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.