Averick

Sudden Chill took three more hits and went down to a knee. From where he was, Mystic could see Coolant come in like a frozen cannonball. Too many people were here now. What they don't show you on TV was what's going on outside the fight.

It's a city street in front of an apartment building. Windows are open, people are looking out of them to see what the noise is or simply watch the fight. Mothers are screaming at their children to get out of the street. Cars are approaching from both sides, unaware of what’s going on except for the sudden flames leaping into the air, both from the fire and from Brander. The girl was plastered with ice and holding her face while she lay on the steps, crying in terror. Some moron was screaming about how his stereo was in the car that was on fire. This had to end, quickly.

One more shot, Chill went backwards and Mystic took off. “Coolant, we need Chill alive!” He once again activated his spells that augment his magical strength and closed in on Brander. “Unhand my teammate!” For the second time, Brander’s attention was diverted from his target.

Two .357 slugs cut wavering paths through the air around Mystic, deflected by the gravity bubble. Mystic returned fire, setting one of them ablaze. Unlike regular people, when you set them on fire, Outcasts have a tendency to get mad. The two with the burning sledge hammers simply dropped them and drew pistols. A second volley from the two gunners rang out. One flew past Mystic, the other impacted on his defense spell, somewhere around the left leg. Pain shot through him and he dropped altitude. A small red stain was spreading from where the bullet penetrated his robes.

Mystic drew up a ring of fire around one of the two thugs that moved toward him, hoping to keep him in his place.

Mystic had flown for a bit through the neighborhoods before he reached the girl’s house. There was a car in terrible condition in front of the girl’s house, not to mention four Outcasts on it, looking bored. They whistled at passing girls, threw things into the air and caught them, and listened to bad music. Mystic waited in an alleyway across the street. He turned down his radio after Newton came across in code.

“Perhaps I might have informed him that the frequencies are already encrypted.” It was a few more moments before he saw two people emerge from the building. One, a striking blonde girl in her early twenties. She was dainty, feminine, not at all what you would expect from a gang member’s girlfriend. The cat calls flat stopped when she appeared in the doorway. It could have been the six foot four (the report was WRONG) gang member walking out with her. Strange though, he didn’t have any tattoos. Two piercings though. Actually, he didn’t fit the description…

“Hey, Brander, should we make room for your new squeeze?” Mystic cocked an eyebrow as one of the thugs opened a door.

“Nah, she’s gotta stay here, don’t ya Carol?” The mage in the alley tapped his chin with his index finger through his mask as the scene played itself out in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” Mystic’s blood ran cold. A six foot tall man with light blue skin had flown down from a nearby building and landed only a few meters away from the girl, who was now looking sheepish and standing behind Brander, who was already exuding flames from his fingertips. The four guys in the car were new pulling sledge hammers and pistols.

Mystic picked up his radio and said, “Oh god, it’s all going wrong at the girlfriend’s house. It’s like a nightmare.” He then turned on the homing beacon, clicked the radio to his belt and flew toward the impending melee.

“You’re old news Chill. Evidently your girlfriend thinks you’re a little too cold… and a little too sudden.” Brander caught a ball of ice in the face as a reward for his clever little joke. It sent him over the balcony and into some bushes. Two of the four opened up with their pistols on Sudden Chill as the other two rushed him with sledgehammers.

Mystic quickly slowed himself to a hover, realizing that his aim would be off if he didn’t. He incanted both his extra focus and building energy spells as the two with sledges rushed Sudden, who was getting up from the impact of the pistols. Mystic identified sudden as a friendly to the magic, meaning it would curl around him and not burn him, and let fly with a simple fireball.

The impact engulfed the three of them, and the Honda that Sudden was standing next to, setting two gang members and the car on fire. Due to their exposure to various drugs and superpower awakening materials, the sledge wielders didn’t immediately fall down screaming, though they were distracted enough to forget about chill for a second and turned their attention to Mystic.

Mystic tried to help Poison Sting with the clasp, suggesting that maybe he tie it off. It will be harder to get it off his belt, but it would be more secure.

Then, turning his attention to the conversation, he waited for an opening. "Quite. So, I was trying to suggest that we split up for the search part of it. I will take his girlfriend's house. I'll fly near and see if I can spot him. Then I'll circle this area (Mystic indicated an area on the map) and see if I can spot him there. Everyone else should take a different area, and call if you see anything."

"Yes, yes, yes, and probably. He's about six foot, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle, and wears street clothes, typical outcast trappings, I suppose. He is part of a gang, and has about two hundred known associates, depending on who's in jail at the moment." The mage looked through his notes more.

"On the remodel, duly noted. For jobs bigger than Coolant can handle, I'll call in help. No hurry on an office for me, I'll make do with what we have. In the meantime, this desk has a phone. Oh, and just one more thing." Mystic pulled his bag up from behind the desk and began pulling brightly glowing, green crystals from it. "If you would prefer these, I keep scavenging them from the circle of thorns whenever I have the opportunity. They make great light sources, put off no heat or smoke, and cost no electricity. I could work up a way to quickly cover and uncover them, perhaps even from a distance."

"I suppose that's entirely up to you. I would feel better if we were all together, and if I find him, I intend to call for backup." Mystic picked up a radio and gave a wry smile to Poison's antics.

"Oh, and I can provide hot water until we get the heater fixed. Actually, I can probably provide a temporary fix to the hot water problem from one or two taps. Though it won't get too hot, it will provide at least warm water." Mystic mulled over spell options in his head. "But yes, I would suggest working as a team. We seem capable of overcoming the unexpected as a group. Individually, we may do less well."

“No matter what indignant configuration you may find yourself in from this day forward, this is how I shall always remember you.” Mystic pointed to the ceiling. “The second floor kitchen has a running refrigerator as well, if you don't mind the climb.”

Mystic held up the two pieces of paper he’d made his notes on. “First, there is a radio for everyone, plus chargers which we should set up over there, where the police had their radio chargers set up. There’s good electricity and shelf space there and it’s central. Each of them have been coded. Your code is your birthdate now, you can change it by hitting the code key, after you’ve unlocked it and putting in a new code. The other six will be useless to steal, without the codes which only I know. They will be kept on file in a locked cabinet, in my office. Once, of course, we can get a locked cabinet. And presuming, of course, I get an office. We should all claim a workspace and perhaps living space if the bunk situation is not up to everyone’s standards. I would suggest also some paint and wall repair. If no one knows how to do this, I can have professionals come in. Incidentally, if one does know, but one wishes not to, this would be a good point for one to lie and claim ignorance of such activities.”

Mystic regarded his notes. “Yes, on to the next guest of our interrogation room. Mr. Beard has many hangouts on streets with food names. I suggest we split up and look for him. He’s an outcast, so be on alert for him. I believe we are in Skull’s turf now. Oh, listen to me sounding all ‘thumb on the pulse of the city’. Ahem. Right, well try to keep the heroics down to a minimum. I understand the city is tearing itself apart, but we ARE trying to find out who’s watching this precinct and why. We have a narrow window before he figures out his thugs are missing. I persuaded the police officers not to book them until four this afternoon. That should give us a break from the dirty cop informants.

“If we each take a section of the four squares around us, paying particular attention to the hangouts I have here, we might be able to catch him quickly and ask him why he’s so interested.” Mystic showed everyone the addresses and names of the places. One was labeled “Emily’s”, after his girlfriend.

“Does anyone have anything to add?”

Mystic, by contrast to the absolute business of the rest of the Two Six, spent the rest of the day on the phone and filling out paperwork. He also turned the thugs over to the police and quietly, when no one was looking, mopped up interrogation room three. He also ordered Citywide radios. Citywide had a good reputation amongst Paragon heroes, or so it said in the add.

It was amazing the progress they’d made in such a short time. The second floor was livable, if still cluttered in places and in need of a cleaning. The old precinct house wasn’t abandoned for months or anything. The incident happened recently, and before then it was mopped and cleaned regularly. As a matter of fact, Mystic plugged in a phone and found that they had phone service. This meant he could stop microwaving his head. Since he was fond of his head, he was happy about this.

The phone sat on the center desk in the first floor. It appeared to belong to a receptionist, or maybe a sergeant who would do a lot of delegating, as it sat where it could see everything. There were desks around it, but this one looked… central. Like the placement of a throne. Mystic briefly wondered about who worked there.

Only briefly, mind you, as there was work to be done. The local police had quite a deal of information on Christopher Beard, aka “Sudden Chill”. He liked tattoos, had fourteen of them and frequented a tattoo parlor on Bagel ave. He lived at four five one Crab street. His girlfriend lived on Bacon lane. “Odd. I’m actually getting quite hungry all of a sudden.”

Mystic went around collecting everyone once the radios arrived. “Has anyone seen Newton?”

Newton’s transport made Mystic a bit queasy. He’d traveled like that before, but much preferred to fly. Disoriented, Mystic hovered. It’s what he always did when things weren’t right. Even though he had to trace runes in his mind to do it, it was easier than falling for him. He could do it in his sleep, and annoyingly had.

The mage turned to Poison Sting and nodded. The large, insect man was gone in a flash. The rest made their way down the stairwell, hovering close to the blue robed mastermind. No, mastermind was not an appropriate word. Genius, perhaps, better conveys the level of planning, brilliance and excellence. Yes, genius. Overlooking no detail no matter how small, planning for every contingency…

“Actually I hadn’t quite considered what we would do if the stairwell door were locked,” Mystic sheepishly admitted. The hovering mage briefly considered that perhaps his glory days of “Master Strategist” had not quite been grown into just yet. Cold shrugged and twisted the handle until it popped. Mystic and Newton gave him a silent “thumbs up” as they made their way through the abandoned building.

Soon they were behind the thugs in a largely destroyed office section of the factory. It was cluttered, which was good, but had only half walls, which was bad. Mystic and Newton hid behind a half wall, with a good view of the two thugs. Coolant crouched behind an abandoned desk with a good line of sight to the two, a straight run. Then they waited. They waited some more.

It was, of course, just as Mystic began to whisper, “remember to turn them toward the win-“ that Poison made his appearance. A loud noise at one end of the factory. Far away, actually, which was par for the course now that they’d arrived and found that, in that direction, it was open ground except for a few desks and tables and one open office at the end, not what Mystic had envisioned at all.

No time for worry, though, it was starting. Mystic heated up the sprinkler head above him and the bubble burst, but no water came forth. “Bloody hell.” Poison Sting lunged from the office to one of the desks for cover. Then the unexpected happened. There was no gunfire, there were no orders shouted, one thug simply ran while the other stood there, staring.

He ran right past Coolant, who was preparing himself for the charge from behind. Coolant stood suddenly and hit him in the back of the head. The thug fell forward with a thud and slid to a stop. Then Newton grabbed the second one, and held him in the air. Mystic wasn’t certain if Poison knew that he was held, because Newton didn’t lift him far and Poison slammed right into him, taking him down perfectly. The tough tried to recover, but in shaking the cobwebs from his head he was greeted with the sight of Poison looming over him, and lost consciousness.

Mystic stood from behind the half wall. “Right then. Precisely as I planned it.” The self mocking sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone.

Soon, both were trussed up in the holding cell. They had to be tied to chairs because the door of the holding cell had been torn off by a troll. So they came to, one at a time. When the second one looked at the first, then around at the room, Mystic looked to the others. “Alright Newton, Poison, take your places."

Newton looked at the thugs. "Costuming should be easy enough. Jeans, torns t-shirt, tennis shoes. I think the black wig." He reached into the bottom of his make-up case. "And it just so happens, I have the 'bruise pack. Give me ten minutes, and I'll be in place." He sat down at the desk. "When I'm done, double check me to make sure I have got all the green hair, eyebrows, and mustache covered up."

"Right," Mystic began, "Coolant, you get the popcorn and I’ll pour the soda.”


“I don’t drink soda.”

“Yes, well. I… quite. Let’s just watch then.” Mystic hadn’t quite figured out Coolant yet. There’s a point where you get someone, know whether they understand you or not, whether they get your jokes or think they’re funny or are being funny back. They hadn’t quite gotten there yet. So Mystic played it so it could be taken either way, until, you know, he could get Coolant System.

Poison tied a disguised Newton to a chair and drug him past the holding cell to the middle of three interrogation rooms. All three rooms had suffered extensive damage already. In fact, if you were tall enough, you could see from room one, through room two, into room three. Of course the lights in room three didn’t work, so they’d placed a lantern on a table. And the one way mirror was destroyed in room one, so you could see the place where cops usually record confessions. But none of this mattered. For twenty minutes they sat in the cell as Poison screamed bugman noises and questions at Newton, who pleaded for mercy and claimed he didn’t know. Then the banging and crashing began. At one point, poison hit something while Newton threw rubble in front of the holding cell. Mystic raised an eyebrow at Coolant as if to say “nice touch.”

Coolant was, of course, busy pouring coolaid into a mop bucket and tearing up pieces of chicken breast, while cutting off wig hair. Of course…

Then Newton gave a blood curdling scream after a loud smash and it went quiet. Poison did his best sneaking yet and suddenly appeared in the doorway to the holding cell. He played up his bug side, with lots of quick movements. He drug one thug into room one, then another into room three. As they were both dragged past room two, a disguised Newton lay there in the room, smashed furniture about him, and blood all over him. Poison was dripping at the mouth with the exact same blood. Well, the same mixture of fake blood, at any rate.

Once they were in the room, Poison returned to room two, and pretended to wake Newton. Since both thugs were no longer in a position to see what was going on, they went at it again. Smashing, screaming, questions with answers like, “I don’t know, OH GOD HAVE MERCY!!!”

Then, quietly and calmly, Mystic entered room three. The thug was passed out and there was a foul smelling puddle under his chair. “Right then, room one.”

In room one was much more what he expected. Once Mystic removed the tape, the first things the thug said were, “I want my lawyer.”
“Lawyer? Why, are you in trouble with the law as well? Look around, chap, do you see any bobbies? Oh no, this USED to be a police station. Now it’s a dustbin. It’s just a place where we keep trash.” Mystic took a clipboard and applied a pen to it. “Now, what’s your name, please?”

“I’m not telling you nothing. You don’t scare me. You’re not going to kill me.” The tough stared at Mystic, shaken momentarily as the wall behind Mystic suffered an impact. Screams came from Newton, causing the thug’s eyes to dart a bit. “You’re… you’re heroes. You wouldn’t kill me.”

“Well would you tell me your partner’s name? Do you have any contact information? Someone we could call in case of… accidental injury?” Another strike, this one knocked plaster on to Mystic’s shoulder. He brushed it aside and wished he could tell Poison that the whole wall was about to come down and he might want to lay off, but it seemed like Poison Sting was getting into his work.

“Eff off hero. I hope you got a mindray because I’m not telling you nothing.” The thug spat on the table.

Mystic stood up, leaving his pen on the table, but taking the clipboard. “Fine then.”

As the mage began to walk out, a single spine came through the wall, and Newton did some great gurgling noises. The thug looked at the wall. “That ain’t real man. That’ ain’t real. Hey, where are you going?”

“If you won’t give me your name, there’s nothing I can do for you, is there?” Mystic opened the door.

“Some interrogator you are.” The thug managed as much false bravado as he could.

“Oh, dear chap, I’m not the interrogator.” The spike went back through the wall, and Poison’s eye could be seen looking through in the light of room two. “He is.”

“Yeah… right.” Sweat was visibly forming on the man’s lip and brow now. “I… I,I,I’m not telling you nothin’.”

“Fine, have it your way. He’ll be with you momentarily.” Mystic closed the door behind him.

About ten minutes passed. Probably felt like six hours to the thug. This was the part that everyone was waiting for. Coolant, mask over his face, opened the door wearing coveralls and pushing a mopbucket full of red liquid with chunks of flesh and human looking hair in it into the room, slightly whistling as he went. Suddenly noticing the thug still tied to the chair, he stopped.

“Oh.” Coolant looked at the thug, who looked at the mop and bucket. “Oh, they’re not done in here yet. I’ll come back later.”

Mystic opened the door not too long after. “Forgot my pen.” He stepped in to grab his pen.

“My name is David Green. I live at for forty two Baker ave. The guy who sent me to look at the building is a Chiller named Christopher Beard. He lives at for five one.. are you writing this down?”

Mystic nodded to Newton, “one thing at a time. First let’s see if we’re down two heroes.”

After everyone returned from their original, uptight positions, Mystic began explaining how he would like to see things go. “So I’m not one much for being intimidating, as you just saw. I prefer a different kind of approach. And if you’ll all indulge me with a little acting that will play to your strengths and not be too much of a stretch. In order to do this, though, we’re going to have to be quick, really quick. Now I can choke the air with smoke and flame, making it hard to be seen. Now we know they’ve been watching the building, but from their angle and distance, I’m sure they haven’t gotten a good look, especially since the setting sun would have been in their eyes last evening.”

Mystic wiped his mouth and then pulled the cloth mask up. With a devilish smile, he began to explain his plan. His hands moved, pointing to each person as he explained their part. He gestured to indicate things that he saw in his minds eye. He described things, less like a plan, and more like he were telling them about a movie he’d seen. He actually had to stop himself from giggling like a schoolboy at one point.

Across the street, two thugs looked bored as they flipped through porn mags and listened to their radios. Barely doing the incredibly easy task set before them. Completely unaware that they were discovered, and totally without notion that they were being plotted against.

Mystic set his breakfast sandwich down and stood up. He mumbled some words in an ancient tongue and everyone around him found themselves hovering. “I chose this because, while annoying at times, you can simply fly away from me and the spell will end a few seconds after you’re out of my reach. I’m really not trying to be too imposing or too aggressive here, but you gents are certainly moving too quickly to settle your differences in a manner that won’t due, in my estimate. I’m not a father figure, I don’t have words of wisdom that are going to solve everything, but I think it’s quite obvious that this is simply a matter of semantics.”

Mystic hovered between them and held his hand out toward a broken chair. Flame leaped from his fingertips and covered the chair. In a few seconds it was fully ablaze, but the fire was contained to the chair, nothing around it did more than smolder. The flame kept coming from Mystics fingers, and soon the chair was falling apart under the heat. It crackled and creaked as it fell apart, and smoke poured up into the ceiling.

“This, coolant, is my tool with which to fight crime. It is not, non-lethal. However, it is not my intention to kill every bad guy I meet. We’re all vigilantes here. We play a dangerous part in a play where people can and sometimes do, die. We use our tools to the best of our ability. So I’m going to ask, if you notice someone take a hit from either one of us that looks like it will be fatal, freeze them if you can. It will slow the effect of poison, reduce shock and blood loss, and put out any flames that might have engulfed them.”

“As far as I hear, Poison is simply saying he will defend himself to the best of his ability, and in doing so, people get killed now and again. With you and Newton and I here to assist, perhaps that won’t happen as much. But let’s not have you going all sixes and sevens if someone trying to kill him gets killed. We still have the right to defend ourselves, heroes or not. As long as we all agree that this isn’t our goal, to kill them, then I don’t see a problem. We’re not assassins.”

“If I can consider this matter closed, I’ll go on to explain my plan. If you two have more to say, or I can’t persuade you from engaging in combat here in the station on day two, then fine.” And with that, he ended the spell, walking back over to the chair and picking up his sandwich. He noticed Newton hovering still. “It will wear off in a second or two.”

“Well, actually, I DID volunteer. Well, in a manner of speaking. You see, I was approached by the city and asked to help. They didn’t tell me much, certainly not about the station being THIS bad off. I would have certainly negotiated more smartly should I had known about the state of things.” Mystic sipped some tea and looked over at Poison Sting. “You weren’t fighting any urges not to kill us in our sleep, were you? It would be simply brilliant to know about these things before things come to an ugly point.”

“Oh, yes, my story. Well, I was a normal person for quite a long time. Hmmm. I hadn’t thought about this, but I’m afraid my background is somewhat, classified. Let me just leave it at; after a certain event awoke the magic in my blood, I found that my conscience wouldn’t allow me to stand idly by while evil was going on, and such. I briefly tried to contact some of the others who were exposed to the same event as I, but was only able to contact one. CinderFlash. The others… well, I don’t know where they went.”

Mystic warmed his tea slightly with a small incantation. “My ability to control fire is limited to my ability to concentrate. The more I can focus, the hotter and more precisely placed the fire is. I’ve also gained the ability to imbue people with the power of flight. One day we’ll have to explore the practical applications of such a tool on the exterior windows.

“Oh, my, it sounds like the Deli is here.” Mystic got up and walked out to get the food. He returned with the food and beverages ordered and set them on the table.

“Now, oh, my this is quite greasy. I’m certain they don’t use vegetable oil. Right, on with our assignment. Well, as I said earlier, it isn’t really an assignment, more of a lead. It appears that the building is being watched. Across the street, on the second floor of that abandoned factory, there are several gentlemen looking at us all day and most of the night. It’s been suggested that we go and try to discover their intentions, and the reason for their interest.” Mystic took another bite of breakfast sandwich and tried to wash it down with some tea. “Now, I am not a master of stealth myself, but I can hover quietly enough not to attract too much attention. My suggestion is that we sneak in and try to capture them for interrogation purposes. But first we may wish to fix up one of the interrogation rooms. I have a thought on this, actually, since the place is already in shambles.”

“I’m afraid I only thought to brew tea. Though there is caffeine in it, if that’s your aim.”

“Oh, yes, breakfast. Well, I don’t suppose this news is all that terribly important. I didn’t bring any real food with me, a few biscuits and all the ingredients for tea. I suppose we could order out or someone could go forage for food. I tend to prefer the ‘from a store’ food, so perhaps we should send out for it.”

Mystic cast his gaze about the desks and found a take out deli menu that claimed to serve breakfasts and open at 6AM. The words “we deliver” were printed on the front, though delivering and delivering at 6AM were two entirely different things. No sane creatures were up at this hour.

Mystic swept across the faces of his companions as he thought this. A bug creature, a fat guy with green hair and… my god is he… smiling? It MUST be the tea. “This place looks… open.” A phone call later and food was on the way without much complication. Well, aside from the “no, with mustard, no bacon. Yes, I know it has eggs on it. Yes I still want mustard. No, they have nothing live, please stick to the menu. Forty weight what?” type of mix ups. Perhaps that’s a bit exaggerated. Sadly, not by much.

That done, mystic pulled his mask down and began to sip at his tea. The nature of the magic turned his skin a darker color and covered him with a light energy field, allowing him to withstand bullets and the like without outright falling over dead. It would help distort his features, not that most of his companions could care at this point.

“While we’re waiting for the food to arrive, perhaps each of us could take a turn giving a small synopsis of our backgrounds.” Mystic sent out waves of heat from his hands and caused large balls of flame to come into existence too far above the furniture to burn anything, but quite easily warmed the large room in a matter of moments.

“Good morning, my friend,” he stated way too cheerfully for most people at 6 AM, “I was just finishing up here, are you ready to start again?”

So this was it, sabotage was it? Waging psychological warfare by waking him at 6AM with incessant pipe banging. Well he wouldn't get away with it. No, sir! Not this time. Mystic was fed up, mad as hell and about to tell him all about it.

"Right... well... I suppose I'd better put some tea on then." Mind you, the English weren't necessarily known for telling people off, but even for them, this was lame.

In the package given to Mystic was a credit card for building expenses, and a sheet which was meant to track them. Mystic cleared off a spot in the kitchen on the second floor and began working on the paperwork as the tea was busy getting done.

The unfamiliar surroundings, sharp, exposed nails and fallen plaster had Mystic mumbling to himself as he looked about, "warm, and well lit, isn't quite enough to suit my tastes I'm afraid. I have a bit higher standards. I suppose I shouldn't let Charles hear that, seeing as he teaches literature. Well I don't suppose there's much of a chance of that now."

Then came a noise. It was high pitched and nearby, and Mystic immediately headed for the teapot and was in the middle of pouring himself a tepid glass of tea when he realized that the noise had not stopped.

Gazing in wonderment at the nozzle, and seeing no steam that would warrent the noise escaping through the valve, he began to search for other sources. The unlikely, but undeniably accurate location of the origin of the noise was the manila envelope on the clean corner of the table.

Inside the envelope was a cell phone, and it was communicating it's desire to be picked up and smashed against something hard. Despite that, Mystic opened it up and put it to his ear.

Moments later, moments filled with "Yes, no, almost, not very far at all I'm afraid," and "I see", he was off, with the tepid tea, to the downstairs lobby. He stopped momentarily to attempt to raise Newton from the dead.

"Tea's on. And there's an important announcement about to be made in the lobby." Mystic brought the tray down, with four cups, sugar, and milk that was kept in a refridgerated container in his pack. (Mystic was fairly serious about his tea). As a matter of fact, a novice would not know to test the temperature and aroma of the tea, and would have, in fact, served it tepid, until someone complained.

One small incantation on the stairwell and the tea was quite warm by the time he was pouring it. "Gentlemen, and those who prefer to be addressed by other titles, we appear to have our first mission, as if were. If everyone wouldn't mind gathering around, I'll fill you in on the details."

[ QUOTE ]

“Um, just kidding? Is that going to be frowned upon here?”


[/ QUOTE ]

"Kidding? No, that's not frowned upon. In case your wondering about eating people, what I don't see I can't report. Honestly I've tried arresting them but people tend to burn so quickly. I'm afraid I'm not very popular with the Freedom Phalanx and crew."

It was minutes later when

[ QUOTE ]
“Boss!” Sting shouted from a back room on the ground floor. “We got weaponry stored back here, what’dya want done with it?”

[/ QUOTE ]


"What? Weaponry?" Mystic, one shoe off and in his stocking foot, came out of the bunk area. "Oh my. They must have missed... Well, I suppose, can you carry one of those big lockers into the bunk room? I hate to impose on you, but you're both much stronger than I, and Newton, could you make the task easier? I'd rather have any weapons in our main room, which is likely to be the bunk room until we can get to the rest of the building. This way we can keep the weapons locked up until we can take stock of them. Sting, would you mind inventorying them when you have the time? Or I could do it. It just doesn't seem like you get tired easily. Plus I wouldn't know a .38 from a .39"

Mystic stayed up a bit longer aiding in the organization of such things that needed organizing. Throughout the evening, Mystic would yawn and stretch a bit, then feel useless, for even the pudgy superhero could at least move things, where Mystic was certainly able to burn things, should it come to that.

When he felt he could simply be no more use, Mystic once again plodded off to bed and threw himself down on the cot he’d chosen. One with a pillow and that didn’t look slept in.

In the morning he awoke to the sound of someone beating a pipe, with another pipe. At least that’s what it sounded like. He rose, looked about to see if anyone else was up, then threw on his shoes and went downstairs to find the cause of the racket.

((Me as well, we can go back in time briefly, I have the Temporal blaster AT. Yeah... don't ask, just go with it.))

“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to come on so strong,” he replied in a normal voice. “You may call me Coolant System… or any variation of that as people always do. I don’t believe I caught you names, but was one of you the Poison Apple?”

"I'm sorry" Mystic said, picking up furniture that was much lighter than it looked, "no, poison sting and Newton's apple. And I'm Mystic Inferno. You know, just once I'd like to say 'this is Bob, and I'm Tom, and this is Danny', you know, like real folks do."

"Would you mind terribly lending a hand? Coolant System? I say, well I'll keep us warm during the winter if you do your part in the summer. Now we just need a 'conjurer of snackfoods' and we're all set."

Resignation could best be used to describe Mystic's expression. "I was thinking we'd pile the furniture in that open space and see what we wanted to keep."

Mystic set about the task of cleaning, aided by Poison and waiting for the others to decide on a course of action. He noted Newton's actions and aided when he could.

The three of them cleaned for a couple hours and in no time, due to the super powered aid, they had the entry way looking uncluttered. Behind the protective glass was still a mess, but rather than focus on that right now, Mystic urged that they move upstairs and see about securing the second floor of the building so that people couldn’t just walk in on them while they rested. Light was beginning to fade, and he would hate to be ambushed on his first evening.

The gate at the top of the stairs was meant to keep people in the stairwell unless they were police officers. The buzz door had been busted, but was mostly intact. In the mean time, a huge chain and padlock served as security. Mystic remembered the keys he was given and fumbled with the lock for only a short time before granting them entry. The second floor was the cop level. Showers, racks to sleep in, footlockers, an armory (long since cleaned out, hopefully by the cops), briefing center, radio room, and five offices.

Exhausted already, the concept of cleaning this floor was less than appealing. “Look lads, it’s been an exhaustive day. I’m as committed to the project as I can be, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to have a lie down for a tick.” Mystic headed for a rack to sack out, hovering slightly off the ground as he went. When his body failed him, he had a tendency to rely on magic. Anymore, this happened rarely, as he had begun a rigorous training routine to keep himself from getting tired. Using the magic of the book was incredibly taxing, but not so much as this day’s activities.

Honestly he’d never met these people before today, and he’d hoped to make a good impression on his co-workers. He hadn’t thought for a moment that they would look at him as… “Bollocks Alfred, what have you gotten into? I knew you should have taken that butler’s job with that Wayne fellow. Kind of broodie, but a good chap.”

“Here you go.” The green-haired man handed it to the mage. “Don’t believe everything the judge says, especially the part about ‘little respect for authority’ and ‘not comprehending the chain of command.’”

Mystic tried to read the papers but the bug-man, god he felt so horrible for thinking of him like that, started to speak.

“Yeah, the name’s Poison Sting, but you can just call me Sting. I was just condemned to this hellhole. And just so we don’t get off on the wrong foot, I don’t take @#%$ from anyone, so don’t go getting on my case.”

Horror crossed Mystics face. When he took the assignment he never thought that he’d be expected to…

“Hello. Would you gentlemen be part of the area cleanup program, or are you just here to cause trouble?” he said in as deep a voice as he could muster, “Either way, it looks like I have a lot of work to do here.” A third person had shown up, but was standing in the shadow of the doorway where Mystic couldn’t make him out. He was about to answer him when suddenly he found himself encased in a bubble of gravity.

Mystic held the papers given to him in, one in each hand, out toward the two in front of him. “Now wait just one bloody minute here. I’m sure you’re all fine, fine heroes that will do the city great good, but let’s get one thing straight, I’m not in charge. I’ve never… I can barely run a classroom.” Nice, so much for the secret identity if he keeps that up. “I’m certain that I can find a proper place for your paperwork if we can… EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT COULD YOU COME A BIT CLOSER?”

Mystic remembered his manners. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to shout, Apple was it? And poison? Oh, I suppose that would make this third gentleman the evil godmother or some such. Apologies again, didn’t mean to make light of your names, but the situation is… Look, I’m terribly sorry about the confusion, and the mess, but I’m not the cause of either of them.” Exasperated, mystic put both pieces of paper on the table next to him. He noted how the bubbles reacted to his desire, not constraining him, but almost playing off of his movements to repel things from him. “I’m just someone sent here to pick up the pieces… like you. And I don’t expect you to follow me or take orders. Let’s just clean up a bit, if you wouldn’t mind helping, and hopefully, by nightfall, we’ll have a place to sleep. I saw a shower room upstairs that looks mostly intact.”

Mystic sighed a heavy sigh, took the papers from the table and stuck them into his robes. Then he walked around the table and tried to lift it from his end.

Mystic looked up from the table he was trying to clear from the safety glass to see a large... well, insect? Then a fat man entered the lobby. Mystic ran over some of his most powerful fire spells in his mind, to keep them fresh, in case these two represented the evil that threatened to put out the light of justice in this portion of the city.

Mystic was alone, the station in shambles still and already these two had wandered in the front door. "Bloody peachy," he mumbled to himself, letting the table go.

Mystic stood six foot tall, covered in blue robes and wearing a cape. His eyes glowed a soft red from under his hood. Red runes were visible on his clothing, and not a part of him wasn't covered. Something he'd learned from using his powers in windy areas.

The mage stood as strongly as he could, chin up and eyes darting across the two newcomers, scanning for any signs of hostile intentions. "Can I help you two?"

[[This is going to be an open roleplay story, with the following differences. I intend to write, so individual characters will either be left out as they fail to post, or written for with permission. This isn’t intended to be cartoonish, so I would appreciate not blowing things up or smashing things or being too over the top. It’s an open forum, so you can ultimately do anything you want, but I would appreciate the younger or more flamboyant posters reigning it in some. If no one joins, I’ll just keep it up as long as my interest holds or until enough PMs come in saying “you suck, quit it already”. ]]

It was his second class of the day, an important class, with a couple of kids who were in danger of not making it due to, well, personal considerations. To say that Alfred Wincott was sympathetic to the context of their emotional struggle would be understatement. He had acquired his super powers very late in life by comparison, and had many emotional and psychological tools to deal with it. Additionally, he could simply not be super powered if he so chose. That was part of the advantage of reading the book cover to cover. The others couldn’t turn it off if their lives depended on it. Neither could these kids.

Kids only from a perspective of over forty, they were in fact twenty and twenty one. Both took his archeology class after he wooed them deliberately away from easier courses to try to keep an eye on them. Paragon University, more so than regular universities, makes a concerted effort to reach out to young people who may have some sort of extra human ability. Though there are those who refuse to accept their nature and try to live life as normal humans. Scott and Theresa are two such youths.

Alfred has spent much of his time trying to counsel the two to seek professional help, but they continue to refuse. Instead, they often frequent his office or stay after class. It was thoughts of this nature that ran through the background of his head as his class wound on. He saw the class as a walk, mentally, through the physics and the history of archeology. Like a winding trail, he knew every part of his lesson plan. When young minds would raise hands he would answer two or three questions that often came up at that point in his lecture, and hands would go down. Not very often, some would remain, and he would call on them by name. He would note what was unclear, but more often than not, it wasn’t his fault. Some kids just aren’t as smart or quick to memorize things.

When the city officials began filing into his classroom, he stopped and looked at them. They didn’t say anything, simply began forming a line at the back of his class. With only a small pause, he continued, interjecting “um” into his routine twice, to give the appearance of being off-put by the sudden appearance of the suit wearing, poker faced, twelve person assembly.

Class ended moments later, and Alfred did not shout his usual instructions over the din of students leaving his class. Instead he shuffled paperwork at the podium while students left. Every student left, not one stayed behind for longer than a second to ask a quick question. It was obvious that something was up, though no one knew what.

A man in his thirties led the group of suits down from the top of the lecture room to where Alfred stood behind his podium. He presented a city ID and said, “Alfred Wincott?”

“Yes, how can I help the city of Paragon?” Alfred looked as uneasy as he could muster. If they didn’t know he was a registered hero, he didn’t want to tip his hand. If they did know, they would surely be here about that. No police officers or drones accompanied them, nor anyone who looked particularly muscled or super powered. Of course one life lesson he had paid dearly to learn, was that few things were as they appeared on the surface.

“I’m Sean O’Landy. I work for the city. Precinct twenty six in Kings Row has been overrun.” Sean laid his briefcase on the lecture table next to the podium and opened it. He pulled pictures from a file and slid them toward Alfred. “We would like your help.”

Alfred dropped his facade of “absent minded professor” and looked down at the photographs. “I’ll see what I can do. Do we know what kind of forces overran it?”

Sean shook his head, “that’s not the problem. The information is all in this file. The problem is that it’s the sixth time this has happened, and the city is abandoning the station due to the losses in property and lives.”

Alfred took the large file he was being handed as a quizzical look settled on his face. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“We are recruiting for Hero Intervention. It’s a program that I designed that would take heroes, new to the city and give them a goal. An area to clean up, if you will. We want you to be our first member of the twenty sixth precinct.” Sean did not smile, nor offer any warmth whatsoever. Alfred’s impression of him was that he was a pure bureaucrat.

“I… well, you see, I have students.” Sean walked past him to his desk. “And, the end of the term is coming up. I have two aids and still the work it just piles up.”

Sean waited until he was done. “Yes, the work piles up because you aren’t doing it. Because you’re spending your nights looking after imps that patrol the streets or aid us in our endeavors to rid the city of criminals. Or perhaps you’re on Striga island slinging fire at vampires. Yes, we know all about why your work is piling up. Difficult living two lives is it? Studying magic and teaching others to study history and archeology must be taxing. I’m asking you to make a choice here. It’s not a tough one, in fact it’s a choice you’ve already made.”

Alfred sighed. “Does it pay well?”

Sean smiled for the first time. “No. But better than teaching.”

It was nearly two days before Alfred Wincott was nearly a memory at the University. His classes were being taught by another professor, his apartment at the Whitmoore was cleared out and he was settled into a place overlooking the industrial pits in Kings Row. He’d taken to sneaking up the stairs, changing in the stairwell, then flying off the roof when he wanted to go out on the town for some purpose or another. This, he hoped, would protect his identity enough that he wouldn’t endanger the lives of those he was hoping to protect. Mostly, he just took what he needed with him to the precinct.

Three stories of damage, that’s what it was. The front doors were smashed open. Graffiti covered the walls, lights were smashed to uselessness, and the only thing that seems to have survived unscathed were the two large, metal numbers on the front of the building. A two, and a six sat there, defiant amid the defacement.

Alfred, now dressed as Mystic Inferno, in his blue robes and hood, with his loose mask over his face, stood before the main entrance. A police officer stood next to him, handing him some keys. “It’s all yours. The last one was trolls. Don’t see many trolls in Kings Row. It’s like someone, somewhere had it out for the two six.”

“The what?” Mystic cocked his head as he took the keys in his gloved hand.

“The two six. That’s what we used to call it. No one said ‘twenty sixth precinct’. Nevermind, just cop talk.” The officer turned to go. “Good luck, hero. If you need help, call 911, we’ll see what we can do.”

Mystic pushed his cape behind him in direct defiance of the sudden wind at his back, and stepped inside. He looked at the smashed doors, then at the keys in his hands, and hooked them onto his belt. The floor creaked under his black boots, and he found himself levitating without realizing it.

The damage was impressive. Tiny yellow cards marked shell casings on the floor, each card displaying a sequential number. Signs were left, displaying areas of the investigation that would shortly precede the closing of the precinct. The signs said, “scene two” and such. The sergeant’s desk had tables and other debris leaned against it, presumably so that the trolls could run up the debris and take advantage of a hole smashed in the protective glass to gain entry to where the rest of the damage seemed to be.

Sean had told him that other heroes would be assigned to the two six as they became available. He saw no signs that anyone else was there besides him. Mystic stood in the center of the lobby, amid the wreckage and made a “rolling up his sleeves” motion, even though his sleeves were far too lose to stay rolled up and fell back down to his gloves immediately.

“Well, better get to work.” With that, he began pushing an empty drum out of the front door.

I do NOT engage in this kind of activity. However I have an instant dislike for the people you've described here. It's like those kids who, while playing cowboys and indians were always like "you missed me".

Once again, I'm not an RPer in that way at all, however, I feel your pain.

"Little Master, will this suffice?"

Satanz looked at the table without expression. "Wow all this ratatouille?" He looked up at her and smiled. "Thank Gypsy."

With that he picked up a fork and awkwardly took a bite. For him, eating was pure experience. All the food was converted to dark energy anyway, if he had the power to do it. Just looking at the setting he was going to be one tired imp, heavy with dark energy when he was done.

"This tasty. Very mortal. Very warm." He tried the bread and the beer. He'd had his share of Czech beer from Riley's fridge, which is to say he had become quite used to the taste. It was familiar to him.

"Just like home." Having no idea whatsoever that he was probably purpetuating the misunderstanding, he beamed a sharp toothed smile and his face responded well, for the first time since he had tried to smile in Paragon.

Satanz was confused. He'd been yelled at, spit on, and had people try to intimidate him since he's been in Paragon. He's been misunderstood, forced to the shadows, and generally looked down on. And who could blame them, he's an imp, they're short.

This was new. Ever since Christmas, the incident with the tree, he'd felt things were different. He'd regained less than half his strength from that night, but already he was dangerous. Unknown, but dangerous. To be treated like this, well, there must be some mistake.

She did say something about a disguise or an alternate form. And she called him small master. Hrm.

Satanz waited patiently for his food, careful to smile at anyone who's eyes met his.

"Small Master, you should not be seen with your spoils, not here at least. I am Gypsy, of the old families, how may I serve you?"

Satanz looked at Gypsy. "Serve... me?" A tiny tear came to his right eye. "Food? Ratatatat...ouille."

Satanz frowned. "Ratotolainiloullie." Finally, in frustration, he pointed at the ratatouille on the menu.

Absently he took the money off the table and slid it under his right leg and looked around. He could feel the power coming off of her, and her powers were as dark as his. He heard her warning and took it as a favor.

"Gypsy, here safe?"

((what, you didn't think it was cute?))

Satanz looked at the man who entered with the box.

"Restaurant?" It only slightly sounded like a question. He repeated the word. "Restaurant."

Once Satanz was shown to his table, he sat down quite comfortably in the chair. The tables weren't condescending either, nothing childlike about them except for their size. Satanz had grown increasingly annoyed at the assumption that he were a child.

He sat for a moment trying to read the menu. It wasn’t long before someone got up and paid for their meal. That’s when it hit him, paying. He began pulling wallets out from his jersey and putting them on the table, careful not to let the wait staff notice. Money clips and various other items also spilled onto the booth next to where he sat. He smiled at someone nearby with his sharp teeth before quickly scooping everything up.

He went through the wallets and looked for the pictures. The ones he remembered he would pull the money out and give it to charity usually, or stuff some of it away. The ones with pictures he didn’t recognized went to passing police officers usually. Money clips were up for grabs. He took about $640 out in cash and stuffed the rest away in his jersey before the waiter came over.

He ordered the ratatouille. He sat quietly, looking around at everyone and realizing he may be a bit under dressed. Though never having heard the concept before, it was more just realizing that he looked bad by comparison.

Lacking any ability to be self conscious, he simply resolved himself to smile a toothy, evil looking, smile at everyone who stared at him. He’d seen others do it. Though he hadn’t had much success with it, things change. Imps can atone just like mortals. He wasn’t given any more of a choice than the mortals in terms of what kind of creature he was going to be born to be.