Open Post 001

[2020mod]

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musebox • rules • character list

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open;

[viced]

"I NEVER WANTED IT TO BE THIS WAY, YOU KNOW."

Sometimes, in the dead of night, Mitchell Hundred, when he was in the silent dark of his cabin, could actually speak candidly. Adrian Maskin was a front, and since the attempt from Edward, he pulled everything. No media appearances, no radio. No nothing. No net interviews. He had internet, of course, but that's because the area was wired for it, but he wasn't paying for it, he didn't have to. He just commanded it, of the machines, and the data opened and flowed.

He tried to remain untraceable. His old mansion, it was already on the market. He was here. He'd never left much of a trace, anyway. He'd cleared out what he could, burned the rest. Adrian Maskin had to be a ghost. He had to vanish.

So he did. Mitchell had gotten surgery again. He'd had to. People were looking for Adrian Maskin, not the man who looked somewhat like the ex-Mayor of the City, minus the eyes and the hair, and the odd scars. The only thing of Maskin left were his books, and he would not stop with the writing. Mitchell didn't like being threatened, he didn't abide by assassination attempts. He was used to this, although this is the first one he'd felt honest to god fucking fear for his life.

And in the woods of New York, the state, he tried his goddamned best to write, and not think about the attempt on his life. He thought about his enemies, Edward now among them, in the ranks with Pherson, was he even around anymore? He didn't know. He was glad he didn't know.

He dictated to the lone machine from his past sometimes. Cut off from the rest of the network, it had taken the role of his jetpack, and the old communicator from days long gone sat in the middle of his living room, silent, as if he were waiting for the old network to be reactivated.

[parroted]

It took a couple of weeks for the birds he sent out to find Hundred, and a couple more for the birds to return with directions. in the end it was Pherson's parrot that found the man - no matter how much he disguised himself, how hard he hid, that parrot would recognize that voice anywhere.

Pherson had no car, of course. He travelled by foot, by moose, by horse. Another couple of weeks went by, but he was patient. He had waited so long already, listening for word.

Now, after all these years, maybe his brother would finally hear reason.

He had long since forgiven Mitchell for his murder (at some point he had been ported out, and lived in his home world for just enough seconds to die), or at least, the time had made the sting ease again. He had lived so long without hearing the invaders. So long since he'd spoken to another human.

Pherson did not hate Mitchell Hundred, but he was drawn to the man, regardless of time and space, regardless of context. They were brothers, in powers and in homeworld, now and forever.

A simple knock at the cabin door seemed so anti-climatic.

[viced]

Nobody knocked. Nobody knew where he was. He'd been certain, careful in his work. He'd had to be. If anyone found him, they'd either been stalking him by satellite, or they had alternate means. Someone, an old ally, should have been able to pass within a mile, and never know how close they'd been. He was paranoid. Too paranoid. It was probably just a hiker. Someone who'd gotten lost out in the woods. Was there a storm coming? Maybe some idiot kid had gotten separated from their group.

He moved silently, trying not to alert the other person that someone was home. Maybe if they thought he was out, they would go away. Or they might break in. The place was obviously wired for power, although the lines were underground. There were telltale signs. He peeked through a peephole after tip-toeing up to the door, careful and quiet.

And motherfucker.

Oh no. No, no. He stepped back, his foot falling heavily. It didn't matter that he was older, oh fuck no. He knew as soon as he knew he would be recognized even without his tell-tale scars. Even with the contacts. Even with the dyed and shorter hair. It was blonde now. He looked his age, in that respect, but his face was too smooth, too few lines to be the fifty year old man they'd be looking for. Even if he felt his age. He stepped beck from the door, fumbling, hands searching. He needed a gun. Where had he put that gun? He tried to listen for it, but it had been ten years since he'd seen hide or hair of Pherson, and the shock of his archnemesis was enough to make him sick.

He didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge that he was out there. He kept looking through drawers, listening, before his hands closed around the black metal. He hadn't kept one of his own guns around in years. Too easy to figure out who he was. It was just a Beretta, but they shot bullets well enough.

[parroted]

Pherson had barely changed. His hair had grown wilder, his stubble had become something resembling a beard. He was thinner, older, greyer. But still at least a decade younger, and so much time spent out in the bush kept him active and healthy.

Pherson knew Mitchell was home. A spider spinning its web nearby told him that no one had left the cabin in a while, and an ant crawling under the door let him know that something big was home.

Hundred was here, Pherson knew he was here.

LET ME IN BEFORE MY FRIEND BREAKS THE DOOR DOWN.

The use of his Voice was immediate, automatic. He had almost forgotten how not to speak with it, having spent so much time among no others but his children.

He looked behind him to the horse he had ridden on, gesturing it to come closer. He didn't even need to tell it such simple commands now, it had learned.

[viced]

Mitchell stood, gun leveled at the door. He was backed against the wall, back against the wood, staring. Frightened out of his mind, he could feel his heart thudding harder than it had in a long time. Not since the assassination, and he'd been scared, paranoid for a while, but not like this. This was a direct threat.

He stepped forward, sliding the chain loose, the sound obvious, but if Pherson tried the door then, it still wouldn't open. He stopped, breathing hard, he stepped back to the wall, and leveled the gun at the door. A normal gun. It might not kill Pherson, but it could injure him. Pherson would get in one way or the other, but he didn't need the stress of losing his door.

LOCKS, DISENGAGE.

And he stood, gun leveled at the door. He knew Pherson would hear his voice, it was distinct, unlike anything else. He held his gun level, right at the door. Waiting.

[parroted]

Pherson heard him, knew that telltale voice. It was only then that he was absolutely certain he had found his old nemesis.

He leaned forward and opened the door, slowly - stopping halfway leaned in when he saw the gun. He frowned for a moment, before it smoothed back into a smile.

"HELLO MY BRother."

Humans didn't get the Voice, he just remembered. And for all that he was his brother, for all that he was special, Mitchell Hundred was still human.

[viced]

"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."

[parroted]

"So antagonistic right off the bat, Hundred."

He lifted his hands now, a gesture of surrender. There was a bite to his voice - this wasn't what he wanted or expected. Just because time had healed some of Pherson's wounds didn't mean they did the same for Mitch.

"If you want me dead, shoot me. I'll ask my children to leave you be."

open;

[futureleader]

One, two, three.

He was running, running fast into the woods and as far as possible. Like nothing could stop him, and in a way, nothing really could stop him. Not the authorities who'd long gave up on trying to catch up with him and certainly not the blood running down his face. Eventually he had to stop, to catch his breath and to scout his surroundings for the people after him.

Clear. Quentin checked his surroundings again. Clear- wait. There was something close by, something mechanical. It even seemed... oddly familiar. With caution, he stalked the trail of thought until he was at the door of a house. It had to be who he thought, it just had to be or else he was risking to come here for nothing. 'Honestly Quentin, it could be a trap.'

Casting doubt aside, Quentin knocked on the door softly. Knock, knock, knock. A pause, there was no sense in knocking urgently, it could scare away the person... but after a thoughtful pause he knocked again.

Knock, knock, knock.

[viced]

He didn't get visitors. He didn't want visitors. It was a) difficult to write with people around, and b) a fucking bad idea, especially when there were import visitors. The few he saw, James and Zatanna came quietly, silently, and vanished the same way. Teleportation, or spy skills, either one was nearly unbeatable.

But the knock was hard to miss, and a check of the door, moving silently filled him with pause. Familiar, maybe. At least a little bit familiar. He wasn't sure who. He cracked the door, it strained at the chain, it wouldn't open any further, he didn't peek through, they couldn't see his face.

"The fuck are you?"

[futureleader]

Relief overwhelmed him, a smile crackling through the caked blood on his face as he undid the helmet obscuring his pink hair. He'd changed throughout the years- no, he matured so the reaction from Mitchell was unsurprising. And though he was smiling, Quentin couldn't help but flinch from his injuries as he spoke in a hushed tone to Mitchell.

"It's Quentin, please help me."

[viced]

Motherfucker. Shit, fucking little--

He paused, slowly sliding the chain out of the door, carefully. "Sorry, I don't know anyone named Quentin, maybe you've got me confused with--" he stopped by opening the door, still not in sight, shooing him in.

"Why the fuck are you showing up here? Do you want me to get killed?"

He slammed the door closed behind him, engaging all the locks, telling the mechanical ones to close, the left side of his face did't show the scars, but there was still a faint glow in there, indistinguishable.

[futureleader]

He rushed in without another cue, getting a good distance from the door before falling to his knees on the ground. He was fine, alive, and by god Mitchell he was having a moment here. Breathing so hard that he was nearly hyperventilating, like he'd been suffering some kind of shock or a panic attack. In a way, he was.

"Don't worry," He wheezed, standing up slowly. "Telepath," Quentin taps his forehead lightly, as if to remind Mitchell that he'd known if anyone was around. That he wasn't born yesterday. He knew the situation was nearly the same for everyone. On the run, wanted, hated, feared. Quentin knew the situation all too well.

He turns to Mitchell, the adrenaline rushing out of his system now as he let go of his helmet with a small clatter on the floor.

"Heh, stupid... I wouldn't throw a fellow imPort to the dogs."

[viced]

He breathed, stepping back, was the kid who'd given him hell when he was in office. Older, now, obviously more mature. He fingered the drawer where his gun was hidden, before he stopped.

"You're bleeding, give me a second," he mentions, heading to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit he kept there. He stepped quickly, tossing it at him, and then he flopped straight onto his couch. "I can't have blood in here, it might identify me as an import sympathizer if the government ever gets wind of this place. They used to search my house all the time, bugged it, too."

Because Adrian Maskin had been a normal human, he'd known. He cut off all contact, didn't use his powers, but silently shut off bugs one by one when they tried to listen in. Normal problems, power surges. Everything. He turned them off silently, and he'd gotten better with that. His range may be smaller, but he was certainly more sophisticated. He'd been able to mentally control machines under extreme duress back home, twenty years ago, almost. Shit, it really had been that long.

"If you leave blood, they'll know. They'll test it."

[futureleader]

"Mitchell, I wasn't born yesterday, Jesus Christ," but he doesn't argue he doesn't even need to be told to clean up the blood because he was already cleaning up the small droplets of blood with the rag from the first aid kit. He holds it in the air for Mitchell to see.

"Taking this with me, you know, evidence," Quentin removes his glasses, setting them to the side gently before cleaning off his face. The gash going from his left eyebrow into the middle of his hairline. There was no more blood gushing from his face, the wound had eventually stopped bleeding on it's own but it looked nasty all the same. With a special kind of roughness, he'd taken care of his bleeding head easily.

"I promise, they won't find traces of me here. Mitch... I wouldn't do that to you," and he means it, putting any of the supplies that had gotten blood on them in that little rag, like a biohazard bag. But he wasn't done fixing himself up just yet. With a more, gentler handling of himself, he removes his jacket, sliding out of the armor and peeling off his shirt to fixate his stare on his arm which was plastered with needles and glass.

"Thank you."

[catcherintherye]

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

[viced]

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

[catcherintherye]

The denial in the response didn't exactly surprise him, but Aoi had to admit to some minor disappointment. The mayor had been pleasantly rebellious. A breath of fresh air in an otherwise outdated and politically backward system. Even the Russo-American Empire of his day was such an anachronism.

It was several days before he was able to formulate a response, this time electing to send the message through a proxy, lest Mitch have figured out a way around his monitoring.

From: Koizumi Aoi (k.aoi@yahoo.co.jp)
To: Adrian Maskin (a.maskin@dontfearimports.com)
Date: March 16th, 2023 10:01:14 EDT
Subject: RE: It's been a while.

Mister Mayor,

You are being pretty phony, aren't you? You use terms like "us" and "them" and "working together", but you use them incorrectly. I didn't think you were the type of political sonuvabitch who would disregard the people you used to fight for so frequently, but I guess maybe I'm wrong. It's funny, too, because your books seem like you don't want to be so phony.

Maybe you're just a coward. I think you're probably just a coward. If it makes you feel any better, they let you go if your powers aren't useful to them. They let me go pretty easily anyway. They didn't hurt me much either. I only have two scars and they're small, anyway.

You should avoid DC next week. There was a blog that said Maskin is going to be there and while I don't think that's true since it would break your reclusive streak, I think you should avoid DC anyway. It's dirty and it will probably be chaotic next week.

-
笑い男

[viced]

This time, Mitchell waited longer. Was it the book, a visit from an old friend, he wouldn't tell, but after a week, he responded, knowing full well that the warning had been more than just for Maskin, but they may have had plans as well. When the next email arrives, it's pure gibberish, all code, something Aoi would have to decipher piece by piece.

From: Adrian Maskin (a.maskin@dontfearimports.com)
To: Koizumi Aoi (k.aoi@yahoo.co.jp)
Date: March 16th, 2023 10:01:14 EDT
Subject: RE: RE: It's been a while.

笑い男,

Did you ever think that there might be a reason for that? I know some people may think I should be out there fighting the good fight, or whatever it is? Maybe I think the only way to make a change is to support you guys from the side we need to convince. I'm not saying there's a right and wrong, but I have to do things my way.

I'll wish you luck, but I'm not signing on. I have my reasons.

-Adrian Maskin

[doubleoohbaby]

There was something comforting about being back in America after time away. Bond had never much cared for the country but after his several year stint in The City, he couldn't help but grow a vague attachment to the state. He blamed his sporadic returns on work and aid, but perhaps it was more to do with a deep seated nostalgia and a want for old companions.

Mitch's latest vanishing act had proven a little more difficult to locate than normal, but James has the help over power magician and his own tracking expertise. No matter how invisible Mitch wanted to be, it felt wrong leaving him out there alone.

When Bond arrives, it's the usual teleport thanks to a certain wife, doing away with all the door knocking and shifty Mitch and straight up arriving in the middle of the room. Because he's nice like that.

"Surprise!" Lol.

[viced]

"Motherfucker!" Mitch jumped out of his chair, standing entirely too shaken, blonde hair and gray eyes all but about to run for his gun, even though it was James Bond who was in the middle of his living room.

"James, don't fucking do that!"

[doubleoohbaby]

Despite himself and the situation Mitch is in, Bond can't help but give a low chuckle of amusement that lasts only briefly. Despite the added years and the slightly rougher round the edges look, it doesn't appear as if James has mentally matured at all. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

[viced]

"Uh huh," he frowned, crossing his arms in the room, feeling his heart slow down again from the heightened pace, he'd been terrified for a moment. Paranoia. He'd been living with a wealth of it for far too long, and it wasn't going away.

"Fuck, James! The shit are you doing here? Doesn't secluded cabin in the woods send the message?"

[doubleoohbaby]

"Not beyond 'I'm a sad and lonely old man', no, not really." But he'll avoid too many of the age jokes seeing as... similar age and all. Plus all that surgery has Mitch looking pretty good compared to what should be expected. Damn him.

"You changed."

[viced]

"Had to," he mentioned, running a hand through the short blonde hair. He'd have to dye it again soon. His roots would start showing any day now. "People were getting too close to Maskin, it had to happen. He's a recluse now, broken under all the stress. Hate mail can be really brutal, you know," he mentioned lightly.

It was the cover he'd gone with. "People are still trying to get too close to Maskin," he mentioned, eyeing James. Implications there, obvious ones too.