans (obviously, the weather being what it is, that’s not the case) and be skating badly or whining about how unfair school is. He’s glancing absently along the rows of seats as he descends, eventually picking one to hunker down on.

>[X] Don’t reveal. >[X] Write in.

This guy has gotta be one of them. You don’t recognize him, but who the hell else is dragging themselves around here in the cold? Your average New Yorker is either at work of busying themselves with being Christmas-spirited (read: buying shit lots of shit). Parks are cold and wet and windy, and they don’t even sell coffee or nothin’.

“So.” Gotta start somewhere, right?” “You Brian or Alvers?”

“Gah!” He starts, throwing himself to his feet. His eyes scour the amphitheater.

“Well, either way, you’re late.”

This is actually kinda fun. He whirls around, tracking his gaze along the rim up above, his shocked expression steadily descending further and further into a scowl.

“Hey, man!” He shouts, his voice indignant. “You called this meet, so show yourself!”

Hah.

“You don’t wanna make me angry, man!” He adds, in a tone that’d probably be quite threatening were he a little less totally helpless and vulnerable.

…Hey, is it just you, or is the ground kinda shaking a little?

>THREAD 42: END

Thread #43

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Yeah, ground’s definitely shaking. Beneath your feet, you feel the stone tearing at the seams, tiny fractures – far too small for your eyes to pick out – scattering through the stage, the earth groaning. You glance up at Alvers and note the beads of perspiration beginning to wet his forehead, and the slight tremor in his eyes – this tiny, erratic little twitch, slowly but surely revealing more and more white and less and less iris.

Well, this just says it all about your luck, doesn’t it? The one guy you manage to freak out a little turns out to be an earthquake-o-matic. Man, don’t any of these Hellions have normal, crappy powers? Don’t any of them just turn green or have spaghetti for skin?

“Show yourself!”

The tremors fade. He hasn’t done any damage to the amphitheatre, but you’re willing to bet that he could if really pushed. You kind of enjoyed the notion these Hellion guys had that you could teleport, but the jig might be up on that. Unless you’re willing to dance with a natural disaster for it.

You think about that for a moment.

>Present Time: 13:10 PM >Current Funds: $112.3 >Hunger Level: 4

>write in Perform Check >DC16 >+1 modifier for Alvers' preconceptions Rolled 11

>12 >nope.jpg

Well, might as well have a go.

Thinking back to the wild adventure that was Gaby, you recall how she seemed to materialize a step or two off the ground. There was a sort of weight to it, like the air recoiled at the touch of whatever weird, distorting energy was catapulting her over the ken of three dimensional space. You bend your knees and jump, throwing yourself a good five or six feet into the air.

You pull yourself out of invisibility as you strike the ground, your appearance accompanied a heavy, earthen thud.

Alvers steps back in surprise, but he’s not as shaken as you imagined. He glances from you to the stage, his eyes narrowing.

“Did you just… jump?”

Ah, drat.

“Yes.” You state, quickly, your flat tone endeavouring to rob the matter of all meaning.

“But…” His brow furrows for a moment, but he quickly shakes it off, going from confusion to anger nearly on a dime. “…The hell is up with you, man? You trying to creep me out?”

>[X] “If I were Creeper, you’d be dead. That’s what’s up.”

You lie quickly and with almost unnerving exactitude:

“If I were Creeper, you’d be dead. That’s what’s up.”

You guess it helps that it’s not exactly a lie. You don’t know if these guys have been putting any kind of appreciable dent in Creeper’s profits – you’re going to guess no, for now – but you know what he can do with a razor. You’ve heard he’s left entire rooms full of men doubled over in their own blood, most of them unaware that anything was amiss until the moment they’re suddenly choking.

He looks you up and down, hesitating for a moment. Still, though, this one seems to have more anger than sense (sometimes you can relate to that), and he guffaws spitefully at your assertion.

“Man, you are nowhere near as scary as you think you are.”

With that, he nods over your shoulder.

>Reflex Check >DC16 >+2 modifier Rolled 19 + 2

>21 >great success

Your heart skips. You feel yourself extend reflexively, stretching outward, your senses rolling across the basin of the amphitheatre like some thick, viscous membrane. First you become aware of yourself, all your ticks, all the subtle groans and tiny mechanical whirs of your muscles and your bones, and then you seep into the universe around you, filling the cracks in the air and the earth, flowing, weaving.

Two heartbeats. Behind you. Fast, slow, big, small, sweat, hair, metal.

Instinctively, you vanish, throwing yourself aside. You land in a crouch, tendons searing with adrenaline, flickering back out of invisibility. The earth where you just stood upturns itself, spiralling upwards in a flash of ethereal green, hanging suspended in the air as if floating in fresh water. You feel your claws pushing through your gloves, fangs protruding from your gums.

“Wow. Fast.”

You look up. There are three (three? You feel two heartbeats) figures approaching over the other side of the stage. One is Julian, an almost-sneer on his face and his hand outstretched. The other two, you don’t recognize – some black dude in a battered old football jacket and a female figure so utterly obscured by her huge coat and overbearing hoodie that you can only barely discern her gender.

Julian lowers his hand. The oscillating threads of earth settle back down into the ground. He approaches with a swagger.

“Santo said you were a teleporter, but you’re not, are you?” Well, credit where due. He’s not a moron. “What’s your angle here? You give us what we need, and we let you into the Hellions? Is that it?”

His voice is soaked in confidence, in pride. He’s almost certain that you’re here to join his little gang.

>[X] “I just want Creeper gone.” >[X] “I have my own friends, thanks.”

“I have my own friends, thanks.” He doesn’t flinch. You do, a little. There’s this metallic edge hanging in the air, and it’s really colouring the way your nose is painting the world. “I just want Creeper gone.”

His smirk remains level. You vaguely remember the girl – Tabitha – claiming that he had quite the temper, and now you’re wondering if that was mostly hyperbole. If he is the type to be easily offended, he’s certainly better at hiding it than his friend with the earthquakes.

“That’s it?” He asks, inspecting you. You feel thoroughly judged as his eyes slide over your clawed-up gloves and your shabby coat and that stained hoodie you’ve been wearing since last ever.

“That’s it.”

“Bull.” His eyes narrow. “There has to be something else.”

You guess there’s no point in citing a good night’s sleep and some positive karma?

>[X] “If you do take this turf, the Jack trade stops.”

“If you do take this turf, the Jack trade stops. Immediately.”

For the first time today, his expression veers out of the cocksure and into a shade of surprise.

“I don’t care what else you sell.” Well, you do. You just don’t care as much. And, at the moment, you believe it’s rather important that you appear to be, in the words of the ‘Cudda, a “Hardcore muthafuckin gangsta”. “The Jack stops.”

He smiles. Properly, this time, not all self-satisfied and gloating.

“Taking care of your Brothers.” That B was most certainly capitalized. The graffiti in the sewers bubbles up to the forefront of your brain. “I can respect that. How far are you willing to go with this?”

>[X] “I’m here to help you drive Creeper out, by force if necessary.”

You consider saying something appropriately vulgar and impetuous, but you find it gets caught up in your throat and dragged back down, out of the light. The taste of Asahi tickles at the roof of your mouth, and for a moment you smell dust and dry-cleaning, and the sharp acidity of gasoline. You swallow uncomfortably and put your brain back together.

“I’m here to help you drive Creeper out.” You state. Measured, flat. Significantly less impetuous. “By force, if necessary.”

It’d be nice if you could just let these guys get on with it, but you don’t think that was ever really in the cards. Julian’s eyes bloom in satisfaction and surprise.

“I know how he operates” You continue. “I know who works for him. I can get you where you need to be, and you can do all the damage you want.”

It’s strange, talking like this. You feel so far out of your own part.

“Man…” That’s Alvers behind you. “Is this some kinda personal thing?”

>[ ] Insert Response.

“Yeah.” You respond, suddenly fighting off the inexplicable urge to clam up inside your coat. Christ, you barely understand yourself sometimes. “I guess it is.”

That it’s come to this is a stone at the bottom of your stomach. You ignore the gnawing weight of it and breathe in deep, reeling yourself in. Luckily, that hoodie of yours, in tandem with your puffy coat, leaves a great deal regarding your posture and general demeanour to the imagination. You doubt anyone noticed the brief lapse in confidence. You certainly hope not.

You grin a little.

“Man, don’t you guys read the paper? Or watch the news?” The two behind Julian exchange a quick, confused glance, while continues to study you.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve already fired my first shot. Anyway…” You glance at your watch, as if you’ve got places to go. 13: 16 PM. “…Can I expect your help?”

Julian considers it, but not for on. There’s a spark of something beyond just greed in those peepers of his, something frenetic and wild and reckless, that leaves little doubt as to his reply.

“I think we can do business.” He states, his grin almost razor-tipped. “I need to get the gang together. You have some way I can track you down, or are mysterious visits a big thing for you?”

>[X] Give him a phone number.

You hesitate only briefly, before rattling off your number. Not like he can track it, unless – by some great downpouring of misfortune – he has a technopath in that rabble of his. You hide your annoyance as best you can while he punches it into his aggressively expensive touchscreen social media amalgamation and, with little ceremony, bid him good day.

You’re about to fade out when he interrupts your exit.

“Hey, no.”

You turn back.

“That’s not exactly fair, is it? You know where me and mine live, so I get to know where to find you.”

Pushy, pushy. You honestly didn’t expect him to catch that.

>[X] Write in.

A thought strikes you.

You turn around, extending your arms to let him get a good, long look at all your ratty glory. All those puffy incisions and tears in your coat and those stains in your hoodie and the second hand charm of your gloves. You stare at him through cheap, cheap sunglasses and slowly step back, one grossly disfigured (and slightly vomit-stained) boot after the other. You invite all the silently judgmental eyeballing he has in him and respond to it with only a matter-of-fact, deadpan:

“I’m homeless.”

>cue title music >http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MdFW6dYOJ0

You quickly scurry your way out of the amphitheatre, not affording him the time to do something about your sudden disappearance. It doesn’t take long for you to make it back onto the main path, and from there you’re well and truly imperceptible, your footsteps leaving barely the slightest kiss upon the thin layer of ice.

And then you stop in your tracks when your phone rings.

Gah, aah, bah!

>Dexterity Check >DC14 >+2 Modifier Rolled 19 + 2

>21 >well played

Your hand snaps down into your pocket, silencing the infernal machine before it can chirp out your position to everyone in a god damn square mile (why are these things so loud? Where's that silent button?).

You glance to and fro anxiously, and check the caller ID – unknown number. Over your shoulder, you notice a pair of Hellions emerging from the stepped bowl of the amphitheatre, scanning the sloping white nothingness of the park.

Hah. Sneaky, and quite smart. At least one of them can think quickly, though you're not quite sure which one you're hanging that on. Probably not Alvers.

As you put your phone away, you notice a text from Peter, and promptly bring it up.

“Saw the article. You did great. Chat thin so too. Sry I couldn’t be there yesterday, was bsy.”

>[X] Send something back. >[X] Make your way home.

You smile, and stand there for a good few minutes while you assemble a reply, doggedly refusing to use any kind of shorthand. Principles, man. You may be filthy but you’re well-spoken(ish), and this will be true of both your real self and your digital shadow. Or radio shadow or whatever. You’re not sure this thing is slick enough to be really digital – though, admittedly, tech science was never your forte even when you had some kind of shot at an education.

“So I heard. Hope she’s doing better.”

You did kinda break her leg, after all, in your first spastic burst of super strength. What an embarrassing way to discover your amazing superpowers. You watch your breath bloom invisibly through the cold and consider… everything else.

“Not sure where to go from here. Everything alright on your end? Want to meet up later?”

You finalize your thoughts and hit send, stuffing the phone away.

Barely into the afternoon and it’s already getting dark. You make your way out into the city, towards home.

>THREAD 43: END

Thread #44

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You have a lot on your mind. You try not to dwell on any of it, but the long, cold walk back to your makeshift burrow tends to leave a great deal of time for falling headlong into dark thoughtways. Invisible, unnoticeable footsteps shadow you as you make your way across the frosted sidewalks of NY, the Hellions and the golden grin and the leering, demonic image of Kimura perching over your mind’s workings. They cluster together like harpies, and you find yourself concentrating on the omnipresent sting of the cold to keep them from infringing on your thoughts.

As you enter the scar, you check your phone, finding a message from Peter.

“I can do tht. 6ish?”

Well, what else have you got to do this afternoon?

>Present Time: 14:12 PM >Current Funds: $112.3 >Hunger Level: 4

>[X] Nah, nothing really, you can meet Peter.

Well, you might want to find some time for a bit of assault and possibly some petty theft, and you’ll have to check on the reserves back the den, but you think you can fit a friendly chat into your afternoon. You text back a confirmation and make a mental note that your phone’s running low on power. Damn taser hands only seem to be able to charge it so far.

You lapse in and out of invisibility as you trudge through the looming ruins, the shadows in your mind steering you a little in the way of caution.

Eventually you make it to the dilapidated old station and head down the stairs. You’re greeted by a full house – everyone’s just… hanging about, pretty much, there being very little to do down on an abandoned subway platform. You recall they had a deck of cards somewhere, but that must’ve started to wear thin eventually.

>[X] Laura. >[X] Lucas >[X] Gaby. >[X] Let’s start with Laura.

You notice that Laura is, as usual, sitting a little apart from the main mutie cluster. She’s not meditating or exercising or… anything, really. She’s just doing nothing. You can’t help but get the impression that she doesn’t often talk with many of your other companions. You’ve seen Layla talk to (at) her, and you think she’s spoken with Noriko once or twice… and other than that, nothing much springs to mind.

You hunker down nearby and she turns to you, wordlessly expectant.

“So, uh…” You lower your voice. “Did that stuff with Layla kinda throw you off a bit? I could talk to her about it if you want.”

She shakes her head slowly. There are no words. Okay.

>[X] Ask her if she’s getting along with anyone else in the group. >[X] Ask her if she wants to beat up drug dealers with you.

“Hey, so…” Most of your conversations seem to begin with those words. In fact, they don’t just begin like that – those tend scatter throughout. “Are you… okay, with everyone?”

She stares uncomprehendingly. She doesn’t wear it openly, but you can tell that she’s a little mystified by what exactly you’re going on about. You cough awkwardly and push onward.

“I mean, um…” You make sure to keep your voice low. “I don’t ever see you talking with anyone else. I mean, not often.”

Her expression shifts. “Oh, that” it seems to say, albeit in the most muted manner possible. The words that eventually come out of her mouth seem to veer in a different direction, however. “I’ve not had trouble with anyone.” She states, almost like she’s reading it from a script. Right.

“Yeah, that’s not really…”

Her posture shifts subtly inwards. She turns away slightly, her eyes veering just a little toward the dusty old tracks, away from you. Basically, she clams up. You’re not entirely sure there are any straight answers to be found here. You’re not entirely sure what exactly makes you say what you do next.

“Do you want to beat up drug dealers with me?”

She turns back to you, her brow upturned in muted surprise. Eventually, she nods.

“Uh, okay… um…” You pause. Sometimes you really surprise yourself. “…I just need to talk to Lucas quickly, and then we can go, or… something…”

Disengaging from the awkward of your own creation, you set your sights on the younger boy.

>[X] Talk about what he plans to do now. >[X] Ask him if he has any family that could help him.

Lucas is lying his back beside the shadow of the fire, probably trying to just grind the hours away. He angles a blood-red eye in your direction as you slump down next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Some awkward seems to have followed in your wake, and you spend a moment just feigning an attempt to get comfortable.

“So, what’s up with you now?” You ask, pretty sure that the conversation you have in mind is akin to cumbersome block that just has to be dropped into place. “I mean, what’re you doing now? You have anywhere to go or something?”

Luckily, Lucas doesn’t seem the type to care about bluntness. He just shrugs.

“Man… I have no idea.” His eyes scan the ceiling, as if searching for some inkling of direction in the arching black. “I’m pretty far from home here, and there’s the border guard…”

Yeah, that is a problem.

“No relatives? Nobody?”

He shakes his head.

“I think I have, like, an aunt somewhere, but I ain’t seen her since I was six. I’m in the System.” Right. The System. Capital S. Foster homes and orphanages and… stuff. You had about a week of that and it was more than enough for a lifetime. “I didn’t think anybody knew about my powers. Everyone thought I just had some eye thing. I tell you, back in the day my ‘rents went through like five doctors trying to figure that shit out…”

You grin a little.

“Yeah… same, actually.” He cocks his head to the side, egging you on. “My eyes didn’t always look like this, but they were always a little off. Doctors said I was hyper-photosensitive or something. Weird, my mom never considered the whole mutant thing, not even after my sister figured out she could bench press a tractor…”

His eyebrows rise. “A tractor? Serious?”

You find yourself chuckling. Lakeside summers wash at corners of your memory. The texture of sun through curtains, the touch of sand…

“Yeah. She could pretty much run a farm on her lonesome…”

You talk a little while, mostly just about little stuff. Turns out he lost his parents much earlier than you, and he’s been floating through foster carers ever since. You shock yourself a little by releasing bite after tiny bite of your old existence. Eventually the conversation circles back to the present and he confesses that his grand plans for the future are “be an X-Man” (hahaaaaaa), with current objectives numbering at just one – get back at whoever stuck in that box. You assure him he’s not alone in that sentiment and get up.

He shakes his head.

“I think I have, like, an aunt somewhere, but I ain’t seen her since I was six. I’m in the System.” Right. The System. Capital S. Foster homes and orphanages and… stuff. You had about a week of that and it was more than enough for a lifetime. “I didn’t think anybody knew about my powers. Everyone thought I just had some eye thing. I tell you, back in the day my ‘rents went through like five doctors trying to figure that shit out…”

You grin a little.

“Yeah… same, actually.” He cocks his head to the side, egging you on. “My eyes didn’t always look like this, but they were always a little off. Doctors said I was hyper-photosensitive or something. Weird, my mom never considered the whole mutant thing, not even after my sister figured out she could bench press a tractor…”

His eyebrows rise. “A tractor? Serious?”

You find yourself chuckling. Lakeside summers wash at corners of your memory. The texture of sun through curtains, the touch of sand…

“Yeah. She could pretty much run a farm on her lonesome…”

You talk a little while, mostly just about little stuff. Turns out he lost his parents much earlier than you, and he’s been floating through foster carers ever since. You shock yourself a little by releasing bite after tiny bite of your old existence. Eventually the conversation circles back to the present and he confesses that his grand plans for the future are “be an X-Man” (hahaaaaaa), with current objectives numbering at just one – get back at whoever stuck in that box. You assure him he’s not alone in that sentiment and get up.

>[X] Talk to her about her life before. >[X] Talk about Kevin.

Sparking up conversation with Gaby is a great deal easier, mostly due to the little grey minor she’s keeping an eye on. You ask, obligatorily, if there’s been any change, but she just shakes her head sadly. You’re really gonna have to something about that – Layla is one thing, but this kid if quite another. He doesn’t seem in the least bit capable of defending himself. Hell, you’re not even sure he’d even run away.

That out of the way, you sit down and ask her something that’s been on your mind for a while – how Gaby even got into New York, what with all the border guard an’ everything. She shakes her head again when you ask her if she can teleport far enough to just skip the checks entirely.

“I… can only go a little way.” She licks her lips nervously. “And I don’t like it, anyhow. It feels weird.”

“So, how’d you get in?”

“Well, after I found nothing at your hometown”–

“Whoa, waitaminute.” You cut her short, veering back a little in surprise and holding up a hand. “You actually visited Michigan looking for my dad?”

She nods.

“Was… I mean, did you check out my old house?”

“Yes…” Her voice turns evasive.

“…Was anything there.”

She looks at you for a moment, and bows her head a little. “No… just ashes.”

You can’t quite hide your disappointment. You’re not sure why, exactly – after all, what else could you expect? You just wanted something else. Coughing back the bitter taste of that new information, you steer the conversation back away from you.

“So, this was right after you got…” You search for the right word. She provides it for you.

“Disowned?”

“Yeah.”

She nods slowly. You chat a little about that, and you in a way find yourself feeling a little lucky. Your family at least loved you. Even you dad loved you – you’re not so angry and jaded that you’d believe otherwise, even if he could be weird, weird guy about it. To their credit, Gaby’s foster family seem like they thought the world of her until she started spouting fur (you’re actually a little weirded out by the glowing terms she describes them in – if there’s any animosity over it, very little rises to the surface). The problem was that she did, and then the whole mutant thing just changed everything.

“I can’t even remember the first few nights properly…” She notes, sounding a little terrified at herself. “I was so scared, I just remember bits and pieces. I made some silly… nest, somewhere, under this bridge… like an animal…”

“That’s probably not a mutant thing.” You assure her. Well, maybe. “I don’t remember the first few days all too well either. Lots of…” Fear, rush, pounding feet, wet clothes. “…stuff just sort of drools together. It’s normal.”

You tell her a little about your first few months of hitchhiking and scrabbling for food. It doesn’t cheer her up, exactly, but you suppose it provides a little perspective. Eventually, you find yourself trailing into the Really Bad Stuff and angle things in a new, less horrifying direction.

“So. Kevin.”

“…So?”

Her multi-toned eyes shift towards confusion.

“You know that…” Man, this is the most awkward shit ever. You’ve been meaning to touch on it for a while, though. Kevin’s a cool guy an’ all, but you just want to make sure he hasn’t elected to gloss over a few key facts about his predicament. “…You know about the touching issue, right? You know you can’t touch him?”

She manages to keep the blush from her cheeks, but it surfaces well enough in her eyes.

“Y-yes… he’s told... he told me about that…” A guilty cringe consumes her posture. “Though, I don’t know why that would be important…”

You stare. You stare a stare that could see stars collide and words break and remain unchanged in its utterly bemused nature. Gaby seems to get it, and lowers her voice.

“Am I… too obvious, maybe?”

You smile faintly and shake your head.

“Nah, no… not at all. Just making sure.”

You don’t want to be sweeping Gaby up with a broom anytime soon.

That dealt with, you check the time quickly.

>Present Time: 14:46 PM

>[X] Go do the thing with the beating up drug dealers.

You pull yourself up and check on Laura.

You catch her limbering up, and you even think you see something resembling a tiny yawn pass by her lips as she holds her arms aloft and stretches them. She spots you and immediately slouches back down into her unobtrusive, composed self. Huh.

“Are certain you want to do this?” She asks, quietly, as she slips her gloves on.

You nod. You need the money, and you have to start somewhere with the Creeper thing.

“Yeah.”

She acknowledges you with a glance and you head toward the grey sky up above. As you emerge, you receive a message from Peter, telling you to stop by Queens Plaza station just after six. Plenty of time.

Laura scans the cold landscape and turns back to you.

“Do you have a target in mind?”

You’ve given this a little thought. You know there’s a guy who hangs out a little uptown, near some of the regular soup lines. Hobos don’t have money but they are desperate, and some of them can rake in a surprising little bundle of cash when there’s narcotics to be had. A while back Creeper always had someone operating at one of the local community colleges, too, though you’re not sure who – you think it might even have been a lecturer. Then there’s the rather more boisterous option – one of the little bars off the nearby highstreet. You know Creeper has a guy there. He might even own the place.

>[X] Go do the thing with the beating up drug dealers.

You pull yourself up and check on Laura.

You catch her limbering up, and you even think you see something resembling a tiny yawn pass by her lips as she holds her arms aloft and stretches them. She spots you and immediately slouches back down into her unobtrusive, composed self. Huh.

“Are certain you want to do this?” She asks, quietly, as she slips her gloves on.

You nod. You need the money, and you have to start somewhere with the Creeper thing.

“Yeah.”

She acknowledges you with a glance and you head toward the grey sky up above. As you emerge, you receive a message from Peter, telling you to stop by Queens Plaza station just after six. Plenty of time.

Laura scans the cold landscape and turns back to you.

“Do you have a target in mind?”

You’ve given this a little thought. You know there’s a guy who hangs out a little uptown, near some of the regular soup lines. Hobos don’t have money but they are desperate, and some of them can rake in a surprising little bundle of cash when there’s narcotics to be had. A while back Creeper always had someone operating at one of the local community colleges, too, though you’re not sure who – you think it might even have been a lecturer. Then there’s the rather more boisterous option – one of the little bars off the nearby highstreet. You know Creeper has a guy there. He might even own the place.

>[x] The barfly.

>Thread 44 END

Thread #45

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You think you’re about to beat up a drug dealer and steal all his stuff. That’s something that could very possibly happen in the near future.

Faced with the equally unappealing choices of assaulting a man on the streets, assaulting a man at a college, and assaulting a man in a bar, you decided upon the one promising the least open space – the bar. You’re not entirely sure the place is entirely in Creeper’s back pocket, but you’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that something wasn’t quite right about the whole joint, even back when you delivered little clandestine bundles of the very stuff your target sells. Something was definitely up.

Accompanied by Laura, you make your way across the unofficial borders of the scar, into the city proper. It doesn’t take you long to hit a bad (bad, but not technically as bad as the scar) stretch – you’re in Queens, after all. You navigate by landmarks rather than roads; the old, dumpy church with moss budding across its back, the occasional house you recognize, the grotty takeouts…

Eventually you find yourself standing in front of the place. It’s gotten a new paintjob since you last saw it, standing like an uncomfortable blotch of black ink against the rest of the street, but the short corridor inside looks just about the same. The bar itself is downstairs, nestled close to the underways of the city. A memory fires across your nerves, settling like an itch beneath your flesh – Creeper’s strange fondness for being below ground level.

Laura breathes in deep beside you.

“Benzoylmethylecgonine.”

You can’t smell anything from up here, but you know that word.

“Cocaine.”

>Current Funds: $112.3 >Present Time: 15:26 PM >Hunger Level: 4 >[X] Go down with Laura. >[X] Go down invisible.

You offer your hand to Laura, and she stares at it for an uncomfortable few seconds before realizing what you have in mind. Her warmth nestles into your palm and you feel, like cold silk, the cloying strangeness of invisibility closing around the two of you. She blinks, unused to the sensation, and nods for you to continue.

Treading lightly, you head downstairs. The walls are dim, washed-out shade of red, lit by a succession of those sort of bowl-shaped lights. They’re tinted orange, and paint across the crevices of the building the lurid impression of dying flames. You remember that. It always reminded you of the stories your mother used to read, of descending into Tartarus.

The narrow stairway opens up into a large, dim room populated by a smattering of tables and booths, their wooden frames reeking of alcohol. The bar stands to one side, where two employees chat idly. As expected, there aren’t many people around at this hour – there’s a few people talking in some of the booths, as well as what looks like a young couple at one of the tables, but that’s it.

Rolled 13

>[X] See if Laura can pinpoint the scent of narcotics.

Rolling for Laura. She, of course, has a +5 modifier for her sense of smell.

>[X] Listen in on the bartenders.

Make a Stealth Check.

>DC12 >+4 Modifier Rolled 14 + 4

>18 >success!

You lean in close to Laura, keeping your voice low. You may be invisible, but you’re not inaudible. She flinches a little – it’s almost nothing, imperceptible upon her features, but you feel it race minutely across her fingertips – and angles her ear toward your mouth. The scent of her hair and the sweetness of the blood pumping in her veins bunch together under your nostrils.

“Could you pinpoint that smell?” You whisper. She considers it for a moment and nods, sniffing the air as quietly as she can manage.

You turn your attention to the two employees chatting at the bar, tugging the both of you a little closer.

“…No, it’s definitely weird. I mean, it just came totally out of the blue.” The voice belongs to the shorter, slighter of the two men. The other shrugs in a carefree manner and glances across the bar.

“Nothing we can do. He’s alright, then?”

“Dunno. I guess? I didn’t even see him before he took off. He must’ve been in one hell of a hurry if he didn’t even bother texting you.” The guy pauses, throwing a conspiratorial glance over either shoulder, and leans a little closer to the other. “How’re you finding his brother? Doesn’t he seem kinda cree”–

“I’ve found it.” Interjects Laura, snapping you away from the conversation. She points toward a booth in the corner. You can only just about make out a hint of someone sitting inside.

>[X] Check them out.

You tread quietly down the aisle separating the tables from the short line of booths, your mind quietly churning, spitting out a parade of imagined silhouettes for the man in the corner. As you get closer, he slowly comes to life in your sense of smell – strawberry milkshake paints him as small for some reason, and then fresh sweat – soaked through cotton fabric, a hoodie, joggers maybe – paints him as lithe and athletic. You think you smell hair dye, and that produces images of youth and eccentricity, of slouched postures, of swaggers. And then the soft acidity of perfume adds tits to the picture. She, not he.

You turn in to look down at the person sitting in the booth, and time bunches, quickening, fading, seething.

You catch a frenzy of blue hair cut to across one side of an otherwise short-shaved head. Dark, mocha skin. Full lips pursed around a straw, the glimmer of metal along thin eyebrows. Eyes like fire.

Huh. She cut her hair.

You are John James Green.

You’re fifteen, though not for much longer.

You’re wearing a school uniform. It’s not yours, and even after a few times in and out of the neatly- tailored fabrics, you still feel uncomfortable in it. You’re waiting beside the door to a small house in the south-end of Queens, clicking your heels as disgruntled stones settle, one by one, through the lining of your stomach.

You could’ve done this on your own – you’ve dropped off tons of packages – but Creeper sent you with a partner. He’s been kinda weird lately, though you’re not saying that to his face anytime soon.

You check your watch. Can’t believe she made you wait outside. It’s been like half an hour, where the fuck is she?

>[X] Wait.

You bite your lip and wait a little longer.

Click. You hear the latch sliding aside, and the door creaks open.

“…You’ll think about that offer, right?”

That’s the distributer, or one of them. Big, Scandinavian kinda guy. You think his name’s Eric or something. Or Tyrone? There’s someone called Tyrone in there. Honestly, some of these guys kinda blur together eventually. At your meagre level of operations, criminals come printed from two moulds – disposable now and disposable later. They all run with the same themes.

“Yeah, course.”

Victoria. She sounds sincere there, and she exchanges some short pleasantries with the guy, but it’s all fake. She’s a year older than you, and she was around before you were. Like you, she’s kinda scrawny, barely filling out the female equivalent of the uniform you’re wearing, but that’s where the similarities between the two of you end. She struts, you don’t. She has confidence, you don’t. She wears these ridiculous green dreads atop her head and pierces everything, you shy away from anything distinguishing (and anything painful). You always thought she smelled a little like gasoline.

Her eyes – bright orange gems – fix themselves upon you as the guy closes the door behind her, and she goes straight by you at a brisk pace.

“Come on.” She hisses, a little quietly. You find your brow rising in curiosity – she seems almost afraid of something. “I think we’d better be quick.”

>[X] “Why? Something happen?” >[X] “You piss somebody off?” >[X] Just follow.

“Why? Something happen?” You feel a smug little fleck of bile uncoil at the back of your throat. "You piss somebody off?"

Man, you hope you don’t have to run. You’re not sure you could keep up with her.

She regards you only briefly, a grim look on her face. She’s generally wearing a grim look, though, so that’s not really indicative of anything. Grim or disinterested. Aloof, you think, is the proper term.

“Well…” Her voice wavers. You notice her glance over her shoulder as you hurry away from the house. “Sort of. Aaron”– Aaron, right. Not Eric. How’d you mix those up? –“told me the Owl was looking for peeps like us. You know, like… like us. Offered to set up some kind of meeting.”

She grimaces.

“Only, I don’t think it was really an offer, exactly…”

She glances back again. Her pace quickens minutely.

>[X] “…You think they’re gonna come after us?” >[X] “Did he say what the Owl wanted?”

“…You’re think they’re coming after us?” You ask, an unbidden quaver of fear in your voice.

The Owl is fucking scary. Everyone knows that.

She narrows her eyes, chewing on one of her dreads. “Maybe.”

“…Did he say what the guy wanted?”

She shakes her head.

You maintain a hurried pace up to the end of the street, the obvious panic under the surface Victoria’s normally aloof expression putting a brisk wind in your steps. You make sure keep tabs on your surroundings. On your right, over the road, the houses cluster together into a labyrinth of backyards and shortcuts. On your left, an old, warped fence separates the street from an empty lot. As you come to the T-junction at the end of the road, a heavyset jeep rolls out into the open. It doesn’t take you long to realize that the same vehicle was parked outside Aaron’s place.

Shit. Shitshitshitshit.

You practically feel Victoria tense up beside you. She freezes as the vehicle’s headlights wash over her.

>[X] Run right (backyards).

You don’t think. You just run.

You almost don’t realize that you’ve grabbed her hand. The immanence of the fire and the sharp sneer of closing death rears up in your memory, quickening you, denying thought in favour of action, spurring you on to avoid that gut-wrenching, mind-searing helplessness by any means necessary.

You hear tires screech and smell them burning across tarmac. You’ll never know what Victoria’s expression was in those crashing moments, just that she quickly overtook you. The headlights seared the ground beneath your feet – you were halfway across the road, you remember that – and she plunged forward, pulling you to safety (and a faceful of road that sent blood burning through your nose). You both collapse in a heap as the jeep screeches to a halt and the door swings open.

>[X] Invisible. You have a knife, us it.

Feet disembark onto the tarmac. One set, two sets, three sets. Christ.

You can’t get fucked up again. You can’t. You can’t be helpless again. You – you scrabble for the knife stowed away under your stupid (stupid and ripped, now) blazer. Aaron’s big, meaty face mingles with the others as you pull yourself up, blurring into nothing and no one, into something that can be nameless and disposable. There two types of criminals at your meagre level of operation…

You screw your eyes shut and think small, and are rewarded by the coldness of invisibility. They pause, and you remember throwing yourself at the nearest one, his yelps filling your ears. He catches your jacket, but he’s grappling blind. The knife goes into his shoulder, into his arm, the sopping, dark wetness of his blood rushing through his shirt your hand.

The dull thud of metal against bone reverberates through you. You remember the taste of blood puffing gently through dark water, like streams of red smoke. The body surrendering lifelessly to the river, to the deep…

You freeze, and feel yourself suddenly become visible.

Wha–

His fist slams into your face. Your back hits the tarmac hard.

“Fucking freaks! God fucking dammit, my… my fucking arm…”

You become vaguely aware of Victoria shrieking, Aaron’s voice a murmur amidst the dim. A sharp, hard slap, followed closely by two more, sound across the street. She shuts up.

>[X] Invisible, try to grab Victoria and run.

Desperate anger springs through you. You kick out at the guy standing over you, lodging the heavy tip of your boot deep into the side of his knee. He screams in pain and drops to his hands, giving you the window you need.

You spring up, striking furiously at the disappear button nestled in your grey matter. You feel yourself flicker in and out, before settling on invisibility (for now).

Aaron is bodily dragging Victoria toward the jeep, who appears to have stopped resisting once the large man put a few bruises on her cheeks. You barrel into them, Aaron’s words – he was saying something, you were just too terrified to take it in – trailing off into a surprised hiss. You try to grab Victoria and go, but you feel a desperately grasping set of fingers close around the collar of your blazer, and you’re suddenly hurtling down into the ground.

You’re visible. You can feel it.

You also feel him kick you – once in the side of the head, the force sending a high-pitched whine through your inner ear, and then twice in the stomach, presumably for good measure. You push and push at the vanishing button but nothing happens, and you feel yourself hauled up and thrown into the back of the jeep. Victoria joins you soon afterwards, getting in of her own accord and slumping down beside you.

You hear the click of a safety being flicked off and look up to see Aaron leaning into the back door, a Glock clasped in one hand.

Shit.

“No more, a’right? No more of this shit, or…” He jerks the pistol back in mimicry of recoil. “Just sit the fuck down and be quiet.”

>[X] Comply.

You nod quickly. You feel the shame and the disgust of being the small creature you are rise in your cheeks, burning through your skin like a brand. But you’re not saying no to the barrel of a gun. You’ve seen what happens when people do that. It ends in blood. And meat, and gristle, and chips of bone. And those bubbly little flecks of grey matter that get everywhere…

Aaron gets into the driver’s seat, his friends – ah, yeah, one of them is an Eric, you recognize that broad brow and those beady eyes – following after him, the last of them squeezing into the back with you and Victoria.

Victoria, to her credit, seems to compose herself far more quickly than you do. Her breath gradually evens out and she wipes her cheeks almost before you have the chance to catch a glimpse of the wet streaks running along her bruised jaw. By the time the road is rumbling beneath you, she’s stock still and staring straight ahead, occasionally swallowing, as if to some rhythm of thought.

You look down at your hands, at the blood drying on them. Your skin buzzes with the thought of the Owl, of the gun, of the fist bunched up into your face and all the hurt these people could give you. You find yourself clenching and unclenching your palms nervously as fractured future images twinkle through your brain, predicting gore and pain and worse things. You try to shove your imagination to the black box, that dark diamond core in the heart of your mind, but the flickers are too fresh, too vivid.

God. God, you–

Victoria slumps against you, wrapping her arm under yours and resting her head against your shoulder. Even through the cold scrapings of fear that infest your nerves, her closeness puts an awkward flutter in your chest.

You hold your breath, for some reason or another.

Her lips brush through your hair, whispering.

“Punch me in the stomach.”

>[X] Do it.

You swallow hard, and replay the last few seconds in your brain.

Yep, that’s what she said.

Uh…

You feel your fist close. Why are you even considering this? You glance furtively at Aaron in the front, and the guy sitting across from Victoria. They’re not watching – not closely, anyway.

“Do it!” She hisses.

Well, you do it. You slam your fist into her stomach as hard as you can, bucking her forward and sending a gasp through the jeep.

“Hey, what the fuck, kid, what’re you”–

“Again!” She rasps out, her eyes squeezed tight.

You hesitate only for a moment, your eyes darting around the vehicle in a confused, guilty blur. Your fist plunges into her stomach for the second time, the toned sheet of muscle across her abdomen barely even tensing in response.

“…Kid, you better cut that shit out yetsterfuckingday or”–

She wheezes loudly, braces herself upon the back of the two chairs in front, and vomits.

The substance she sprays the two men in front with is not exactly fire, but at the time, you made little differentiation. It spews from her mouth in a searing, roaring wave, burning through the air but settling like water, like grease. You remember screaming and pushing yourself frantically against the back of your seat, primal fear overriding all reasoning as the liquid flame consumed the men in front, their flesh shriveling into oily, crackling blackness, their gristle popping, their hair vapourising and their skin filling the jeep as a thick, black smoke.

The world swerves. They screamed only for a moment before there was too little left of their throats to produce any kind of sound. The man in the back with you shouts and wails and swears frantically before Victoria hurls a second time, bathing his head in fire.

You remember the car trailing to a stop, fire rushing through the leather, boiling the plastic. You remember Victoria hurling the door open and pushing you out. You–

>Courage Check >DC15 Rolled 19

>19 >great success!

You hit the ground. You crawl. You scrabble away, your heart bursting in your chest, the smell of roasting flesh clotting in your lungs. The night swoons overhead, every star a spark, a pinprick of eager flame. There is such fire in the universe. All those suns, the giants and the dwarves, the celestial blue and the terrible searing red, great eyes searing the void. Fire. Fire. Fire, fire, fire, fire–

You feel the sidewalk, you feel grass and earth under your palms, you cling to them, their solidity. You shut your eyes tight and try to breathe out the filth of the smoke, block out the unimaginable, terrible eminence of fire in the universe, shut down the crackling of the blaze behind you. You feel your breath becoming yours again. Ever so gradually, the world slows back to your pace. You roll onto your back and dare to open your eyes, focusing on the dark shapes of the clouds, on the soothing, cold blackness between stars.

The glow of the fire flows around you, searing the night, casting everything in pulses of orange and red. You breathe, you breathe, breathe…

You turn your head. Victoria kneels at the sidewalk nearby, breathing heavily, faint flecks of fire lingering on her lips. She wipes them away and swallows bitterly. For a moment you think you see her suppressing a sob, and then she looks straight at you, and you realize for the first time how like fire the orange in her eyes is.

“Don’t tell.” She heaves it out between deep breaths. “Don’t tell Creeper. He doesn’t know I can do that.”

Next thing you know, she’s teetering over you, her nails almost digging into her shoulders, her breath coiling inches from your face. If she vomited right now, you’d be…

“Don’t tell.”

>[ ] Insert Response.

You swallow. All she has to do is feel a little queasy, maybe shove her fingers down her throat, and then…

“I-I won’t.” You breathe out, after a long, painful quiet. “I won’t tell anyone. I… I don’t even… know what you’re talking about…”

You trail off into silence, your mind enclosed by the fiery pearls of her eyes. She stares at you with a wide, interrogative gaze, picking you apart. Eventually she loosens somewhat, seemingly satisfied, and breathes out in relief, her grip on your shoulders softening. She slumps forward heavily, the floral green cords of her hair trailing over your chest. With some discomfort, you realize that she’s all but straddled you.

“They were going to kill us, weren’t they?” She notes, her voice strangely calm.

“Maybe… I guess…”

She laughs quietly, the sound dragging its way out of her like a wounded beast, slowly lazing through the air.

You shift uncomfortably, but stop when you feel her hands under your shirt, climbing across your stomach in fevered spider-scrawls. You think nothing, your mind closing, the sacred residue of the fear spiraling strangely in your chest, shaking through your skin and mingling with the electric touch of her flesh.

Suffice to say, you remember the rest of that night very vividly.

>THREAD 45: END

Thread #46

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You’ve stumbled upon something of a roadblock in the way of your plans for the evening.

You stand with Laura at your side, looming invisibly over the drug dealer you’d intended to beat into unconsciousness. The woman sitting in the booth in front of you, however, her jacket rank with the scent of cocaine, is an old flame (pun not intended, but appropriate) by the name of Victoria Christleton. She used to mule drugs around with you back in the dark(er) ages of Creeper and, for a span of three or four months, the two of you had lots of awkward fumbling sex – which is, by the way, is the origin story for the mild burn scars on your left hip, one side of your chest, and your inner thigh.

You sniff the air once more, confirming bundles of cocaine to be tucked away somewhere amidst the puffy warmth of her jacket. Seems she’s moved up in the world. Or down, or sideways, or something.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

>Current Funds: $112.3 >Present Time: 15:34 PM >Hunger Level: 4

>[X] This changes some stuff.

God, how awkward. Talk about reality just pissing all over your bonfire.

You hold Laura’s hand a little tighter and step back, taking the two of you out of the thin lane leading across the booths, onto the somewhat raised flooring upon which the tables sit. She glances up at you questioningly, the green of her eyes dulled by the pall-light of walking under the visual spectrum, and you just swallow and nod. Slowly, as if her gaze is tethered by some manner of friction, she turns back to Victoria.

Minutes pass. The low murmur of the couple across the room occasionally breaks – somebody sips, somebody laughs quietly. Victoria just sits and steadily drains her milkshake, occasionally glancing through you, at the door. Whenever she does, you feel yourself tense slightly.

Eventually she finishes her drink and stretches languidly, shrugging off her jacket. She dumps it down on the booth beside her and gets up, lifting a rucksack out from under the table. Somewhat needlessly, step a little further back as she moves to leave the booth.

>[X] Wait till she goes, check the jacket.

You let her go. She rolls her shoulders and heads out, up, away from the smouldering orange underground and the dank wood. You hear her pick up speed almost the moment she’s out of sight. Running, always running.

Immediately, you tug Laura’s hand, stepping into the now-vacant booth. You rummage through the discarded jacket with one hand, almost certain that Laura’s eyes are boring into your back.

“Sorry.” You whisper. “That just… wasn’t a good target, I guess.”

She remains silent. The question, though, hangs unspoken in the air. Why?

“She used to work with me, back during the Creeper days.” You bite your lip. The Creeper days. It sounds so stupid when you say it out loud. “She’s a mutant, and she sort of bleeds napalm.”

Your fingers trace their way around the outline of something heavy caught between the layers of fabric. Quietly, you turn the jacket around, and find a cut in the material, leading on into a little DIY pocket. So, no question about it, she was carrying drugs. Which means someone will be stopping by to pick up.

Well, at least she’s not dealing. That’s something.

>[X] Track Victoria.

Slowly, you let yourself step back, retracting your hand. Victoria’s scent hangs in the air, the wet, unseemly greasiness of petrol mingling with coffee and cream, dredging memories up out of the dark, spinning them along you like silk. Like warm hands, like lips, like her cheek against your shoulder in the back of a Sedan.

“Come on.” You whisper, feeling Laura’s warmth change, twitching between your fingers. You avoid her eyes. “Let’s go.”

You abandon silence once you’re up the stairs, following the trail of memories out into the street. Victoria’s nowhere to be seen, but her scent leads over the road, down a narrow inlet between the squat houses that line the street.

Man, you forgot how fast she could run.

You make for the road and feel Laura’s hand lag slightly.

“John?” She asks, the slight tenor of a question infringing upon her even tone. “Why are we following this woman?”

>[ ] Insert Answer.

Well, why are you?

In part, it’s gotta be nostalgia. And curiosity. And some lingering… thing, something that can’t quite be grasped. Of course, there are practical reasons too. Sort of.

“We were close, once.” You answer, picking up the pace. You find yourself shrugging off your invisibility. “She could help us.”

Maybe.

Victoria’s wild ride takes you on a crisscrossing tour of this end of Queens. It’s not hard to track her haphazard pathway through the city, nor is it hard to stay hidden. She can run fast, you’ll give her that, but she was never the attentive type. In a way, you think that part of her made her a better mule than you. She was one track. Focused. She lived her life getting from A to B in the most expedient manner possible, whether point B was a dealer on the East End or under your shirt. Everything else was secondary, at least for a time.

There were a lot of things about Victoria you never really understood, but you don’t think she liked slowing down to think. Or listen, or look.

Eventually, she comes to a stop outside a desolate little shack of a house. You jog to a stop nearby and dip yourself back out of sight, taking a moment to catch your breath. You watch as she strolls up to the door and knocks, fishing a package out her bag. Too small to be any significant amount of drugs. Unless it’s LSD, maybe? You don’t think Creeper does LSD.

The door opens and a broad man in his late twenties, his face cultivating a thick beard and his wifebeater cultivating thicker stains, leans out. They talk.

“How close?”

You blink, and realize the voice is Laura’s. For a moment you don’t realize quite what she’s asking, before the brief exchange just under half an hour ago returns to you.

>Present Time: 15:58 PM

>[X] Half an' half.

You check your watch absently, more to give yourself a second’s respite from the question than anything else. Time grinds quietly onwards, it seems, stepping forward leagues in the instants you’re not looking. How far is Queens Plaza from here? Could you risk a subway trip…?

“She…” She nibbled your ears and swayed like the tide. Drank that dumb Asian beer with you, watched that sitcom about those guys in the hospital where everything’s all weird and stuff, kissed your neck. “…She saved my life.”

She also saved you from being a pure untarnished virgin forever. But you neglect to mention that.

“I’ll explain everything later. I need to focus…”

You open your ears, delving through the audible shiver of grass swaying in the wind, through the occasional creak of the door frame, though the distant babble of the city...

“…questions.” That’s her voice. It’s changed a little. Kinda… sharper. “I don’t want to know, anyway. Just give me the cash.”

“Sure, sure.” Is the all but dribbled response. The guy hands her a thick wad of cash and takes the package.

Damn. Looks like you honed in a little late.

The door slams. You think you hear Victoria click her tongue.

>[X] Reveal yourself.

Right. Right. Time to… do something, of some kind.

Watching the door for signs of movement, you make your way across the front lawn, to where Victoria stands in tense silence, checking her phone for something or another. Anyone else and you’d assume she’d heard you, or she was sly to something being out of order, but she was always tense. Even when she slowed down, just for a little while, and indulged in something vaguely resembling relaxation, there was always something winding, some cog turning.

You guess that hasn’t changed.

You give her a respectable bit of distance and phase into visibility. Laura flinches and you think you feel something shift under her skin.

For a moment, there’s nothing. She just stares down at her phone. One track…

“That another job?” You offer.

Her head snaps up, eyes wild with guilty surprise. Her entire form, every inch of it, leans into the beginnings of a sprint, but something stops her.

Those dusky eyes of hers feel like they’re knocking at your shades.

She breathes out slowly, staring at you like you’re something endangered and alien, something lost. Smells like cinders and apples.

“…JJ?”

You try to remember the last thing you said to her. You think you called her a retard.

>how does JJ break this most awkward of ices?

>[X] Write in. >[X] Ask her how she’s been.

At some point one of you is going to have to say something. Unless you’re counting on Laura to break the silence, which isn’t happening in this or any other universe. Speaking of whom, you notice Victoria’s eyes straying down your arm, to the hand knotted around Laura’s. You hurriedly disentangle your fingers and let the beginnings of a nervous cough trail off through your throat, thinking it’d maybe draw her attention away or something.

It’s not like there’s anything going on there, obviously. It just… seems almost rude.

“You changed your hair.” You finally force something out, and it’s that. “It’s nice.”

Her mouth moves silently. For a moment you’re certain she’s going to hit you, or turn and run, but she just folds her arms over her chest and leans on one hip, as if bracing herself for some heavy duty processing.

“I’ve…” She looks you up and down. Are you that different? “…I’ve had it for a while now.”

“Right.” Silence. Silence. Got to– “How’ve you been?”

She flinches through a few expressions, before settling on something you can’t quite distil into anything particularly simple. Tired, possibly sad, maybe angry too?

“What are you doing here, JJ?”

>[X] Explain what you were doing. >[X] Write in.

“Honestly?” Cards on the table, you guess. She never did beat you at cards. “I was going to rob you. Before I knew you were… you.”

She sighs.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this…” Her eyes wander momentarily. “You’ve backed Creeper into a corner, you know? You should be gone. Out of town.”

You feel the sweat on your palms. Her scent is different but the same. That acidic, sifting something…

“I’m not leaving.” You state, hoping you sound somewhere in the general area of resolute. “I’m taking down Creeper. And all of his people.”

She almost laughs. It’s that quick, unbelieving exasperation that gathers in the throat like a dried-up chuckle.

“I’m serious.” You continue. “You tried to talk me out of this, once. You’ve seen what he’s doing. Can you still say I was wrong?”

“I’m just a courier.” She snaps back, a defensive edge to her tone.

“I know. I was just”–

Her hand silences you. She just stares for a moment, a quiet something bustling in her eyes, and slowly lowers her hand.

“Look…” She slides away her phone. “I won’t tell anyone about this, but you need to leave town. This is reality, JJ. Whatever game you think you’re playing, Creeper has already won. He won years ago. Just, for once, don’t be… don’t be such a fucked up little weirdo…”

She clenches her fists and walks past you.

“Good luck.”

>THREAD 46: END

Thread #47

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Your ex just made you feel like a total prick. Which is kind of weird and wrong, seeing as you’re the one trying to get her out of the drug trade and she’s the one… trying to get you to save your own skin, you guess. It dawns on you that you’re both championing a sort of logic here, or at least trying to – you’re both just equally armoured against sound reasoning, in different ways and for different reasons.

She makes her way past you, toward the road. She’s very pointedly turned her face away, but you know her eyes are set on a fixed point ahead, diminishing you, the street, the world. That’s Victoria; snipping and snipping at world until all that’s left is unquestioning, unthreatening simplicity.

Laura steps forward very slightly, and looks up at you as if to ask whether one of you should be stopping her.

Well. Should you?

>Current Funds: $112.3 >Present Time: 16:01 PM >Hunger Level: 4

>[X] “…I’m not a weirdo.” >[X] Ask her how long she can keep this up.

“…I’m not a weirdo.” You murmur, immediately aware of how much it sounds like air escaping from a deflated balloon.

Well, you’re not. You just have claws and sorta glowy eyes and scales in uncomfortable places, and can go invisible, and stuff. That’s not weird. You shift uncomfortably and take a few steps after her. Briefly, you consider grabbing her wrist, but decide against it. Too weird.

“Look…” You sigh quietly, picking your brain for the right words. “How long can you keep this up? We couldn’t do this shit forever. It just… it just won’t fucking work.”

She turns on her heel, her expression swept clean of everything but a deep scowl.

“Oh?” You feel the blades sharpening. “And I suppose you have your future all mapped out, right?”

Ouch.

“How long can I keep this up? How fucking long can you keep this shit up!?” She gestures to your torn, shabby coat and your stained hoodie. “Where the hell are you going? Because it sure as fuck looks a lot like nowhere!”

Familiar, rusty knives slip through the soft tissues of your being. Yes, you remember this feeling. You haven’t had an argument quite like this in a long while. You’ve screamed at folks and fought over embarrassingly small sums of cash, but this is a personal thing. You realize you almost missed this.

She breathes out slowly, a little raggedly.

“You can never, ever just not throw yourself off a bridge, can you?”

Persuade Check. >DC13 >+2 modifier Rolled 19 + 2

>21 >great success

>[X] “I may be going nowhere, but at least I’m not dragging anyone down with me.” >[X] “Someone has to do the right thing.”

You… you feel your finger waggling accusingly, your brain unpacking all those little red boxes full of private and baleful memories, all the small and devastating things, all the giants and the biting worms. All those things you get to know about a person in time, the things you just don’t shut up about and bear with for the most part. It takes all your willpower to drag those boxes back into the dark and avoid turning this into a sniping match.

“I may be going nowhere, but at least I’m not dragging anyone down with me.”

She looks confused for a moment. You think you might, too. That was uncharacteristically direct of you. And no stutters, too.

“Someone has to do the right thing, Victoria.” You feel your voice rising. It’s… unfamiliar. “At first, I was just looking out for myself. Then for my friends. Then… then it just became about being alright. About not making shit worse for a change!”

You’re shouting now. Some part of you notices that Laura has stepped back a little, but you refuse to back down now.

“Human fucking trafficking, Victoria!?” You spit it out. Like something cancerous. “You want to be a part of that!?”

Her eyes narrow and she cuts in.

“I’m not. I just deliver. I don’t even work for Creeper exclusively anymore.” Why isn’t she shouting back? That’s what you expected. “I’m freelance now.”

The arms folded defensively across her chest unwind. She sighs.

“Look, just… just stay there for a second…” She rummages through her pockets, eventually producing a pen.

“Give me your arm.”

>[X] “…Sure.”

“…Sure.”

You guess. She’s not gonna cut it off, right? Or vomit on it? She could never control the whole flamin’ puke thing before, but things change. You certainly have.

You hold your arm up, flinching a little as she pushes up your sleeve. In the corner of your eye, Laura teeters in curiously. You stand in awkward, close silence as she slowly drags the pen along your arm, scrawling out a short sentence.

Stepping back, she slides away her pen and breathes out, her shoulders falling a little.

“It’s an address.” She states. “I don’t know everything anymore, but I know you didn’t mention it in your little exposé. Dunno who’s running it or what it even does, but Creeper’s worked pretty hard to keep it a secret.”

She pauses, and lets her eyelids slowly fall, flexing her fingers as if letting something drain from them. Without warning, her arms coil around you, and you realize about a second later that she’s gone in for a hug. For a moment her scent overwhelms you, cinders and apples, dark coffee rolling over warm veins, and you almost don’t realize you’re squeezing her back.

It doesn’t last long. She disentangles, her eyes wandering far from yours, and stows her hands away in her pockets.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

She turns around again, making for the other end of the street, and this time you get the impression that nothing you say could break her stride.

Huh. You think this is what closure feels like.

>[X] Talk to Laura >[X] Go make your way to Queens Plaza.

You stand there in the cold for a moment, just trying to understand things. Eventually you notice the dark strands encroaching along the sky, and realize you’ve got to get going soon. You stretch, feeling a little like you have to let some tension out, and glance down at Laura.

“Sorry about that.”

She replies with a questioning stare, and you resolve to spill while you walk.

“I mean, sorry if we made you…” Feel like a third wheel? Somehow, you don’t see Laura as a wheel, exactly. “…uncomfortable. We used to date, and I guess we broke up when I left Creeper.”

You check a few of the nearby streets, getting your bearings back, and make your way in what you assume to be the right direction. As you make your way along the rows of squat, dishevelled little houses and blasted lawns that populate most of Queens, Laura speaks up.

“…I thought there was nothing for you with Creeper.” She stares straight ahead. “You made it sound like that.”

You grimace a little. “I guess… I made it sound like that to myself, too. I just wanted to get away.”

“I see.”

Navigation Check >DC13 >+3 modifier for Senses Rolled 19

>where's the JJ I know? >where's my crackbitch?

You sort of know where you are.

It doesn’t take you long to get out of the residential stretch. Slowly, the buildings lengthen, grassy porches receding into well-trodden streets, houses becoming apartments, old brick becoming modern glass. The walk is long, and gives you a chance to process. You glance at the address on your arm and, not recognizing it, type it into your phone. You don’t want this break ruined on the off chance that you find yourself sweating profusely.

Eventually you see the mouth of the station rearing up, your relief immediately chastised by the sight of men in yellow Mutant Control armbands idling nearby. You almost sneer, and find yourself checking for your shades. Okay, on. And your coat is big and puffy, so no collar scales out in the open.

You’re just a normal hobo. Just an average, homeless, guy.

You check the time.

>17:55 PM

>[x] Wait just close enough to overhear the MC guys. Social Stealth check. >DC12 >+1 modifier Rolled 4

>fail >fail >fail

Almost automatically, you drop your arm over Laura’s shoulder and nod toward the cluster of Mutant Control officers.

“I know.” She comments, quietly, as you steer the both of you toward the side of the road, just close enough to overhear whatever they’re talking about. You want to know how long they’ve been there, how long they’re going to be there, and what they’re doing. You can’t help but be quietly suspicious of running into such a large clump of these tools so soon after your article hit the streets.

The wretched, vengeful little angel of your darker nature tells you that whoever runs Control wouldn’t like the idea of a sympathetic mutant story. But that’s just you being you, right? JJ, paranoid survivor. That’s just you.

You listen, filtering out the roar of the streets.

“…skyrocketing. I tell you, it won’t be long before someone rethinks the border-only policy on Sentinels.”

“Bull.” One of them chuckles. You smell cheap coffee and cigarettes on his breath. “That’s insane. Mutants need to be kept registered, but nobody’s letting Trask bring giant walking weapons into our cities. People won’t stand for it.”

You hear a low murmur of agreement pass among most of them. Five. Five guys.

“Look, all I’m saying is, if that happens we’re obsolete. Could pay to keep on the lookout for a new gig.” The voice pauses, and chuckles quietly. “Or, I guess, you could get slashed up by some random mutie, catch that sweet severance packa”–

He stops, and you feel a strange half-utterance bubble in his throat. You chance a sidelong glance in their direction, and he’s staring at you, muttering to one of the others. His finger hovers demonstratively near his ear for a second.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshi–

“Hey!” You crane your neck around, towards Peter approaching through the crowd. He’s waving, his schoolbag slumped over his shoulder. There’s some blonde girl with him.

Shit.

>[x] Try to indicate Peter away. ANOTHER Social Stealth check. >DC12 >+1 modifier Rolled 20 + 1

>BANG >THAT WHICH DOESN'T KILL JJ >ONLY MAKES JJ STRONGER

>[X] Try to indicate Peter away.

You fix your eyes on Peter and shake your head as surreptitiously as you can, flicking your gaze from him to the gaggle of Control officers currently appraising your viability as a mutant felon. He frowns for a moment and stops in his tracks, glancing in their direction. You think you see a short-lived scowl spread across his face, and he turns to his companion, quietly ushering her away, back into the tide of commuters.

Well… at least you’re not dragging him out into the open with you.

You turn away to see one of the officers – tall, clean shaven guy, breath smells of gum – approaching. His fellows flank him a little further back

“Excuse me…” He gets a closer look at your tattered silhouette. “…sir. Would you mind removing your glasses, please?”

>[X] “One does not ask such things of DOOM.”

You feel Laura’s hand creep its way behind your back. Under the dull roar of the street, you barely hear the SNIKT of cool, bright metal pushing through her skin.

You look straight at him, shades to eye, and you just can’t resist.

“One does not ask such things of DOOM.”

He blinks. The edge of his mouth quivers and you feel his chest shake quietly, a low murmur of a laugh straining to stay bottled up in his lungs. One of his friends lets out a low, guttural snicker, grimacing bemusedly.

“Damn, we’ve got a tense diplomatic situation here. Better call the Avengers.”

The guy closest glances back at him, grinning very faintly, and turns back to you.

“Really, sir, I insist.” He puts his hands on his hips. You supposed that’s supposed to be authoritative. “It’s probably nothing.”

Persuade Check >DC18 >+1 ability modifier Rolled 17

>18 >slim success

>[X] Write in.

What can you say? What can you say? You think you feel Laura tensing to pounce. You can hear her heart dragging blood faster and faster though her veins, like a chain reaction slowly blooming, one explosion to the next…

“I’d rather not.” You lick your lips. Doesn’t help. “I just got my eyes dilated.”

He chortles a little, and rolls his eyes. A long sigh rattles through him.

“Okay… whatever, sure.” He turns away.

He knows. You can tell. He just doesn’t care. You’re not dangerous or interesting enough to be worth the trouble. No claws out, no eye lasers, no suddenly turning into tentacles and screeching about Magneto. You're too normal. Holy shit, he’s just walking away.

SNIKT. The blades slide away behind you. You feel your heart winding down, a fleck or two of moisture returning to your tongue.

Fuck, that was… close as shit.

Your hands still shaking a little, you fish out your phone, quickly noticing that there’s a message waiting from Peter.

“U okay?”

>[X] “Yeah, where are you?”

It takes you a little while to get a coherent reply out of your nervous fingers. Eventually, you manage to ask him where he is, and soon enough you get a reply.

“Jus in the alley across th road”

You breathe out a long sigh of relief and glance down at Laura, almost grinning. She stares back, her face caught in a muted, perplexed concern.

“Close.” You note.

She nods.

You head over the street, checking over your shoulder once or twice for anyone with a Control band around their arm. They’re just milling about near the station, slowly edging their way further along the street.

Soon enough you turn the corner into the closest alley, popping your head around the corner in a fit of nervousness. Peter stands beside one of those bigass metal bins you used to raid for leftovers, his back to you. The girl with him spots you over his shoulder and nods in your direction. He turns around.

“…Hey.” He honestly does sound sorry. “I was not expecting that.”

Man, you swear, sometimes it’s like Peter isn’t even a mutant. >THREAD 47: END

Thread #48

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

After narrowly escaping Mutant Control through the awesome power of being too uninteresting to arrest, you met up with your sort-of-friend-sort-of-acquaintance Peter, who appears to have taken a little detour on his way home from school.

“Don’t worry about it.” You respond to his apology, gesturing with your hands as if to brush the close call out of mind. “I handled it. You should watch out for those guys, though.”

“Hah…” He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “…Yeah, I guess so.”

You glance over at the girl beside him, who seems to have no qualms about very visibly appraising your appearance. Judging by the bag and the egregiously teenage punk fashion, she’s gotta be a classmate. It seems you can’t catch Peter without some manner of female company following close behind. You wonder if she knows about him – about his secret, that is.

Beside you, Laura’s breath lengthens subtly, assessing her scent. You don’t think they catch it, which you’re quietly thankful for. You try as hard as possible to resist the urge to do that, for fear that it makes you look like a total weirdo. Even if it does feel completely natural now.

Peter’s companion nudges him a little, smiling with one eyebrow raised.

“This guy is the friend you were telling me about?”

“Uh, yeah. Um… Gwen, meet JJ.”

She runs her teeth over her bottom lip. What is that, surprise or something?

“Okay… you’re homeless, right?” You guess it is rather obvious.

“Gwen…” Peter seems to almost cringe it out.

>Current Funds: $112.3 >Present Time: 18:01 PM >Hunger Level: 5

>[X] “Don’t worry about it. Yeah, I’m a hobo.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You could almost roll your eyes. “Yeah, I’m a hobo.”

It seems she wasn’t expecting such a straight answer. Her brow pops up a little and her smile turns a little sheepish.

“Right. Okay, well… sorry, I just wasn’t sure.” She glances at Peter. “Not really what I was expecting when this guy said he wanted to meet a friend on the way home.”

“I’m sure.” You are sure. Peter seems like the straight A’s kind of kid. You wonder what his parents would think if they knew he was chumming around with some homeless mutant guy. You wonder if they even know he’s a mutant.

“Anyway…” She stares pointedly to your side. It takes you a second to figure out that she’s indicating toward Laura, who stands beside you in characteristic silence.

“Oh, yeah… this is Laura.”

You give her a moment to introduce herself, but it just extends the silence. Guess you should’ve expected that.

>[X] Tell Peter you need to talk to him about something important. >[X] “On the way home? Are you guys siblings?”

Wait. You look Gwen up and down. No, no resemblance there. But…

“On the way home? Are you guys siblings?”

Gwen shakes her head. “Nah, I just live with him.”

You angle your gaze toward Peter, who shakes his head frantically.

“Hah, well, whatever.” You glance back over your shoulder, still a little worried about those Mutant Control guys. Nowhere in sight. “I kind of need to talk to you about something important.”

Peter straights up and steadies his backpack.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Can we walk and talk? I promised my aunt I’d be home before seven.”

>[X] “Actually…”

“Actually, this is kind of something sort of sensitive…” You glance over at Gwen.

While you’re sure she’s an okay gal, she’s also a normal person, as far as you can tell, and mutant abduction rings are well outside of most normal folks’ comfort zones. And she lives with Peter, too… she could totally go tell his folks about all this if she got significantly weirded out.

She flicks her gaze between you and Peter, who has sort of frozen in thought.

“Seriously?” She rolls her eyes. “Not exactly doing a good job of convincing me that this isn’t shady as hell, dude.”

“It’s not, Gwen.” Says Peter, doing a relatively good job of looking innocent. “It’s not drugs or anything, okay?”

Man, why do drugs always have to come up? Do you really look like that much of a junkie? You don’t think you look like a junkie at all. Just a filthy slobmonster.

“Yes.” Gwen’s voice takes on a sardonic tone. “Bringing up drugs will ease my concerns.”

Peter grimaces, a long sigh whistling through his teeth.

>[X] “It’s a mutant thing, okay? You don’t UNDERSTAND our struggle. X Gon’ Give it to Ya!”

Eurgh, fuck this. Again, probably an okay girl, but you’re working in a timeframe here.

“It’s a mutant thing, okay?” You cut in, lowering your shades. “You saw those guys back there give me trouble, right?”

She stares into your undecided swirls of blue & green, taken aback a little. Eventually, she clears her throat.

“Uh… yeah, I guess. Sorry. I’ll just…” She fidgets with her bag for a second, her entire demeanour set subtly off balance, and starts making her way toward the main street in small, apologetic steps. “…I’ll just wait a bit ahead…”

You watch her go in silence, before turning to Peter. He fixes you with a bemused smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her thrown off quite like that.”

“Mutie card, man.” You joke. “Potent when delivered precisely.”

He chuckles quietly.

>[X] Tell him everything.

“So. What was all that about?”

“Well…”

You’re not sure what to say. Really. How much of this is yours to tell, and how much of it is Laura’s? How much is safe for him to know? How much is even remotely believable? Peter may be a mutant, but he lives in a rather different, brighter universe. There are no imperceptible Creepers in Peter’s universe, no clandestine military evils, no shadows looming on all sides. Sometimes you can barely believe half the shit you run into, and you’re there to see it.

You take a deep breath, and pretty much all of it comes tumbling out. The Facility. Kimura. The abductions, Laura’s implied history of wetworks and human slavery, the preacher whose head that terrifying woman nearly snapped off. You leave out Laura’s part in anything, but aside from that, you censor nothing.

“…So, understandably, you need to stay the hell away from these people.”

Peter stares at you. For a moment he just seems to turn over your wild claims in his head, and you can’t help but entertain the idea that he’s trying to match them with your appearance, trying to find something that would make it all a bit more believable. Eventually, he breaks his silence.

“…Shouldn’t the police know about this? Or the government?”

You’re a little taken aback at how straight he takes it. Every word out of his mouth suddenly seems very precisely chosen.

Finally, Laura speaks up.

“The Facility has provided many services to this government.” Her voice is quiet and small.

“But…” Peter stutters a little, a quiet indignation entering his voice. “People can’t just do that. I mean, you can’t just… get away with that sort of thing…”

You bite your lip. This feels a little like telling a kid that Santa Claus isn’t real, and that actually that guy at the mall is just some tramp.

“Of course you can, Pete.” You sigh. “Your life seems pretty great, and that's cool, but most of us spend all our time running from people who get away with this kind of shit for a living.”

He looks at the ground. Is that anger? Or something else?

>[X] “Look, let’s just catch up with your friend.” >[X] “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you’d be careful around them. If you ever see ‘em again.”

“Look, let’s just catch up with your friend.”

You kind of want this to end on a happy note. Or, at least, a less depressing note than that of spoiled innocence.

“Didn’t mean for this to be a downer, man.” Though, you can’t imagine any real way that it couldn’t have been. “It’s not like these guys are gonna be coming for you. You’re way too normal. I just wanted to make sure you’d be careful around them. If you ever see ‘em again.”

Peter looks up, offering a somewhat morose smile.

“Yeah, sure.”

The three of you make your way onto the main street. You follow Peter a little while before running into Gwen leaning outside a 7/11, nursing a bottle of coke. She brightens up as you approach, and you quickly move on, meandering over the road, away from the shops and the cafes and everything in between.

You ask Peter how his girlfriend’s doing, and he laughs, asking if you’re gonna say that every time the two of you meet. You reply that you did sorta break her ankle. “She’s okay.” He reveals. “A little annoyed at missing so much work, but she’ll get over it.”

She has a job?

The streets steadily open out into a residential stretch of short, squat houses.

>[X] Ask what she works as. >[X] Ask Gwen why she’s living with Peter.

“Chat has a job?” You narrow your eyes down at him. “Isn’t she the same age as you guys?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. It’s part-time.” He smiles sort of distantly. “It’s pretty great, though. She kinda works at a detective agency. The animals thing is… useful, I guess. Not that it’s just that. I mean, she’s super cool and smart and…”

He brings up so many ways in which is beautiful mutant girlfriend is awesome that they start to blur together at some point.

His smile undulates somewhere short of a grin, and somewhere nameless and strange. You don’t recognize it, exactly – not personally – but a bitter, small part of you realizes that it must be some manner of love. Which is why you don’t know it all too well, you guess.

You catch Gwen turn her eyes up a little.

“So.” You cut in, not sure that you or Gwen can take too much more of Chat’s praises. You nod at the blonde girl. “What’s the deal with you two? Why’re you living together?”

Peter glances over at his friend a little protectively. She just shrugs.

“Ah…” Her voice trails off into an awkward chuckle. “Well, my mom sort of abandoned me, and Spider- Man killed my dad, so…”

Peter flinches.

“…I guess I’m an orphan.” You can see the strain behind her grin. “Anyway, Pete’s aunt decided to take me in, which is probably the coolest thing anyone’s ever done for me…”

>[X] “Spider-Man? Seriously?” >[X] “Sorry to hear. I lost my parents, too.”

“Spider-Man? Seriously?”

That doesn’t sound like Spider-Man. That sounds like ‘Spider-Man According to JJJ’, which is most certainly not the guy you ran into at Mister Negative’s sweet occult penthouse.

“Yeah.” She states, but almost immediately seems to loosen up a little, sighing deeply. “Well… the cops say it was a guy in Spider-Man suit, but it’s just… it’s sort of hard to believe… He had powers and everything…”

Man, that’s a bummer.

“Sorry to hear it. I lost my parents too.” You lick your lips and banish the thoughts of fire they invoke in your brain. “…A long time ago.”

“Huh.” She smiles a little bitterly, forcing out a laugh. “Where are we, Dead Parents Anonymous?” She jostles Peter a little, who takes it in his stride. “I guess we’re all orphans together.”

You glance down at Laura, who has remained utterly silent until now. Eventually, she notices your attention, and nods.

“Yes. My mother is also deceased.”

Huh. That wasn’t actually what you were wondering. You just thought she might not be entirely comfortable with the parent talk.

“Oh my God…” Gwen nurses her forehead in her palm, still grinning lopsidedly.

As you head up the street, you realize that you’re a pretty clearly homeless dude walking home with three kids. Maybe not a great impression to make on the Parkers’ neighbours.

“Hey, Pete…” You lower your voice, already starting to feel a nervous twinge in your bones. “It’s okay for me to be here, right? I mean, to be seen with you guys?”

“Oh…” He raises one eyebrow in thought. “…I guess? Aunt May won’t mind. I don’t think so, anyway.”

>[X] Ask about the detective agency.

A little relieved that the conversation has steered itself away from dead parents, you decide not to go and steer it all the way back. Instead, you can’t help but be rather interested by what Peter let slip about his girlfriend – his fifteen-year-old mutant girlfriend – working at a detective agency. Somehow, you can only imagine some kind of grossly over-funded high school newspaper club.

“So, uh… out of interest…” Yes, interest in money. “…what kind of detective agency hires kids?”

“Oh.” Peter laughs a little. “Yeah, it’s a pretty weird thing they’ve got going there. It’s called the Blonde Phantom Detective Agency. They’re kind of small, but cool. I think they’ve got some other guys with powers working for them… uhhh…”

He squints, as if trying to stare down an elusive, far-off memory.

“…Ricochet? Tripfire? Or something?”

You have never, ever, ever heard of a superhero called Tripfire. Ever. Come to think of it, you’ve never heard of Ricochet either.

“Speaking of superpowers…” Gwen cuts in with a small measure of trepidation to her voice, as if testing unfamiliar waters. She’s got a big, eager look on her face. Oh, you know where this is going… “You have powers, right? Like, mutant powers? What can you do?”

>[X] Tell some

It was always going to come to this, you suppose.

You scratch your head, suddenly a little nervous. What powers do you have, anyhow? You’re starting to lose count of this shit. You’re strong, you’re sneaky, you can tazer peeps with your hands… you’re becoming quite the mishmash of abnormal crap. You’ve heard Laura’s thoughts on the matter, and you’ve entertained the idea that you’re stealing this stuff, but you can’t help but wonder if maybe something’s wrong with you.

Maybe you’re broken.

“Well…” You squirm a little and feel yourself grimace awkwardly. “I’m not entirely sure, actually. I can do a few things. I’m pretty strong…”

You glance over at Gwen out the corner of your eye. She looks absolutely ecstatic. Guh.

“…I can hear really far… and I guess I can turn invisible?”

“Seriously?” She grins like a hyena. “Holy shit, for real? That’s the best! Do it, man!”

You feel yourself curl a little inwards at the overabundance of attention, disguising it by bringing your hand up and coughing.

“…We’re kind of in public here, so…”

“Ah, yeah. Lame.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Eventually, you realize that the Gwen & Peter are veering into the street, toward a small, two-floor house with a little porch. Surrounded by the glow of one of the windows, you notice a woman in her forties, maybe early fifties, taking interest in your little group.

Guess they’re home.

>[X] See if you can get some details on this ‘Blonde Phantom Detective Agency’.

Your agitation only increases as you approach the porch with them, every footfall feeling distinctly out of place. This isn’t a homeless person place. This is real person world. It’s not a gated community, but it’s not a snowed-in alley or a shattered apartment or an old, abandoned subway platform, and anything too far removed from your universe of dilapidation and cold feels wrong.

Good, sometimes inviting, but wrong.

“Hey…” You slow to a stop on the grass leading up to the porch, Gwen and Peter turning to face you. “I should probably get going an’ stuff…”

Yeah, you have lots of hobo things to do. And it is getting a little dark.

“Uh, do you think you could get me some info on that Blonde Phantom thing?” You blurt it out suddenly, surprising yourself a little. You were about to all but bolt across the lawn and out into the familiar chill of the city proper. “You know… just in case. I could do with some work.”

Peter looks surprised for a moment, but smiles.

“Yeah. Yeah, I could.” He pauses. “I… don’t really have anything on me, but I could ask Chat. Maybe she could drop in a good word on you.”

Haha, yes, she will certainly do that for the guy who broke her ankle.

“Thanks, Pete. Night, guys.”

“See you.”

Gwen waves, and you watch them head up onto the porch, turning away as the door opens and warm, homey light spills out across the gathering dark. You make your way off the lawn, vaguely aware of Laura’s stare cutting intently into the side of your face. You must have an... interesting… expression on.

Behind you, you hear a stern, middle-aged voice.

“You’re not inviting your friends in, Peter?”

>[X] Stop.

Every scrap of what you know tells you to keep going. You know that, when she gets a good look at you, that’ll be it. Everything will be off the table, and you won’t be coming in, no way, and what’s more, it will be super weird for everyone involved. Everyone – you, Gwen, Peter, his aunt. Even Laura might catch on, that’s how weird it will be. Everyone. And Lord help you if she figures out you’re a mutant – that Peter has been hanging out with a homeless mutant.

No.

No no no.

You stop. Against the urging of your own bones, you slowly turn around.

Pete glances over at you from up on the porch. A thin shadow against the light of the indoors, his expression is invisible, unreadable. You bet it’s not a good one, though.

“Hey, JJ!” There is an awkward pause. “You guys want to come in or something?”

You feel yourself trudging your way up the porch, like a man possessed, aware of yourself only from a great distance, ahold of yourself only tangentially. Laura steps beside you, her warmth almost more real than your own hazy borders, more of an anchor than any one of the thoughts stifling your brain.

You step onto the porch and find yourself standing under that warm light. Peter’s aunt is a thin, terse- looking woman with short, greying hair and piercing eyes. She looks straight at you, then at Laura, and, to her credit, her expression only changes for a second.

Oh God…

>[X] “No, it’s okay, I should be going. Thanks for the offer.”

“N-no, it’s okay, I should be going.” You avert your eyes slightly. It doesn’t really matter, what with the shades, but you can’t help yourself. “Thanks for the offer.”

You step down from the porch, inwardly chiding yourself. Why’d you walk all the way up there if you were just gonna say no? What the fuck is wrong with you? That was a real house, with plumbing and hot food an’ stuff. Godfuckingdammit.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Calls that succinct, sharp voice.

You turn about and just sort of nod lamely.

“Uh, no, i-it’s okay, I just… I have to meet some people, thank you very much though…” You feel your voice trail off hoarsely.

You walk. You hear her say something, something, you’ll stop to comprehend it in a moment, you keep going, going, going, night lengthening, way opening…

You sicken yourself sometimes.

>THREAD 48: END

Thread #49

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You just declined a possible warm meal under an actual roof. You’re not entirely sure why.

The evening deepens as you make your way out of Peter’s neighbourhood, the last stragglers from work and school vanishing one by one into their homes, away from the growing dark. The night is a grey one, heavy, pregnant clouds bloating across the sky. Snow will be general again tonight, all the way from Peter’s warm house in Queens to the upstate dwelling of Mister Negative. Perhaps even across much of the country, slowly falling, from the open vista at Providence to those reeling waves along the shore of Lake Michigan.

You wonder why you did that – just left like you did. The woman’s face returns to you, contorted by the interplay of shadow and light, and you feel your thoughts growing pale and grey with a sort of creeping paralysis. You cannot even entertain an imagination of the interior behind her, of warmth, of light all around you. In its place you find instead a dark and irritable mood, an indignation at everything but yourself. They don’t deserve it, but your thoughts turn bitter toward them all – Peter, his aunt, Gwen, that distant girlfriend…

You clench your teeth and try to ignore it.

>[X] Look for another one of Creeper’s thugs.

You screw your eyes shut for a moment, your breath emerging as a steady hiss. Your head hurts. You feel like something’s gonna tear its way out soon enough, emerging from the ravine between your right and left hemisphere like some kind of hellish cranial nightmare.

You recall the other two men you were considering as targets earlier in the day; the guy at the college and the one clinging to the soup lines.

Yes, you could use them. You could hit them till you feel better. That searing anger pressing at the walls of your skull almost demands in, pushing the tips of your claws from their fleshy sheaths. You feel your blood agreeing, thrumming with eager heat.

>[X] College.

You bet the guy at the college is smaller. Doesn’t have to fend off desperate hobos, after all. Just desperate hipsters.

You pick up the pace again, emerging just far enough out of your thoughts to take notice of your immediate surroundings. It doesn’t take you long to make your way out of the residential sweep where Peter lives, the streets growing closer and louder, shadows growing and multiplying.

“Where are we going?” Asks Laura, causing the hairs to rise on the back of your neck. You’d almost forgotten she was even there.

“Um…” You think. Where are you going? “This… college place. There’s another one of Creeper’s guys there.”

You feel her staring into your shoulders, her footfalls trailing a little behind you. She scrutinizes you for a good thirty seconds, before finally speaking up once again:

“…It’s getting late.”

>[X] “So?”

“So?” You respond, a little brusquely.

Why does she even care? Is she trying to say something? Why doesn’t she just say it?

“I’m not going home empty handed.” You add, feigning a determined tone.

Makes sense. You went out to get money. You don’t come back until you have money. Makes sense.

“I see.” She notes, falling back into silence.

I see. ‘I see’. Quiet, always quiet…

She stays silent throughout the journey. You retrace your steps, following a combination of half- recognition, scent, and instinct to lead you back onto more familiar streets. Soon you realize that you’re not far from the scar, and it’s just a short walk now. The trek takes you past the park that served as meeting grounds for you and Creeper (and the Hellions, too), a little off the main street where you first ran into Julian.

The college is a large, modern building surrounded by a wide lawn, a clusters of strategically planted trees greenifying the grounds. A few students linger under them, even in these cold hours, discussing something or other. But you’re not here for them.

>[x] Smell for drugs. Sensey Sensey Check >DC18 >+3 modifier Rolled 18 + 3

>21 >success!

You shut your eyes.

Grass flushes through your nose. Wet leaves. The smell of earth after the snow has had time to settle and run, trickling deep into the breathless loam down below. You smell smoke hanging off the lips of a boy nearby, and unwashed clothes. The sickly-sweet scent of teenagers, riddled with acne and hormones and awkward, shuffling attraction, lays itself over you like a heavy fugue, but as you step cautiously forward, one food after the other, you find yourself filtering your way through it.

You specify. You draw on what you know, on feelings and thoughts stapled to the notion of drugs. Creeper, Asahi, the sweat of a long, desperate pace, Victoria, breathless, uncomprehending euphoria…

Little sparks being to light the dark. Marijuana. You think you smell mushrooms. PCP.

Jack.

Your nostrils flare.

“Hey, dude…” You feel a hand come down on your shoulder. Your entire body coils into defensive revulsion.

You open your eyes, realizing that your little scent adventure has taken you well across the long lawn outside the building, not too far from what looks like the main entrance. A tall young man wearing a cap under his hoodie stands at your side, staring at you with an expression of bemused apprehension. A little ways behind him linger a trio of other teens – his friend, you’d imagine.

“…What’re you doing?”

Persuade Check >DC15 >+1 modifier Rolled 18

>19 >great success

Hand. Get that hand off me before I shove it down your throat. Off.

You open your mouth to say it, your blood itching with the sudden urge to push this guy around a bit, to dare him to start something, but the words curdle in your throat. You pause, and, as if seeing yourself from the outside, or through this dumb teenager’s eyes, you think about what you were just about to say.

Man, you were just gonna kick this guy’s shit in, weren’t you? You wanted it. You still do. The words are still there, bunching like a viper at the bottom of your lungs, ready to spring out and taint the world red.

“DOOM seeks the Latverian embassy, simpleton.” You release your anger as healthy derision instead. “I would have thought this obvious.”

He blinks, and you sigh.

“Seriously, though, I’ve got a cold.”

“Oh…” A grin tugs at his cheeks and he chuckles a little nervously. “…Right, right. Uh, sorry.”

“No problem.” You force it out. Yes problem. Yes problem! My foot isn’t in your face you giant fuckhead! Fuck youuuuuuuu–

“John.” Laura breaks her silence as the kid retreats, looking up at you. You think you see something approaching concern in those green mysteries. Or accusation. Is it accusation? What’s she accusing you of? Where does she get off on tha”– “Your heartrate is elevated.”

Yeah, so? He surprised you. You're surprised. Shocked, even.

“…At roughly a hundred and twelve times normal speed…”

Oh.

>[X] You guess you can come back some other time.

“I…”

You watch your breath spiral in the air, white-hot against the encroaching black of night. Suddenly, you become aware of how feverish your skin feels – you must be like a goddamn boiler to the touch. You think you can see tiny wisps of steam rising from your hands, escaping through the various little holes in your gloves.

“I… I guess…” Laura holds your gaze, as if steadying you in place. You almost feel like you’re being lead along a narrow bridge… “…we can come back… some other time?”

She nods. “Yes. That would be possible.”

You swallow, your throat pounding.

The two of you make your way out, down back onto the main road, where the crowds can almost drown out that incognisant bile churning in your belly. What was that? What the fuck was that? You listen to your heart, tuning out the crowds of shoppers. There it is, humming along like a turbine. How…?

You feel a fresh, unfamiliar sort of fear stab at you from the dark.

>[X] Grab some food before you go home. >[X] Talk to Laura.

As expected, the night is soon speckled with snow, tiny motes of brilliant cold falling softly through the air. They hiss quietly where they touch your skin, melting across your hood and shoulders. The cold ignites your senses, slowly clearing your head.

“Sorry.” You mumble, as you step across the road. Laura glances up at you.

You don’t meet her eyes.

“For acting like a prick, I mean. I don’t know… I don’t know where that came from…” Yes you do. It came from helplessness. But the way it bunched in your like hot coal, the way it roared and stoked at the lightest touch… you don’t know what that was. “I couldn’t think. And when I could, it was all… wrong. About everything.”

You remember how her stare seemed to goad you, filling your brain with fevered accusations. You almost wince, but in the end, it emerges as a long, deep sigh instead.

“You stopped me from doing something really stupid back there. Thanks.”

You feel her eyes slink away, facing ahead once again. After a little while, she nestles a little closer, her shoulder nudging against yours. Her hair smells strange.

“You’re like radiator.” She says.

You stop to pick up a sandwich each on the way back, wolfing it down while Laura pecks at hers. That anger really burned some power.

By the time you make it back beyond the Scar’s borders, to the mouth of the abandoned subway station, night is well and truly dominant, the world plunged into dark, frigid quiet. You check your phone before descending, and see that you have a text from Ms. Hardy.

>[X] Read texts before sleeping.

You bring up the message, sincerely and desperately hoping that you’re not about to be called away to play a delicate(ish) instrument in front of a club full of cowardly and superstitious criminals.

As expected, Ms. Hardy is brief and to the point. She wants you at the Tabbycat on Tuesday, then again on Thursday and Saturday. 6’o’clock sharp. She stresses again that, while you’ll be provided with a suit, you’ll also be expected to turn up relatively well-groomed. You guess you should be getting round to shaving soon.

Not that you have all that much to shave. It’s mostly bumfluff, really, but you have a lingering affection for it. You’ve had it for a while, after all.

After almost instinctively deflecting a jab full of implications from Layla, you succumb to sleep, fading away into the rushing black under your thoughts…

You don’t dream. Maybe you’re too tired.

Sleep seems so sound as to simply flutter by unnoticed. You curl up tighter in your hoodie, half-cognisant. Eventually, after a brief glance at your watch, you realize that you’re not waiting to go to sleep – you’ve stepped so fluidly between the words of the living and the strange that you barely noticed it at all.

You pull yourself up, wiping the residue of sleep from your eyes. It’s almost midday – 10:45 AM.

The fire crackles nearby. Voices – Lucas, Gaby, Kevin – slur in and out and through one another. You can smell breakfast, and you notice a few fresh bags clumped beside the steps. Kevin must’ve dipped into money he earned during his excessively brief term at the Bugle.

Something shifts beside you. You veer in its direction, glancing down, and almost jump. Laura lies, her eyes shut and flickering near-imperceptibly, on the tiled floor nearby.

>[X] Wake up Laura. >[X] Go upstairs to get signal.

You roll your shoulders to dispel the last vestiges of sleep, and reach out to gently shake Laura’s arm. She stirs slowly, and for a while you’re not sure if she’s awake or simply turning in her sleep. Then her eyes open in a single flash of green and she stares blankly at the ceiling before focusing on you. Through her arm, you feel her muscles tense for a second, before falling back into relative calm.

“Hey. Breakfast is up.” You say, stifling a quick yawn. “I’m just gonna head upstairs to check my phone.”

She nods, and begins pulling herself up.

You stretch, feeling your claws unsheathe involuntarily for a moment, as if yearning to be free, before heading out into the cold. As expected, the snow has deepened. Wonderful.

You check your phone, and are a little surprised to find no less than six missed calls from Peter.

>Hunger Level: 4

>[X] Call him.

You’re about to send a text, when you notice that all these calls have been coming in quick bursts in the last half hour-ish (You’re slowly getting used to this technology stuff). Must be urgent.

You call him back and wait a moment as the phone rings. Literally a moment – Peter picks up almost immediately, his harried “Hi” accompanied by the sound of nearby jeering and a stern admonition from what sounds like a teacher. You hear him pull himself from the receiver for a second.

“...Sorry, sorry, it’s kind of an emergency thing…”

You just about make out the words “…always an emergency” before the sounds of the classroom fade, a door clicking shut somewhere.

“…Peter?” You ask, your tone slightly accusatory. “Are you at school?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, look, this is important.”

You pause. “…Okay?”

“It’s about Ben.”

“…Ben?”

“Ben Urich.”

“Oh!” You slap yourself upside your head. “Right, newspaper guy."

Wait. Wait…

You have a bad feeling about this.

>THREAD 49: END

Thread #50

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

Responding to a bunch of calls from Peter, you interrupted his school day and were promptly informed that had to tell you something about Ben – Ben as in Ben Urich, as in the guy who wrote that article on you. The one that picked over ever bone of Creeper’s organization you could think of on the spot. And you’re pretty sure you heard the word ‘emergency’ crop up there at some point…

You have a bad feeling about this.

“…What about him?”

You almost wish you hadn’t asked.

“He wasn’t in this morning, which is…” Peter pauses, and you get the impression he’s mulling something over in his head. “…weird. I checked around, and apparently no one’s seem him since midday yesterday.”

Oh Christ. Wait. No. Could be nothing?

“Anyway, it’s just not like him to vanish like this. I tried calling, got nada.” ‘Nothing’, for you, evaporates right about there. Into the myriad possibilities of something. “Obviously, I’m kind of at school…” A deep, long sigh fills your ear. “…and I’ve already used all my emergency cards for the last month… so I was just wondering if you could check out his apartment, maybe?”

A hopeful twinge enters his tone.

“It could be nothing.”

>Current Funds: $112.3 >Present Time: 10:49 AM >Hunger Level: 4

>[X] “Sure, I’ll get on it right away.”

Ack. Ack ack ack.

God, you may be getting a bit ahead of yourself here, but you hope to Mary and some other saints you don’t know the names of that they haven’t cut off his balls yet.

“Sure.” Well, what else can you say? This is at least 70% your doing. Maybe more. “I’ll get on it right away.”

“Thanks, man.” Peter breathes out a long sigh of relief. “I’ve called Chat too, so don’t be alarmed if some random birds start showing up. Hopefully it’s nothing.”

“Yeah.” Yeah, it’s not nothing. How could it be?

You say goodbye and hang up. Looks like you have a busy and potentially very harrowing day ahead of you.

What a change from your usual schedule. However will you deal?

OKAY Lucas and Laura seem to be the most popular options for backup.

You head down the stairs, making little attempt to disguise your hurry. With the fugue of sleep fully withdrawn, you finally spot Layla still asleep beside the fire.

“Hey.” You get a few nods in response. “I’m, uh… heading out for a bit. Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

Laura glances up from her food. You note that, again, she’s not bothering with cutlery.

“Okay… where’re you going?” Asks Noriko, her tone a little suspicious.

Whatever. You guess you better tell ‘em.

“I just got a call about the guy who wrote my article. Apparently he’s gone missing.”

Lucas sits up.

“…Anyway, I’m just gonna stop by his apartment.” Probably. Possibly. There is a chance that that’s all you’ll do. “Hopefully I won’t be long. You want to come, Laura?”

Honestly, you just want her to come. But you can’t exactly say that.

She nods curtly and rises to her feet, flexing her arms experimentally.

“Me too.” Volunteers Lucas, jumping upright. “That guy was alright.”

Well… you guess he’s just as much a part of this as you are. Maybe moreso.

“Sure.”

The three of you set out, trudging across the fresh, undisturbed snow in relative silence. You’re not feeling particularly chatty – this Ben guy could be in serious trouble because of you. You tell yourself that it comes with the territory, that he wrote the article, that he chose to write the article, but none of it absolves you of your guilt.

You have to stop and check the address on your phone occasionally, but you make good time, finding yourself standing outside the sleek, modern apartments you visited Ben at in just over an hour.

Laura sniffs trepidatiously at the cold air, wrinkling her nose. You smell it too...

“Blood.”

Lucas says something, but you barely hear it.

Oh, here we go…

>[X] Go in with company. >[X] Go in invisible.

Right. God.

You just think for a second, running those scaly fingers of yours along your forehead. You feel that dull ache coming on again…

Should you really be doing this? What if Creeper’s just waiting up there? What if he’s rigged the whole place up with plastique? What if Mortimer, or that Geldoff fuckhead is up there, ready to throw down again? You don’t want that kind of exposure. You don’t want that kind of hurt. Christ, this is such shit.

“Lucas.” He straightens up at the sudden mention of his name. “Mind waiting out here for a bit? I can only bring one person into my invisifield.”

“Invisifield?” An eyebrow rises.

“I just made it up.”

You extend a hand to Laura. She takes it without hesitation, and you draw the both of you in to the muted reality of invisibility. You consider the obstacle of the locked door for a moment before just pushing hard on the latch, snapping it right open. You’ll pay for it when you can afford to. So, never.

The two of you head upstairs, stepping quietly. It doesn’t take you long to retrace your steps up to Urich’s door.

Experimentally, you close your fingers around the doorknob and turn.

Unlocked. And the smell is thicker up here. Fresher.

Slowly, painstakingly, you shift the door open.

What awaits you inside is a wreck. Papers lie strewn in haphazard clumps across the floor, flung from upturned desks. The centre table you sat at appears to have been hacked clean in two, and the sofa is all but ripped to shreds. The one item of furniture that hasn’t been thrown down or dismembered is a small, wooden chair, placed very deliberately at the centre of the room.

There’s a little box sitting on it.

“Shit.”

>[X] Just smell it, man, maybe you don’t need to see it.

Treading softly over the ruined carpet, you reach out for the box. It’s a delicate little thing, the kind you’d get a bunch of Belgian chocolates in, all pink and pretty and topped with a dark red bow. You bring it up to your nose and breathe in, dread buzzing in your head.

Blood, fat, skin, hints of wax. Yep, that’s a human ear. You don’t recognize the faint hint of aftershave clinging to hit, but you bet you’d find a matching brand in Urich’s bathroom.

Oh man. You set the box back down and run your hand through your hair.

Oh man oh man oh man…

Creeper cut his ear off. And packaged it for you. With a bow and everything.

“It smells like an ear.” Notes Laura.

“Yep. Ear.”

Fuck fuck. You guess this was a message, or something? Shouldn’t there be a note?

>[X] Check around for some kind of message. >[X] Get Laura to see if there’s one in the box.

“This is…” You bite your lip and glance around the tattered room. “…this is a message. Or something. There’s gotta be a note…”

“The box, perhaps?” Laura notes.

You nod. Yes. Yeah, that’s a bright idea.

“Mhmm.”

You look at that box for a bit. Oh yes, that’s an ear box. With an ear in it. There’s an ear in that box.

After a full minute of considering the box and its contents, you think you actually hear Laura huff very slightly as she leans by you to open it.

Well, you’ll just… just look around and stuff… all these smacked-up bits of furniture could be valuable clues…

As you lean beside the desk upturned in one corner of the apartment, Laura raises her voice.

“Ouch.”

“Hmm?” You glance up. “You step on something?”

She shakes her head slowly, and holds out a bloodied scrap of paper.

“It says Ouch. With an exclamation mark.”

No… address? No ‘be here at so and so time or the reporter gets it’? No puns about ears and possible testicles?

What the hell?

That’s not how you do ultimatums. Is Creeper just… fucking with you? >[X] See if Laura can follow Ben’s scent. >[X] Phone or text Peter.

You swallow hard. This is a little ways beyond your area of expertise, if an area of expertise is even something you have.

“Laura.” You stand up and head for the door, throwing one last cursory glance across the apartment. “Can you follow him? His blood?”

She samples the air, her nose twitching.

“Yes. The trail is relatively fresh.”

So this was recent.

“How fresh, would you say?” This could actually be important, you realize.

She cocks her head to one side in silent consideration.

“Six hours. At most.”

Okay…

Dragging out your phone, you send Peter a quick text, giving him the Cliff Notes on what you’ve walked yourself into. You tell him you’re working on something, but he should probably inform the Bugle at some point.

With that, you take your leave, gnarled, sickly imaginings gnawing at your heels.

>[X] Follow that scent. Urich may not have much time.

You practically fly out of the apartments, coming face to face with a very surprised and slightly unnerved Lucas.

“Uh… in a hurry?”

You don’t stop. No time to stop. Urich probably has a few hours, maybe less. If he’s even alive at all.

“Pretty much.” You look Lucas up and down once more, reminding yourself that, mutant or not, the kid is a kid. What is he, fourteen? Thirteen? You can’t remember. Useful as his ability is, you’re not quite sure how he’s going to handle Creeper in the flesh.

You hate to admit it, but part of what comforts you about Laura is that she is, as far as you can tell, near enough to invulnerable. Creeper slits her throat? It closes up. He cuts her arm off? She grows a new one. Unless he’s hiding one hell of a powerset, Lucas is not going to grow back any arms. One stray bullet, one knife in the right place, hell, one hard shove in the wrong direction, and that’s it.

That’s a dead thirteen-year-old. Or fourteen-year-old. Whatever. >[X] Don’t.

“Where we going?” He asks, lagging a little behind the two of you.

Nah. No. You’re not killing a child. Not directly, not indirectly. No.

“You’re not going anywhere.” You pause, and quickly add: “Except back to the scar. You know the way, right?”

“What!?” He picks up his pace. “Why!?”

“You’re like twelve, man.” You really should not have to explain this. “Or close enough. Go home.”

“But I can”–

“Go home, Lucas.”

He slows to a stop, watching you go. You feel a pang of guilt rip through your chest, but it’s nothing compared to what you’d feel if he went and got himself shot in the head. The scar is – for now, at least – safe. Where you’re headed, wherever that may be, isn’t.

And that’s all there is to it.

You follow Laura for a good two hours. She keeps up a relatively constant pace, making mechanical, inerrant turns through the urban mazeways of Queens. Occasionally, she stops very briefly, to taste at the air, but soon she’s on the trail again. Gradually the roads widen and the buildings fall deeper and deeper into disrepair, and you realize that you’re headed deep into one of the decaying skeleton neighbourhoods left in the wake of urban shift.

Eventually, you come to a huge, grey tombstone of a building – an old apartment block, long condemned. Laura leads you to the desolate parking lot at its roots, now populated mostly by towering rubbish bins and loose debris. From where you’re standing, the place is a sheer wall of foreboding brick and mortar, windows gaping like wounds across the second floors and upwards. You don’t think any of them are even glassed anymore.

“In there.” Laura states, narrowing her eyes at the building.

>[X] Go invisible. >[X] You adhesive touch through the windows, Laura waits.

You hunker down beside one of the larger rubbish bins, taking in the breadth of the place. It’s a big building. Lots of places to hide a de-eared prisoner. Lots of places to hide in general.

“Okay…” You lick your lips. You want this to be in and out. If you had the time, you’d have the Hellions by your side, and you’d be dropping a ton of shit down on Creeper’s imperceptible head, but you don’t. “If I can find him, I can get out with him in tow.”

Laura narrows her eyes slightly and glances past you, at the crumbling building.

“You have fifteen minutes.”

Nodding, you fade from sight, darting out from behind the bin and making a brisk jog for the nearest surface you can climb. You flatten your palms against the old brick lattice, suddenly remembering your first attempt at breaking and entering via adhesives, and…

>Climb Check >DC12 Rolled 15

>15 >success

You feel that uncanny, electrical buzz spread along your palms, the stone below sticking fast to your skin. Great, it still works. You were kinda worried that it might’ve faded or something, and you’d just be slapping the wall like an idiot for a few minutes. Haven’t used it in a while, after all.

One tentative arm after another, you climb your way to the closest window, taking a peek inside.

Inside is a bare, dimly-lit landing, festering stairs progressing up and down. On either side a pair of doorways – now without doors, which, judging by the twisted hinges, were purloined for some reason or another when the neighbourhood went to shit – lead on into the rest of the building.

>[X] Keep searching from the outside.

Nah.

Deciding to keep this gecko thing going, you crawl further up the building, making sure not to look down. The scent of blood waxes and wanes, but it’s generally pretty easy to follow – it’s distinctive, after all, and everything else here smells of so much dust.

Eventually it leads you to one of the windows on the third floor, looking in on a procession of battered old doors, their numbers shorn away long ago.

You filter your vision into the thermal range, and can’t help but smile to yourself when a quivering blob of body temperature manifests behind one of the doors. Whoever it is, they’re slumped down across the floor, mostly still. But they’re still warm, so there’s that.

You do a quick sweep, and realize that there’s three vague coronas of warmth idling on the floor above. Too far to take any notice, probably.

>[X] Go in, sweep the corridors.

You slip your way in, flinching a little as you set your feet down on the ancient, discoloured flooring. You’re expecting a creak, or a squeak, or something, but instead there’s just nothing. That’s all this place is – lots of nothing. Endless houses of dust and ether, one after the other, sitting in almost reverent silence. You can’t help but be a little unnerved by it.

Creeper certainly found himself a nice little haunted house.

But you’ve been inside a real haunted house, or something close enough, so no vaguely creepy vibes are gonna stop you in your tracks. Especially not after that rather nerve-wracking climb.

Deciding that caution is one of your greater virtues, you pad a short distance along the corridor, periodically scanning for heat signatures. Aside from a small pocket of radiance you assume to be cat, you get nothing. The corridor ends abruptly, and you turn back, checking the other way.

Your exercise in paranoia (no, caution. It’s caution) takes you to another landing. A quick glance in the thermal spectrum reveals two fiery silhouettes a level down. Normal body temperature, by the looks of things. So far you haven’t seen anything you’d peg as a Mortimer.

Though, you never did get a good look at Geldoff’s thermal shadow.

>[X] Go check Urich.

You follow the scent of gore back to your entrance, quickly identifying the apartment from which the scent is freshest. It’s not locked, of course – you don’t think there even is a lock anymore – and you gradually slide the door open, peeking out into the shadowy decrepitude of the place.

It’s an old studio apartment, just a thin corridor flanked by a pair of meagre incisions that must’ve served as bathrooms or closets at some point. Ahead, in the remains of the living room, Ben Urich lies strewn across an old, barely-stuffed mattress. Even in the dark, you easily make out thick bands of duct tape around his wrists and ankles, and more of it plastered across his mouth.

The smell of blood hangs over him like a bleak, coppery mist. He doesn’t look remotely conscious, but his chest rises and falls in slow, promising heaves.

>[X] Lift him up and find your way out. >[X] Check for traps. >[X] Check for bombs on Urich. >[X] Check him for more injuries.

You know what? This is insanely suspicious. You know Creeper. He’s a bastard and a class A monster, but he’s not incompetent.

You hang back for a moment, sniffing the air for sulphur, paint fumes, anything that could give you any manner of trouble. You’re reading negative on anything but blood, dust, and sweat, so it seems as though any trap Creeper may have set for you, it doesn’t have an obvious olfactory component.

Checking each of the flanking indents, you edge your way in, making your way to Urich’s prone form. When you’re certain you’re alone, you drop down to check his injuries, flinching at the sight of that mangled ear. Christ, you can almost feel that – and you can most certainly smell it. One of his eyes is ringed by a huge, puffy blossom of bruised tissue, but the skin isn’t broken anywhere save his ear, which seems to have been stemmed rather efficiently.

You prepare to lift him across your shoulder, when another wave of (perfectly justifiable) paranoia hits you. What if he has a goddamn bomb shoved up his shirt?

Yeah, better check that. That’s some Creeper shit right there. And possibly some Barracuda shit, too.

You pat him down for unusual shapes. Aside from a really, grossly nasty bruise running along his midsection, he’s clean.

Huh.

Grunting a little, you finally get round to heaving him onto your shoulder, and…

…and that’s when you hear the sharp, metallic click beneath your feet.

Oh. Oh…

The bombs weren’t on Urich. They were in the mattress.

>Reflex Check >DC14 >+3 sensory modifier. Rolled 11

>14 >SLIM success

Holy God.

You’re going to die.

You’re–

You throw yourself. You’re not sure where – anywhere is fine. And, if what you’ve learned of explosives from B-list action flicks is even remotely accurate, anywhere will be equally dick as anywhere else. You tumble down onto the screeching wood with Urich slumped across you, thoughts manic with impending doom, memories crashing to the surface, filling your vision.

A sudden rush of vapour crashes over you, stinging your eyes. You feel tears push uncontrollably at your eyelids and find yourself coughing loudly, your silent, final scream swallowing a good lungful of the stuff. You slowly become aware of the low, constant hissing, and the muddled, cloudy universe of an apartment full of gas, and the fact that you are, in fact, quite alive.

Alive, alive… but… kind of… drowsy…

The scent of it buzzes in your head like a lump of hot coal, sticking your thoughts together, pulling down at your eyelids. You feel a strange, seductive numbness tickle at the tips of your fingers…

It’s almost enough to distract you from the click of rounds being chambered upstairs.

You push yourself up against the nearby wall as gunfire rips through the ceiling, riddling the patch of floor you previously inhabited with bullet-holes. Oh, man… man…

No. No, no, on, oe nol…

>[X] Try to carry Urich to the exit. >+1 Karma!

Your thoughts reel. You feel your sister hoist you up in her arms, smoke clotting your lungs, blood filling your nose. You slump down on the floorboards/beach/tarmac/something and realize that you can’t stop coughing, something in the air, eyes are full of water, feels like your dog dying, feels like bullied at school, like missing Christmas.

“…not gunna end like this…” You slur, the Lake opening up before you, blood tumbling, crashing, churning.

You teeter to your feet, Urich over your shoulder. The world swoons under you.

You don’t know how long it takes you to make it to the door. Just that you do. You stumble through the sifting time, the gas, the shadow, until you cut out into the cold winter light. Leaning heavily against something (it’s a wall, isn’t it? Feels like barely anything), you plod your way to freedom, to reality, to life, to light.

And then someone kicks you in the stomach.

The air rushes from your lungs, legs tumbling out from under you. Urich slips off your shoulder as you drop straight down to your knees, wheezing for breath.

“Hi there, honey.”

>THREAD 50: END