capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 001

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Open Post 001

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He'd folded like a cheap tent. He'd signed on the dotted line, he'd agreed to be their pet piper, their snake charmer, and he didn't think he'd be calling the tune any time soon, not with how rigidly they took care of their assets. Every time he stepped into a cell it was like his heart was broken over again, and some nights he curled up on himself, cursing his cowardice, fearing deep down he was never going to be the man he should be.

But every morning he got up again and did it again, and said silent apologies in his head to Wally and Linda and tried not to hate anyone but himself, because it wasn't Wally's fault he never came.

But all the same, he never came.

Piper had been looking the wrong way for heroes, he'd thrown his family away waiting for his knight in polished golden wingtips. He was a fucking idiot.

He stepped into the cell for the hundredth time, the thousandth time, the ten thousandth time, what did it matter?

"Hi."

Aoi hadn't attempted contact in several months, not since he'd started working for Alex. The kid (he was starting to realize that all of his teammates, save the enigmatic Monet where barely more than children) kept him busy to say the least, hacking in everything from the major telecommunications networks, to the CIA. Not that he minded. The Laughing Man hadn't made an appearance for several years and it was time. Better it be him than some phony with sub par skills, after all.

Then, of course, there were the rumors. The assassination attempt, the involvement of Edward Nygma. His suspicions were more or less confirmed. The mayor had done everything to hide his identity up to a prosthetic body, but there were certain things you couldn't fake. Some people's ghosts were just more dominate than others. Finally he had a free moment on the net, a half hour where Alex wasn't demanding something. The only logical use of this time in his old playground was easy to determine. Contact the mayor and get confirmation once and for all. Even if it meant the death of "Koizumi".

From: Koizumi Aoi (k.aoi@yahoo.co.jp) To: Adrian Maskin Date: March 7th, 2020 3:19:05 EDT Subject: It's been a while. Hello Mister Mayor, If recent events have not proved too traumatic for you, I would like to continue our discussion of your work. Or rather, Maskin's work. Phony identities are interesting things, aren't they, Mister Mayor? But I won't judge you for it, I could judge you but I won't because that would be unfair of me. I haven't exactly been living as myself either. Are you familiar with the recent attacks on the Baltimore offices of the Department of Homeland Security? I expect that you would be. I would like to know your thoughts. I will be monitoring your internet communications. Please do not attempt to forward this message to anyone. - 笑い男

Isabela smirked, taking a rather casual look around, approaching his desk in a nonchalant pace. Her hands were at her hips and she looked, well, entirely too comfortable, as though she knew there wasn't any danger of her poking around.

"If I told you how, then that would ruin the mystique of it all." She's at his desk now, picking up a random knickknack to fiddle around with as she talked.

"As for what I want, well, I suppose I can tell you. Part of it, at least. I simply wanted to see the man behind the weaponry, that's all." She put the object down.

It wasn't as simple as that, of course, but it was a start. And an answer to his question.

Monet St. Croix grew older.

(Not wiser, she'd never needed to grow wiser. And certainly not less reckless, because she was built to take the hits for those who couldn't.)

X-Factor still existed. Quietly, underground where nobody could find them they didn't want to, but their doors still remained open for business. A different kind of business, these days, and Monet made sure that it was her in the crosshairs. Rictor and Shatterstar were susceptible, could be killed by a sniper or a bomb. If there needed to be a visible face, she wanted it to be her.

She dabbled on the side sometimes, worked with a group of children who did the things no one else wanted to. She'd always known what she was capable of, and she found no great surprise in it. Perhaps a long time ago she would have been proud of that, but these days she was more often tired than proud. Still cutting and sharp and every bit herself, but more withdrawn. Her energy she reserved for her work.

Those who knew where to find her could find her. Anyone else who came looking wouldn't enjoy the results.

[ Rose adapted.

but that's how she was. as a child, as a teenager, as an adult. she adapted, changed, and overcame all obstacles that were thrown her way. and this grimdark situation, without the real grimdarkness of Horrorterrors (sometimes, she imagined the thriving tentacles filling the mouths of others, choking and drowning) was just another thing in her path that she pulled herself over. She didn't register, of course, as there was no need when she could easily pass as a Native and unpowered. When she could easily slide past the system with her abilities. she became a writer and a psychiatrist, rather famous, actually, and she cut herself off from people of her past, simply because.

except for one. with all of her brilliance and competence, she's still not quite sure how she ended up in this situation.

so when Eridan returns to his apartment, there's long-legged, beautiful, blonde-haired Rose Lalonde, lounging back on his couch, idly reading a book. ]

Edward's assassination attempt had stung, hurt the ex-politician deep. Something about it had been a betrayal. Mitchell was familiar with it, more than so, he'd done enough of it himself. He'd ran from the meeting location as soon as he was able, fighting to stay conscious from the poisonous air. The gas had almost killed him.

Edward had almost killed him.

He'd gone underground, pulled appearances, pulled media interviews. Adrian disappeared into a cabin that nobody knew existed. His surgery was refined, more like himself, younger, though. He didn't think he'd be leaving anytime soon. Really, ever, if he could help it. Maskin would be an enigma. He had the press photos. His publisher didn't know they had signed an import. He told them it was a new book. They couldn't complain about that one, that was for sure.

He stayed in. He had delivery boys drop off groceries, he was out from the closest town, but not out enough to make delivery impossible. He paid extra. He hid, because he knew that wouldn't be the first time that he encountered assassins. Someone knew that Adrian Maskin was Mitchell Hundred, and he waited in fear for the next attempt.

She knew where he was staying. She almost always knew, through Sherlock or through Ghost himself. Cautiousness when approaching his hideaways had become a matter of course, double checking everything for safety for his sake, doubling back to lose any potential tails even though she was certain the government still thought she was in Ireland. For him it was worth it, though.

She sat down on a box when she got in, dropping her bag by her side. Elbows on her knees and chin on her hands as she leaned forward, patient. The odds were he already knew she was here, and even if he didn't he would be here soon, of that she was fairly certain.

And sure enough, he arrived. A tiny smile tugged the corner of her mouth.

"And yet I'm here," she said calmly. "I'm in the City for the next while. How are you?"

It was meaningless, almost banal chatter, but some normality was the only thing she had to offer him.

Evan was in a bad shape, he could tell. For some reason Cold had convinced himself that it was going to fine, a bit weird, but just like the old days. But Evan was so -- lost, a shell of who Cold remembered.

Cold spoke calmly, and a bit more gentle than he normally would, as if McCulloch were injured or bedridden. "Touchin' in."

He paused, considering. Would Mirror Master really be useful when he seemed so -- broken. But Evan was a Rogue, and Rogues watched each other's backs. Maybe this'd be good for the man.

"I'm gettin' the gang back together. I'm bringin' back the Rouges."

As difficult as the years had been, James wasn't blind enough to ignore just how lucky he'd been. He'd escaped with his life and as much freedom as one could manage in the current climate and he had Zee to thank for that. They spent their years travelling around the globe, hiding under tricks and disguises, in plain sight and sometimes tucked away in corners, almost always untraceable. Bond knew he wouldn't be where he was today without Zatanna by his side and her magic to aid their cause, which has helped him fight for a worthy cause rather than slink into the shadows.

The City wasn't somewhere they visited too often. It was too volatile, even so many years later, and a risk that wasn't worth taking too many times, but James liked- needed- to get down there every now and then and keep his contacts open. He'd kept ties to that little intelligence group he'd tried organising not long before 'it' all happened, contact details and information on those he trusted (and some he didn't) that he knew would prove essential in the underground. The resistance was unwavering but weak, a slow pulse that kept imPorts hopes up. James was half surprised more hadn't been caught in all the back alley rebellions.

Still, it was a cause he believed in and James couldn't turn away from that. A life spent with no aim seemed like a wasted one, so Bond kept himself fighting the good fight, handing out info, forgeries, aid and whatever else was needed to the imPorts that craved it most.

All that may explain why a rough-around-the-edges fifty year old was cheerfully sitting at a back street café, coffee in hand, tucked away near the back to watch the door; his latest little spot for his 'meetings', for today, at least. Tomorrow it would be elsewhere. And somewhere new the next day. All carefully plotted to avoid detection. Paranoia had kept him alive for this long…

Karkat was hungry.

It was dangerous to linger in one place too long, especially if it were crowded; if anyone got a good enough look at him, if they looked too closely, they might see the suspicious little nubby lumps underneath that hoodie. They might notice that those teeth look much sharper than the average human's. Or that underneath that thick layer of make up, underneath those sunglasses, lay bright red eyes with yellow sclera and grey skin. His disguise only worked if he went unscrutinized. But he was starving. He hadn't eaten in days, and he'd been politely escorted out of the grocery store he'd been meaning to lift some supplies from on account of "suspicious loitering" earlier that day. The life of a fugitive was not a glamorous one, and he took what he could get, but he'd rather not eat out of the trash if he could help it.

An alternative what he could get aside from rifling through bins was get served a hot meal in a cafe that asked for payment after the food had been consumed. It was risky. But fuck if he was going to die of starvation; he'd come through far too much for that. He'd ordered big. He wasn't paying, after all. He didn't wait until he was asked to pay before running, though. He'd dropped his utensils and fucking booked it the moment he'd decided he'd had enough.

He didn't bother to check if he had pursuers. Looking behind you slows you down and makes you more prone to stumbling, he'd learned.

"Pherson."

The greeting was cold, he stared straight at him, taking in the details. Everything. He looked good, probably better than Mitchell would, if he hadn't altered his skin. He still looked young, but he didn't feel it. Of course he didn't, he was past fifty.

"I was hoping you were dead," he paused, his grim lips twitching. "Again. I was hoping you were fucking dead."

Quiet as he was, Damian's arrival was loud enough for Helena to hear from her room down the hall. It wasn't as if she'd been sleeping anyway, between her obligations to the City and Liam and Dick, she usually ran on an hour and a half a night.

Setting aside her reading, she first went to check the bedrooms (and on Liam especially), though she knew full well where the sound had come from. She could hear the labored breathing, the shallow pants of a man in pain, and instinctively she made her way to the bathroom to grab medical supplies and towels. She approached him cautiously, not wanting to alarm him in his already disheveled state. Certain he had heard her foot steps from behind, she dropped to her knees beside him, offering him a look that was meant to be reassuring, though she had no expectations that he would take it as such.

"Let me see."

Edward Nygma had been one of Norman's greatest captures. He had brought him in alive, which always meant his capture was worth something, but had it ever. And now, Norman felt a familiar nostalgic pleasure electrify his mind as he once again turned to hunt him. Fugitives, those that escaped their sentences into the world again, bore even less mercy than first time arrests. Norman had his gun holstered on his hip, his bag hanging against the other; it was not filled with pumpkin bombs, but smaller incendiary devices meant to be hid in Resistance strongholds as he found them. Additionally, it held a syringe.

It was only Edward Norman had ever needed to use it for. He wouldn't kill him, no. The contents were a liquid sedative Norman had engineered, laced thickly with nanomachines that could be controlled by a remote attached to his belt. He was prepared, and he was good at locating those he targeted. It helped when he didn't have to walk; his glider made sweeping the City an efficient task.

He landed and dismounted, one hand on his gun, the other ready to reach into his bag. He intended not to be heard as he followed, but if he had to bomb down the door, he would.

He pauses, looking over at the old...well, older Quentin. He was more serious. Maybe he'd grown up. Maybe they all have. He'd lost the hope he had for the future. He fought out of necessity, because he couldn't be useless, but he couldn't hope to change things. Not anymore. The man who'd been willing to do anything to ensure the future would continue, and he was old and hitting fifty had been a miracle. He still had hoped he'd burnt out, been killed.

Not that he was suicidal, no. He eyed the kid cleaning up, still a kid, at least in comparison to his age. He started stripping down, and Mitch eyed the gash with a wince.

"Yeah, so what the fuck happened? That looks nasty."

[it's late. it's cold. he's had machine oil in his eye for the past block. he works tomorrow, tonight is the routine "sleep" night. and the last thing he expects - the last thing he needs, when he steps in that front door - is long-legged, beautiful, blonde-haired Rose Lalonde.

when did she get a key? he gave her one. why did he give her one?]

Rose.

[he kicks the door to the mediocre-bordering-on-shitty apartment closed, tosses his scarf aside and leans in the doorway. traditional bad boy pose and jacket, and that nasty scar across his throat - except that Rose is honestly badder than he is.]

To what do I owe the pleasure?

Evan grinned out at him, his arm slipping back into the reflection of the ice. He still didn't come out. "Bringing back the Rogues," he repeated, in a hazy and thoughtful intonation. "What for? What're we lifting?"

The idea brought enthusiasm to his mind, though still he approached it with caution. He wasn't proud of hiding, but it was preferable to being de-powered, imprisoned, and tortured. Anything was. "Anything at all, that's damn right. Mind that, now," he echoed, agreeing with his thoughts, then glanced at Cold again.

"I did notice ya got your costume on. Wondered."

The ping of a new e-mail was enough to worry about, the fact that it was, and he knew who it was, was a worry. Reading it, he felt the sting, the fear. Sick. He knew.

It was getting more and more likely that Maskin would have to die. Mitchell wouldn't be able to hold up the guise for longer, if people were contacting him. He sat, preparing an e-mail, fingers typing, hard to concentrate around the sound of his computer whirring. Sick.

From: Adrian Maskin (a.maskin@dontfearimports.com) To: Koizumi Aoi (k.aoi@yahoo.co.jp) Date: March 7th, 2023 6:17:53 EST Subject: RE: It's been a while. 笑い男, My thoughts on the matter are that imports make people worry the more imports act out. I understand the necessity to fight back, but making us fear you only feeds the fire of what's happening. If we are to work together, your people and mine, we need to stop fighting. It's only going to create more problems in the long run. I don't know why you're calling me Mr. Mayor, I'm sorry to say that I never met the import mayor, although I'm a fan of his work. If he's still alive, if you see him, perhaps you could send him a message for me? I've always wanted to meet him, and I'm sure if given the opportunity, he would be a great voice for your people. -Adrian Maskin

[Eridan didn't get much excitement these days - the occasional mugger to fuck up, the police officer to sass, that kind of thing. but when he hears the commotion, the shouts from his fellow employees, he can't help but spring to action. it isn't safe, showing how capable he really is, but he can't resist the opportunity.

the hoodied figure rushes in his direction and Eridan slings a glass of scalding hot herbal tea at his face. unnecessarily brutal, but if he's the hero, nobody's going to care anyway. then he swoops in to grab and pin him to the floor.]

Not in my cafe, you little shit.

[ she hears the door open and doesn't acknowledge him. at least, not at first. it was how whatever this was worked. she didn't give him the time of day as a child and now that she was giving him even a minute of that time, he would still have to work for it.

after a moment, she finally speaks up, voice dry and almost bored: ]

In most cultures, it is expected to greet a woman with politeness, or even more shockingly, intimacy. Failure to do so can be seen as a sign of disrespect or, rather, flagrant homosexuality.

[ the entire time, she doesn't look up from her book once, just flipping a page and shifting on her side a little, getting more comfortable. and still, without looking up once:]

You should wash your face.

"They had devices against telepathy," he's extremely calm as he speaks despite yanking out needle after needle and placing them carefully inside the rag. Stopping only to wipe off the trickle of new blood down his arm before pulling out the last of the needles, and then the fragment of glass.

"I saw a truck of prisoners, and stepped in to help them. They're all safe... I made sure of that before running away. Told them to run the opposite way of my direction and where they could find a safe shelter near the city so I can send them more help. Telepathically of course. I kept with them mentally to help them out so, I got a little careless physically- ngh," the glass is also set inside the rag, and he wastes no time in cleaning the wound. All that was left was bandaging it, something Quentin started to do on his own while looking up at Mitchell.

"Heh, never thought I'd see you again," a beat "I'm glad to see you again... I thought you lot were dead"

The circus was back in town. It's been a little while since they were last in America, but now they are and to Trickster's delight, back into the City as well. It was risky being back here, but without his colors and a little help from contact lenses or hair dye, he pretty much looked like your average Joe. That, and it's not like he could escape Father Time. So he didn't worry too much. There was always the perception filter he'd made if things got really dire too.

The only pressing concern he had was not falling and dying during his act, but that was a regular reoccurring thing. He hated it. Despised being back in the circus. It had been hard at first, it brought back bad memories, but he'd gotten used to it and over time it became easier. James is, if anything, adaptable. However, if it weren't for his. . . extracurricular activities, he'd have gone insane for sure.

And that's the thing about the City, the heart of everything, there would always be something he could do for the Resistance here. He was itching to go out and do something, but he couldn't leave, not yet, they were still setting up and it was only fair to lend a hand when everyone did.

So that's what he does, wandering the circus grounds, helping where it's needed or just walking around restlessly whenever there's a break.

Eddie had "Adrian Maskin's" coordinates deduced on a map in his stronghold. A. Maskin. In a mask. Mitchell, he thought. His lips twitched. You make it so easy.

It had taken time, to find Mitchell again. Katurian was hardly as accommodating the second round, not after his first failure. Eddie still shivered at the word, failure, his hands unconsciously rubbed over his chest. The scars may never fade, he was told, and he should hope to god they never fade. He needed a constant reminder, he was told.

Edward took off, the destination in mind. He had no tips to work off of, no resources. Just his wits. Just his mind.

The cabin.

Eddie wondered, idly, if Mitch new he was committing a Lincoln reference. He thought it would be fun to share it, like an inside joke. Like old times. He thought it would be nice.

"Mitchell Hundred. I am using the door like a civilized human being. The least you can do is open it." A beat. "I'll even let you hold me at gunpoint, if you want."

[ he wasn't expecting a face full of boiling foul smelling whatever the fuck just got thrown in his face, and it's less the pain that concerns him than holy fuck his face paint is water soluble. his hands come up to cover his face, and as such his midsection is vulnerable to the tackle that slams him into the floor. his head spins. his glasses clatter beside him.

this is it. he's finally caught. they'll call the police and take him in and he'll be sent wherever they send aliens like him. he's heard the horror stories. he isn't going to submit to that fate without a fight though. he bucks and struggles and thankfully grappling is one of his strong suits; although he's underweight and overtired, he's fueled by desperation when he swings his fist toward the waiter's face. ]

Get the fuck off me you miserable slimy shitweave!

Edited 2012-05-19 21:51 (UTC)

As Piper walked down the street he caught a snatch of American Pie playing from someone's car radio, a few streets away. He gnawed his lower lip, trying to keep the elusive, well dressed man in sight. Eddie was hard to shadow, and even harder to shadow without being noticed.

In fact, he was convinced he'd been spotted twice now, and his heart had skipped a beat or two while he waited, pretended to be looking at something else, even entered a building and at that point had come the closest to losing his quarry.

Administration wouldn't like failure, and he was ashamed of how afraid it made him to imagine.

Adrian Maskin had been brought in. Of course he had, he'd been taken in a few times before, a cover to look through his mansion, look for clues. They wouldn't find any. He hadn't even taken up his old habit of smoking to dull the sounds of machines, he couldn't. Anything they could get on him, they would use. So he knew his mansion was clean, and while he was still feeling the affects of the attempted assassination, he needed to play the part. He had to.

He watched the interrogator walk in, carefully keeping his face calm, although his heart raced. Another former employee. He didn't want this, he couldn't handle this. He would have to be careful.

He just lifted his eyebrows in response. The dark curls of his hair were short, but long enough that he was distinguished with the look. He focused a gray (contact covered) eye on him. Tipping his head, before he asked in Adrian's slightly higher, Bostonian accent.

"Hey."

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Open Post 001

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quietly ruins the drama of prose

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brooooooo

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PRIOR TO HIS OTHER SURGERY??