Open Post 002

[2020mod]

• Step one: start a thread in this post!
• Step two: specify who the thread is for (or open) in this post!
• Step three: make people reply to this post!
• AND THAT'S THE WAY YOU DO IT.


And don't forget, there's still the ooc discussion post! And nothing needs to be contained to this post! Create new logs to your heart's content! This AU is yours, so have at it!


musebox • rules • character list

Comments

o p e n

[waiting]

[ It's easy for a man like Rick Bradbury to disappear. Out of the uniform, when he isn't taking up his post by his boss's side, he's just another footnote in the short, ugly history of the ImPort crackdown and registration. Just another body.

He isn't dead, though he sometimes wishes he was.

After years away, Bradbury's finally come home, or as close to home as he's ever had here. He's older, skin tanned and ruddy, hair left to grow long and coarse from exposure to sun and salt-spray. He's leaner, and he walks stooped, like a man who's been beaten down (or, more likely, someone just trying to disappear in on himself). He still favors worn denim and black shirts like he did on the rare days he was off-duty, but he doesn't count on anyone remembering what he looks like now. Some days, he can barely even recognize himself in the mirror.

With his ship docked, he's looking for a convenient place to stay, or at least that's what he tells himself. Instead of taking him to a hotel, though, his feet betray him, leading him down alleyways and streets he once knew like the back of his own hand.

How can a few years away change so much? ]

[ ooc: for reference/convenience, OOC plotting post is right here. ]

[motherofnemesis]

[ It's been years since she saw Bradbury. But it's hard to forget certain faces, and events since then may have been horrific but the arena - she thinks that will stay in her memory forever. There are things you don't forget, and people who shared that tend to be pretty clear in your memory, especially when it's as good as hers is.

So when she sees him while she's walking to the grocery store her stride hesitates, awkward and ungainly for a moment as she processes it and double checks, makes sure that she's not imagining it. But no, it's him, and she doesn't let herself miss people it, she can't afford it, but with him here it's harder to ignore that she has missed him. She has no idea if he'll still recognize her - the pink hair is gone, a dead giveaway she couldn't afford to keep, and a decade has taken her from young and bright and idealistic to almost thirty and scarred and tired.

Regardless, she makes her decision in almost a split moment, a public image smile splitting across her face as she heads towards him with purpose. ] I didn't know you were back in town. How are you? [ A level to her voice carefully calculated to neither draw too much attention by loudness or by being too quiet and secretive. Just another pair of friends running into each other by accident on a cold winter morning. ]

open;

[confidentially]

The last several years had given Jessica a newfound appreciation for having a normal life. Not that taking off her clothes for money was exactly normal, but it did afford her the ability to care for her daughter and grant her a comfortable, if somewhat modest lifestyle. Jaime never wanted for anything, and Jessica never put herself at serious risk in order to provide. And that was what mattered most.

Jaime had saved her mother in a way. Temptation was everywhere in the Miami heat. It would have been so easy to fall under the spell of a man or a drug or money. But Jessica was under her daughter's spell entirely. It was a position she'd never ever thought she'd find herself in, loving another human being so completely that she'd do absolutely anything for her, even spend her nights in a seedy strip club, bilking idiots out of their money. It was a scary feeling, too. Jessica felt weak sometimes, helpless when she thought about her daughter. For someone who was always sure of herself, the concept was foreign and uncomfortable. She liked knowing the answers and being able to predict the future. But so far nothing about motherhood was predictable at all.

Of course, that was before Laura arrived to take them out of South Florida and onto a new adventure. Five months on the road with a mutant assassin for hire and a five year old certainly put things into perspective, and when Laura's work brought her back to the City, Jessica decided it was high time she put down some roots in the place where it all began. An apartment in Brooklyn was obtained and Jaime was enrolled in the neighborhood public school. Laura came and went on her missions, leaving enough cash that Jessica wouldn't need to work to maintain their lifestyle-- especially not in a topless bar.

Sure, somedays she was worried about her cover being blown. But the City was as big and bustling as it ever was, and she hadn't spotted a single familiar face in the two months she'd been back. It had been six years, after all. What were to odds of her running into anyone who would recognize her.

( open )

[abyssale]

i. DAY TO DAY

[ Sometimes M'gann forgets what it's like to be in her own skin. She flexes the fingers of her hand and doesn't see anything Martian in her flesh. Nothing of the White Martian, not even the green skin she had come to wear on Earth. M'gann was far too paranoid to to slip out of cover. Even at base where she should feel most safe people rarely see in her own skin. M'gann has taken every precaution not to be discovered.

Not going by Megan or M'gann is another safeguard. Those names were thrown out a long time ago. She never recycles and old name or an appearance she's already abandon. When she takes on a new identity the old one might as well be dead. She goes by Suzie currently. It's the only name she'll answer to.

She's out getting groceries right now. Carrying two bags on her arms as she slips out of the store and keeps her head down. She looks and acts human but she doesn't want to give anyone cause to look twice at her in the City. She walks down the familiar neighborhood (not a very good neighborhood but it helps her keep a low profile) and is careful of the cracks in the cement, not paying attention to anyone around her as she walks. ]

ii. BASE

[ M'gann does what she can to slip into base. Base is in a worse neighborhood than she lives in, a place people don't usually want to go. She changes her clothes to something dark and with a hood and pulls it over her head as she finds the familiar apartment complex. She buzzs in, like she lives in the place, then slips into a door in the back for maintenance only with a password she changes almost daily.

She makes her way through the dark corridors lined with pipes as she descends into what used to be the basement. The walls are lined with lead and she takes every precaution to not be caught. She's moved the base, once or twice, but this one has been around for a little while. Which makes her edgy. Maybe it's time to move again...

No one knows they're their, though. A few subtle mind pushes and the complex owner forgets what that door in back is really for. It's for workers who know what they're doing, after all, not for lazy supervisors.

Finally M'gann reaches the base. She pulls her hood and and goes to the computer terminal to check on what news is floating around. ]

( ooc: plotting for reference. you can still comment there/jump in on this rebel group too. )

open!

[futureleader]

Somedays he's a well known terrorist who bothers the government with explosions and intricate plans of freeing political prisoners. Other days, he's going undercover and even talking amongst the same government officials he plans on assassinating. Regardless, Quentin leads a busy adult life between balancing these two identities and assisting his long term girlfriend, M'gann, in leading the undercover organization. Telepathy made it easy to balance between the two extremes of his life.

But he was well known. As a terrorist he was known as Quentin Quire. His face was familiar, and his name was particular. The government tried keeping his activities under the table. But news media was hard to silence when everyone was reporting about the jail break or the prison explosion that happened just a mile away. He was definitely no friend of the government, and was wanted alive for acts of terrorism. Alive, not dead, for questioning and to make him an example out of the terrorist group to quell disturbances.

In his undercover missions, he wasn't known. For obvious reasons. But he usually took up a telepathic disguise. Changing or altering the minds of others just slightly, to earn their trust and their future plans so that his group couple plan accordingly either way. Either by moving their base camp or by saving prisoners in the nic of time.

Quentin had changed. No, not because he finally had a girlfriend at long last but, he had changed from his childish boy ways into a mature young man. Easily, he had grown taller and fit into his body better. No longer was he the lanky awkward teen, but instead a young adult who was more in touch with his body. Mentally however... It was hard to tell these changes, especially if you were seeing him being reported on TV for acts of terrorism with action shots of a tall man with pink hair blowing up buildings or freeing a bunch of Import prisoners. It was hard to tell, from a far point. And even harder to tell if you didn't have close contact with him.

But he had changed. He had become more mature, more open minded about things. Less abrasive and headstrong about the issues at hand. If only you had the chance to catch up on each other's lives. If only...

You have three scenarios. Pick one! (If you would like an option more unique to you, just say so and I'll write a new one! :) )

A) Running into disguised!Quentin on the street.
A young man wanders the street. From a glimpse, he seems nothing out of the ordinary. He has a full-head of soft brunette hair that curls at it's tips. His eyes stare upward into the crowds of people, like he's searching for something. The young man's clothes are clean, designer clothes of the most popular fashionable taste. He's just a plain John Smith from off the streets. But when he catches your eyes, something seems amiss about him. Something that you can't quite put your finger on. It's like something is compelling you to talk to him. Or maybe it's just that he seems so shady in the way he wathes the crowd. Whoever he is, he turns and starts walking away.

Do you follow him?

B) Quentin at the undercover base!
There's a sigh of relief as soon as Quentin is in the safety of the base camp. His disguises, if any, vanish in a aura of pink energy. He wasn't worried, nor is he tired. He's just happy to be back at the camp where his friends are. Happy to be home. He grabs his water bottle off his bag, and tosses his bag against the wall before wandering over to the corner of the camp.

Do you follow him? Or do you call out to him?

C)Undercover!Quentin in the government!
Ask, and I'll type up a scenario. Or I'll respond to your government scenario! :)

Bonus Scenario! You don't pick any of these scenarios and instead, prefer 2020 Quentin to be a brain in a jar! You horrible monster.

B.

[abyssale]

[ How many times has she told him- them all- to pick up after themselves. Of course, Quentin tosses his bag against the wall and lets it fall wherever. Without even really focusing, M'gann picks the bag up and sets it where it belongs with the others as she gets up from the computer desk now.

She follows him over to his corner, smiling at his back. ]

I take it work went well today. [ It felt so much more natural than talking out loud. ]

OPEN LIKE A MOFO

[amoray]

Saturday night:

Interrogation one goes smoothly enough — political prisoner, native. Twentysomething and bold, just like Eridan. They sit across from one another at the kind of table Eridan imagines they do autopsies on, and the sea dweller asks the usual questions — what's your name, what are your friends planning? What do you think you're accomplishing here? A few minutes of sloppy, disinterested manipulation through his powers, and he gets what he — well, what they want. Eridan doesn't really care either way. They drag that twentysomething out, and Eridan follows suit for a smoke.

There's no real challenge in it all, honestly. Everyone with even a shred of fortitude to fight his hope powers is either in hiding or dead. It's like shooting wigglers in a barrel. Five, ten minutes after they've already seated the next one (he likes to give them time to sweat in that cold grey concrete room, blood and puke and piss and god knows what else from its earlier occupants still visible on some parts of the walls and floor), Eridan steps back in without bothering to snub his smoke. They hate that.

"So," he begins from the doorway, more interested in examining the cherry of his cigarette than this unfortunate slob, "what're you in for?"

Sunday morning:

Work. The legal one. Roman Fairchild, starvin artist extraordinaire, toils his youth away at a local family run cafe. It isn't a bad job, and the people who come to hear him speak aren't bad people — just kind of stupid, easily suckered in by charismatic, pretty faces who know how to phrase things to incite emotional reactions. Roman isn't afraid to speak openly against the government's treatment of ImPorts, nods sagely when the college kids express their novel opinions on the matter to him and encourages them to do something about it. It doesn't hurt that everything looks and smells and tastes better when he's around. It feels like the sun is just about to come out from behind the clouds, when he's around. It all feels righter, somehow, when he's around. Everyone loves Roman.

"Roman" loathes all of them. He used to, anyway. Now he just kind of pities them.

Five years of this, of the shilling and the lying and the acting, and Eridan is tired. Eridan is bored. Eridan is mostly alone. And, worst of all, Eridan is doubtful. Because he's been thinking lately, on whether or not the government had been the unkillable godbeing he'd likened it to at stupid, brash fifteen. Or whether or not he's made it that way. He's been thinking too hard about the promises he makes and the things he tells people, and — horrifyingly enough — he's realized he's come to believe them too. Because that thing Nietzsche said about staring into the void? He thinks maybe it works that way for the vvoid, too.

He also thinks the woman in the business suit who always sits in the seat by the backmost window works for the same people he works for. The people who, coincidentally, aren't happy with his vague, skimpy reports and his decided lack of either enthusiasm or interest in his work. The cause on both his and their minds: thoughtcrime. He estimates got six months tops before they finally, finally throw him to the wolves — or just the one, namely that dick Osborn. Guy's had his number for years.

It's kind of like poetic justice, if he thinks about it. Eridan doesn't mind too much, passing the woman her coffee, sharing a smile with her that's almost, almost genuine enough to pass. Six months is more than enough to do some real damage and piss some people off. He's game.

"Can I get you somethin'?" he asks the new occupant to the table at his left. He's expecting the usual triple mochaccino on ice, since that's what all his usuals order, so much so that he's already writing it down.

Sunday afternoon:

Eridan doesn't actually like bars, but he likes drinking alone in his crummy apartment even less. There's just something about bars that rubs him the wrong way, and he's never been able to put his finger on it exactly; is it the social element, or the drunk people, or is it just being reminded that other people can get schnockered without having to worry about slipping into terrifying alien form or drooling government secrets?

Probably that last one. Actually, no, it's probably a combination of that and the second one ever since that chick threw up in his hoodie last year.

This time around isn't all that bad — nobody says anything about his cosmopolitans (not even after he's thrown back about fifteen of them) and he even gets involved in a friendly game of pool, until a biker says something cheeky about the cosmos, and Eridan cheekily suggests the man skullfuck himself with the fat end of this pool cue pal. Before he knows it, he's getting shuffled into the parking lot for a brawl, and while he knows he's got no real chance of losing this one purely by who could kill who quicker, he's also a slightly tipsy ImPort in an ImPort-hating city, weaponless, working for a governing system that's probably looking for any reason to give him the Oceania treatment, and cornered in a parking lot by three burly bikers who want to beat the shit out of him.

"Karma's a bitch," he mutters, taking off his designer nonprescription glasses and tucking them in his pocket.

[prose and brackets are both aces!]

SATURDAY

[futureleader]

[Eridan startles him, from his aimless daydreaming. But it doesn't take long for the customer to recover. He turns, looking up at the barista through his aviator sunglasses. The pink tint of the shades reflecting Eridan's face. He doesn't speak, not at first anyways, but instead takes the time to adjust the hood of his designer jacket. Hiding his face in a suspicious sort of way. And responds in a way that suggests he knows what Eridan is writing down.]

No. [He pauses to correct himself.] I mean, yes. I'll take a caramel on ice. Lots of sugar. And I'll take two vanilla bean teas on the go. One with sugar, one without.

so open

[motherofnemesis]

a. the resistance fighter.

She's traveled far and wide over the past decade, through most of the states and occasionally out into the world beyond, up and down and once she took a vacation and lost herself somewhere in Southeast Asia for almost four months, out of all contact. That had been after her first brief stint with capture. She'd needed the space.

But The City always calls her back again (and that's how she thinks of it in her head, always - The City, all capitals and stark sternness, architect of her character as it shaped her over the years, dark alleys and bright skyscrapers and all the lies she's ever told in it). She thinks they all come back, in the end, even the ones who proclaim themselves safe and well away. It's hard not to.

Mostly she comes here on business, these days. It's too dangerous to wander back for no reason. It's even more dangerous to stay here, as she's done for a fair part of the past six months, but there were things that had to be done, that still have to be done. Most of her time is spent working, hidden away in either her own base or with someone else in theirs, a mix of trying to crack through security from afar and going out on missions to crack through it in person. Right now information is what's needed, and she'll find it if she can.

Some of those bases aren't particularly easy to get into, but her own - Max remains as easily accessible as she can to other resistance fighters, trying to help maintain connections. It puts her more at risk for discovery, but someone has to be easy to find for those who don't know how to find the others yet. And if you start looking for the revolutionary who goes by Nyx, she'll find you.

b. and the undefined.

There's other places she can be found. Sometimes at night, she goes out and does a little vigilante work. No costume, nothing that can be traced, just trying to repay a little of everything else she's done over the years. A few good deeds don't wash out the blood, but they make it easier to bear. She doesn't talk to people about that. It's better if they think she never has doubts, never wavers, never believes less than wholeheartedly that they are doing the right thing, using the right methods. Doubt is easier to communicate than belief. She won't let herself weaken anything.

There are groceries that need to be gotten, trips out of The City that have to be taken. Life can't happen entirely in closed dark places with passwords and locked doors, however safer that feels. People must be met.

Time marches on. Life keeps moving. She just wishes she didn't feel like she was being left so behind.

[ plotting comment for convenience. open to anything! also you are totally welcome to reply in either prose or brackets i'll match whichever. ]

option a, being as vague as possible yeah

[bangbang]

The arrangements are always, always made far in advance. These sorts of things always take a lot of planning, which was something Rikku had learned over the years. It had been a difficult lesson to pick up, but a few scars and near-death experiences had let her learn it deep down.

She's got Chavvi slung on her back; the girl's still just a baby, hardly over a year, and as much as she trusts Santo, she isn't yet comfortable leaving her baby girl alone. There had been many assurances, many arguments about it, but in the end, Rikku had won. And so here she stands on this crisp spring City evening with her firstborn on her back, waiting for one of her best friends.

She just hopes the plans are all still in place. She's done her part, and now it's up to Max to see her side through.

open.

[niveous]

the airport

[Planes are not even close to her favorite mode of transportation. The risk is usually too high, the chance of being recognized too great. Trains are much preferred. They remind her of home, and the slow and easy pace of them gives her time to relax. And she isn't forced to interact with anyone except when she ventures to leave her cabin. On a plane, there are no individual cabins, just rows of nosy people who don't get the hint that you can't (and, frankly, don't want to) talk.

But trains can't go across an ocean. And so a plane it is, for this trip back to the City. At least leaving from Europe she can simply pretend she doesn't speak any of the dozens of languages being tittered around her.]

the city

[It's been about a year since she's been in the City. Coming back isn't easy. There are so many arrangements to be made, so much information to pass on. Jaime's pseudo-network helps with that, but caution is still something deeply ingrained in her mind.

She's dressed darkly, all the easier to not stick out. Her carriage helps, she thinks. If the harsh angles of her haircut and the slight incline of her chin make people think she can't be bothered to talk, then there will be fewer questions. A few euros on her person at all times to keep up the illusion that she hadn't grown up in this place. An act, but one that might keep her safe.

It's easy enough to remain low-key in a hotel, anyway. Paid in cash, always cash. No text messages, no phone calls (useless anyway), just casual jaunts about the City, innocently stepping into long-ago frequented cafes or delis, a peek inside an old church, a slow meander through the MAC. If she's seen, it'll be by someone she knows. She hopes, anyway. But it is nearly impossible to peruse the entire city in just a few days.]

[adventureboner]

((Jake's flight in from Turkey arrived about twenty minutes prior to his coming into the new terminal. A little later than the recommended arrival time, he set his few bags down beside a chair; he sat right across from Nill, but the chairs lined up in a T formation, so he had a nice view of the people all lined up in the row in front of him. One caught his eyes, and he sort of smiled to himself a moment, remembering the sweet mute girl from his younger years. Ah, the younger years!!!! (Jake, you're only 22; you're not THAT old yet!!!) Of course, he was so preoccupied with daydreaming, as he tried to take a drink of his Tomato Juice, ended up spilling it all over himself.))

Oh! Frigging balderdash!! ((A moment, he does a quick clean up, but remembering this stuff stains...

He stands up, drawing Nill's attention.)) Uh, pardon me, would you mind watching my stuff? Uh... Cook auf mine, uh... stuff?

Open

[adventureboner]

((One))
((The bar on a friday night? Hell YES!!! In his years, Jake has taken a great liking to these sort of places, too, usually meandering around the facility, talking up any chap who'll give him a word. He's become a little better about socializing with people than he was as a teen, but he's still a big conceded, reflecting the conversation on himself nearly ALWAYS. He's just... a lot better at letting the other person reflect too.

So in whatever case, he'll swing up, and I don'tknow know... how about slide up next to you in the bar. He orders a fruity, blue colored drink, and with the money under his finger, looks to his side at (wanna guess?) you.))

Geez, this bar's really gone up in clamour in the last few years, huh? Heh...

((Two))
((Jake is bombarded by the paparazzi as he comes out of his car, smiling his toothy grin. The questions are embarrassing to say the least "how do you plan to come back from the Great Flub of 2017?" He looks embarrassed, but manages to slip passed into his hotel. This has been happening at least daily since his arrival in the City, so anyone might be able to stalk him out in the lobby any of these days. Thank GOD for max security celebrity hotels.))

((Three))
((It's after the show, and Jake is doing a meet and greet. He had his adviser set up a lot of this, telling him all he wanted to do was let the public find him. It was an odd request, sure, but Jake new why he came back. He was a celebrity again to try and find his old friends, a decision he'd made in Europe. He had no idea where any of them where, and he hoped they would have taken the chance to find him.))

Oh yeah, you betcha!! ((he exclaims to one excited fan.)) If you're talking GREAT flicks, Dogma is just about top of the crop. Plus, who DOESN'T love Matt Damon, even if he's getting a bit on the old side nowadays. I'd bet my last dime that his next film will really knock off Time's on it's heiny, hehe.

oh right durr SUPER OPEN

[shipper]

one;

[it's late and this part of town isn't the best of neighborhoods - the sort of place where a mugging or two wouldn't seem too bizarre. perhaps that's why no one seems to react to the sudden commotion in a nearby alleyway, or even bat an eye as a desperate young man shoots out of it with an odd look of relief and lack of injuries for someone who's presumably just been robbed.

anyone curious who moves down the alleyway fast enough will stumble upon a young woman standing over the prone body of a government agent, claws still out and slick with his blood. the hoodie she wears does nothing to obscure the horns (has holes cut specifically for them, in fact) or her golden eyes and she turns to see who's caught her before she can make her getaway. this is quite obviously an import, and possibly a dangerous one at that]

two;

[an anti-import rally in the park seems to have devolved into frantic anarchy as several of the speakers begin screaming opinions contrary to those they'd been spewing mere moments ago, refusing to be calmed or taken off-stage by calmer heads. the eagle-eyed will notice that a woman in the back, face entirely obscured by a veil, doesn't seem to be perturbed by the sudden shift in the rally's tone. she watches the rest struggle to maintain order, something in the way she stands almost amused. how odd.]

three;

[WHATEVER YOU WANT TO DO seriously I'm up for anything go go go]



[ooc; plotting thread for easy access]

1

[glowsferatu]

[ he wasn't where he was supposed to be. she was meeting someone, he was supposed to be getting out. these things have to be arranged to the second, too large a window a higher risk of being caught. when someone misses their window, it means trouble. kanaya shouldn't be running after him, she should be getting out, cutting her losses. she's never been very good at putting her safety ahead of another's, even when they keep reminding her how important her job is. this is her job, as far as she's concerned: not letting them get caught.

she has to keep it repressed, the glow, the appearance, the speed is what she misses most, especially as she has to move. but make too much of a show and she'll get attention, and what good will she be to him then?

a man running from the alley matches her description, so she shouts at him to hide as she runs between him and the alley to get a glimpse of what might be chasing him. what she sees isn't what she expected. she...she knows that figure. she can't remember the last time she's seen her, but...was she his hunter or his savior?

she's still a moment, dumbstruck, just staring, waiting for the next move. she wonders if nepeta would recognize her like this? ]

open!

[nitidus]

o1. book signing.

Rose is twenty-three years old with three successful, underground books under her belt. Her first, The Surreptitious Mr. Green is a best seller. She has signed more copies in the last hour than she has in all week. There are more people here than she expected, at least a dozen queued up and a few stragglers at the back hoping to catch her as she leaves later. There are questions about doing a reading; they would give anything to hear lines from Ms. Trate herself. Rose is enthusiastic about tentacles on the best of days, but she doubts she could ever meet the devotion of the people in this bar.

Penny Trate is a fitting pseudonym. Rose Lalonde hasn’t been Rose for a long time now.

Sometimes she misses it. She misses her friends. She misses class and homework. Her hands itch to fish into her purse for her phone; someone asks her about further books and all Rose can think about is texting Roxy with I think I would like take-out for dinner. She answers: “In the fall, perhaps.”
Her signature is a scrawl of PT with more loops than necessary. She chins a hand and smiles pleasantly. She tucks a long strand of faded lavender hair behind an ear and greets her next fan.

o2. café.

Rose writes out in the open. There is nothing better than hiding in plain sight after all. Her hair is pulled back into an abomination of a bun, and sitting just off her shoulders is a sweater that is far too big for her. She scribbles idly in her notepad, while sipping a cup of earl grey just as attentively (to add insult to injury, there’s milk in it too). There’s a news paper sprawled out in front of her that is getting most of her attention.

Perched on her nose are a pair of non-prescription glasses. She turns the page and scribbles down a few more words. This is hardly a literary masterpiece. It’s more of a nonsensical stream of ideas.
As someone approaches to clear away her two other cups, she offers a barely attentive smile.

She takes a long gulp of her tea and turns another page of her news paper.

[rose's ooc plotting too!]

2

[shipper]

Nepeta is rarely out this early - it's too dangerous, even for her. But there had been a rally that she just couldn't miss and now she's on her way back from it, veil firmly in place and keeping her face from giving her away. Her eyes flick behind it all over the scenery, drinking it in with the sort of eagerness only people who don't get out much possess. It's the only reason she stares for more than a few seconds at the occupants of the nearby cafe, but the double take she does is completely intentional - there's a woman there who looks too too familiar.

She slows as she draws level with the cafe, dropping down to her knee by Rose's table under the pretense of tying her shoe. Hands shielded by overlarge hoodie sleeves pull diligently but thoughtless at her laces as she subtly looks over the woman's face, the woman's table, making absolutely certain that it's not just wishful thinking.

"Purrl grey? Really?" she murmurs softly, eyes catching on the teabag sitting on the saucer. The comment is quiet enough that it can easily be brushed off by the woman if she's wrong, and meaningful enough to catch attention if Nepeta is still as good at recognizing faces as she used to be.

open:

[enigmaestro]

12:47 PM

The fallout burned nuclear in his skin, into his neurons. He struggled to breathe, when it happened, these flashbacks of steel pushed into his flesh or electrical shocks sizzling up his spine. Of that dark voice, ever calm and patient and cold, spinning words in his head. Edward Nygma leaned against the alleyway like a man against a crutch, palms scraping against brick as his memories swam and flooded his brain, trying so hard not to fall out.

"Just -- I just need, ah, just a moment," he said to the blurred passing people that shoulder him on their way. Six months: he understood what he was, this hybrid man puzzled into pieces. He understood what had happened to him, he knew he must always question his paranoia.

And double-question his own questions, to be sure. But his tongue dried on the doublespeak.

Six months broken between agonizing hours and swirled weeks he couldn't remember. The blackouts, he wasn't sure if those were even true now.

Nothing seemed true.

The air was so crisp against his tongue. Like the first sip of water after days in the iron box.

Had that been true?

His power, that was the cruelest irony. His captors had taught him to doubt even his own objective power, the one thing he logically knew he could trust.

But could he trust it? When they said it was wrong, how it lied to him?

"I just need--"

3:12 PM

After combustion, there is a release. Dynamism to heat. Hot air rises proving less dense than colder air and more prone to pressure exerted upwards. After Eddie succumbed to his knees, to his own screams, to a voice that traumatized without ever speaking again -- after that, he would recalculate. He would crawl back up from the spilled alleyway trashcans and the ignored filth of the street, adjust his tie, and he'd think. He would hit his worn soles on the pavement and focus and brainstorm his fresh tactics for the Resistance. He knew so much, after all, so much about the Establishment. He could -- would help, his mind even swallowed by shadows was still sharper. Better.

Edward turned left, heading to the one rendezvous point still accessible to him: an underground bunker beneath a copyright law firm. He needed to see someone, right now.

"Immediately."

The days when he refused to drown. Water didn't always behave like air, and he needed to stay above. He needed it.

[osreborn]

[ Many days unfolded forth in a routine: not one that Norman disdained, necessarily -- it would be a far off and dark day that Norman no longer took some pleasure in his sadistic captures even if it was under his own compulsion that they were all being performed -- but it was the days like this that stood out above all else, fresh in mind like a highlighted phrase in a well-loved novel.

The one that got away. Edward Nygma. Norman knew that he'd find him again.

He was careful with his approach, quiet and fast right behind. Norman wanted Eddie to feel his breath before anything else. ]

OPEN

[retropolis]

In one sense, a lot has changed. In another, almost nothing. The public and the government growing a distaste for masked vigilantes was something that had begun to unfold even back in Nelson's time, although he had never seen the fully actualized aftermath. Now here he saw it again, over half a century later and much more hostile. Even a decade ago he was too old and tired to keep fighting for a future that even in the sixties had seemed unlikely and now seemed completely impossible.

He kept his house -- large enough, his book series and the subsequent merchandizing left him quite well-off while his pen name left him still to a life of peace -- in good condition and offered a spare room "for rent" to whomever might need a place to stay; he couldn't offer much more to any cause (nor, really, did he want to), but that alone soothed any guilt he might have felt for giving up on a world that still needed -- but refused -- the help of heroes. The world didn't want to be saved. Each year Nelson debated with himself if he still wanted to try. Each day, almost, Nelson debated further himself if he even wanted to keep trying to save himself.

The name 'Captain Metropolis' meant nothing here; without much history or reputation it was only the quiet memory of a slightly paunchy sixty-one year old man whose blonde hair has begun to go grey at the temples. It meant plenty to Nelson still, of course; nostalgia was one of the few steady comforts to hang his hat on, always easy to find at the bottom of the many bottles he'd been emptying in recent years. Not that he was a sloppy drunk -- he kept a well-stocked cabinet and mini-bar that he offered to guests and helped himself to throughout the day, usually only leaving his house after he'd had one or two. It was too chaotic outside without something to soothe the nerves and quiet his cycling thoughts. The company lending out a room provided didn't go unappreciated. Social as he was, Nelson somehow always found himself on his own. Lately it was just easier to keep indoors with the curtains drawn.

( Location-wise, at his place or around the City is fine; I'm pretty flexible! )

[waiting]

[ How he finds his way to this address is a mystery; maybe he's tipped off by another well-meaning ImPort, maybe he just had his ear to the ground and knew what to listen for. Either way, Bradbury has no real idea of what he expects when he manages to stagger his way up to the house, spending a moment catching his breath before he knocks at the door.

He's half-wiped out between painkillers and blood loss, even if he has been patched up, and all he really wants is a place to crash for the night. Possibly even the next few days. His arm's been immobilized in a sling for the moment, lucky enough that the bullet just grazed his arm instead of going right through it.

Shoulder injuries are always a bitch, though. It's never as clean as it is in the movies. He leans against the doorframe, gritting his teeth. ]

Anybody home?

OPEN

[osreborn]

Norman constantly felt like his skin was buzzing, licked by unseen flames that burned just under the skin and drove him even madder with frantic energy. He both loved and hated his job. When the government decided Norman would be of use to them, they didn't decide his freedom would be -- nanites pulsed in his blood to keep him loyal, but it was his own luck as well as theirs that their idea of loyalty aligned well enough with passions Norman could content himself with.

As long as he brought in the people that needed capturing, no one asked questions what condition they were in. If he had to work on a leash, a loose one like this could do until he chewed through it and made his own way again. His hands always smelled of blood and his ears often rang from the sound of his own gun and the shouts and screams of those he brought in, to prison or to a quiet, private cell for dissection, torture, or worse. They drowned out the steady whispers in the corners of his own mind -- he knew better than to listen to them. He had fought hard for control and he had won, for his own sake more than the threat of nanochain electrocution if he rebelled. His own name, in times like that, was like a mantra: Just who do you think I am? I'm Norman Osborn, and I'm going to--

He was good at his job, the eyepatch over his left eye signifying grimly what any mistakes invited. Could invite more of, were they repeated; but rarely did anyone he brought in escape. He could count the number on one hand. Yes, he had fallen a ways and had a ways more still to climb now, but Norman knew how to work with what he had. He'd done it from prison before, from death, from the Thunderbolts up to Chief of National Security. It was respectable and he was well-connected; there were plenty of things lower and worse off than a sadistic genius with a gun and a badge and he saw to it that nearly everyone he encountered thought the same thing.

[littlebastich]

"I smell a rat."

The warehouse was dingy, nearly without light – not that it mattered. Not to Slo-bo, anyway. Everything was without light for him.

"A rat in a suit."

He remained stretched out where he was, hidden, letting his voice ring out and bounce off the walls whichever way it chose. The interloper was hardly a concern, really, but it was rather annoying to be interrupted. And without explosions, at that. Frag, if you're gonna bother a guy, make it count, right?

"Wrong address. Beat it."

open.

[crab]

a. mission.

The night air is crisp as Karkat breathes deeply of it, attempting to relax, focus. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his pitch dark clothes rustling faintly against the brick wall against which he has flattened himself in wait. He has forgone his usual disguise tonight -- he won't need it, for what he intends to do. His dark grey complexion blends with the shadows more easily, and his nocturnal eyes pierce the dark better unobstructed. He waits, concealed in the shadows of a small alleyway, attention fixed on the street just outside.

"They should be here soon," he mutters to you, anxious and barely audible in the gloom. "Don't do anything stupid. Don't follow me until I say so."

Generally, he works and travels alone -- but for whatever reason, tonight it seems you're along for the ride. Kidnapping and interrogating a government employee is a terribly dangerous exploit, you know, even if you have been carefully tailing them for over three months now, and know there is a decent chance they will be walking by this particular little alleyway (probably alone, possibly drunk -- he usually drinks on Tuesdays) tonight. It's prudent to have someone to watch your back.

b. altercation.

Karkat's exploits have always been tempting fate. It's little surprise that, eventually in his quest for information, he would be met with someone with the will to not succumb to Karkat's powers. You see, while they sway someone's allegiance -- their thoughts, their rational mind -- that remains untouched by Karkat's manipulation. If he isn't careful, if he isn't subtle, his influence can potentially be rejected, should someone have enough fortitude and willpower. He'd been careless, rushed, and miscalculated; he hadn't expected the knee to his diaphragm in place of what should have been a placid compliance with whatever Karkat asked.

It all escalates very quickly from there. And all for such a stupid reason, really; he'd only wanted to manipulate a shopkeeper into allowing him to make off with some groceries from a small convenience store. Figures that it would be an ordinary citizen who would be Karkat's downfall. Karkat stumbles backwards into a display of magazines, gasping to regain his breath -- while the shopkeeper hollers about imPorts and powers and -- god, fuck Karkat's life, fuck it with every inappropriate serrated, splintery, sandpaper-covered instrument of torment the world can possibly cough up.

His hood has fallen off, revealing candy-corn horns. The shopkeeper pulls back the fist of the hand not holding the phone that he is presumably using to call the police to sock Karkat in the face. His sunglasses clatter to the floor. Sirens already wail in the distance. He withdraws his sickle, head spinning with panic. Fuck his life.

c. serendipity.

He spends more time in disguise than out, sometimes. Stealth in this world is difficult for a clearly recognizable alien, after all; he had to learn early on how to mask what he is. Hoods and hats to mask the horns, meticulously applied makeup and sealant to mask the skin tone, contact lenses and reflective sunglasses to mask the eyes, caps to mask the sharp edges of his teeth. Even with all of that, though, he has to avoid close scrutiny for his disguise to hold up. It isn't perfect. It isn't infallible. Up-close examination would cause it to crumble.

This sticks in his mind as he maneuvers quickly through city streets (The City? Maybe, maybe not.) head down and movements cautious. He hates this -- having to be out in public, in crowds, in broad daylight, but it is always inevitably necessary that it happen. His heart thumps rapidly in his chest with anxiety even so, and he goes to great pains not to draw attention to himself.

He flinches when the first raindrop hits his shoulder. Lets out a quiet gasp when more swiftly follow suit. His makeup isn't waterproof -- not entirely -- he can't afford to be caught in a downpour. Fear floods through him, and he dashes for shelter, arms thrown up over his head. He darts into the nearest -- shop? Cafe? Library? He doesn't know or care -- with little caution or thought, not even watching where he's going, so caught up in escaping the rain he is; and it's this haste that leads him to bodily collide with, well, you, just inside the dwelling.

d. respite.

Karkat feels guilty every time he does this -- which is kind of ridiculous, seeing as the very point of all his travelling and information gathering and rebellious exploits was to find the people he cares about in the first place. Still, feeling guilty is almost a default state of Karkat's being at this stage, and he can't deny that his presence is dangerous. His history over the past seven years has not led the government to regard him kindly; he doubts they would be content to simply imprison him at this point. They would be sure to have a worse fate in store for him, if they were to capture him.

And anyone who was discovered to be connected to him? He doesn't want to think about what would happen to them. Yes, he's dangerous to have around. The best thing he could do for people he wants to keep safe would be to stay far, far away from them, forever. Unfortunately -- or fortunately -- he isn't selfless enough for something like that. He's so terribly, achingly lonely, you see. No matter how guilty he feels, it could never outweigh his need for companionship.

Besides, collaboration makes his job easier. He can't know everything, or be everywhere -- these visits are as much for assistance as they are to assuage his isolation.

So, sometime in the dead of the night, you may awake to find you have a visitor, who most likely just broke into your humble abode via picking the lock on your window.

e. other.

Decide your own scenario!

C

[seeksherownsalvation]

It really looks more like a small library from the outside. Definitely some kind of unassuming public building. You'd have to pause and note the small crosses engraved next to the doors, or the plaque with the small lettering reading OUTER EAST METROPOLITAN CHURCH OF SAINT FRANCIS, and who has time to pause these days?

"Hey! What d'you think you're doing?"

The young woman Karkat barrels into wasn't pausing, either. She was sweeping the entrance hall of the small church. It's definitely a church, on the inside--the chapel is farther down the hallway, but shelves of prayerbooks line the walls and false stained glass shows pictures of saints.

The woman isn't sweeping now. She's leaning on her broom and glaring at the visitor. "I know they talk some nonsense about being open to all comers, but c'mon. Look where you're going!"

Is she familiar? She might be. Early twenties, Japanese, with ordinary long dark hair with ordinary auburn highlights. But here in the church, she isn't wearing anything to hide her unusual scarlet eyes.

open

[xxii_thefool]

a: She's tired.

But that's nothing new. Minako has been tired for so long that she can't remember any more what not being tired feels like. The fatigue is simply a fact of life, a condition that she's learned to manage.

These days she's calling herself "Maiko Sanada," and there's a little hole in the wall Japanese restaurant with a sympathetic owner who's let her beg a part-time job without asking too many questions. Waitressing is hard on her, but she's not in a position to be picky when it comes to having a source of income. For the moment, at least, she's on break, tucked into a little corner booth with a cup of miso soup, trying to pull together as much rest as she can from a few minutes off her feet.

She wears colored contacts to conceal her telltale red eyes, but even after this much time, they're still uncomfortable. Or maybe it's just fatigue that makes her eyes hurt. She catches herself rubbing at them and makes herself put her hand down on the table.


b: Kneeling on damp grass and dirt, Minako takes a few minutes to brush old dead leaves from the gravestone, and to pull up the worst of the weeds around it. The cemetery is small and not very well-tended, and that's why she's here.

The name on the grave doesn't belong to anyone she knows, or knew. It's not important. Whoever the remains underneath the grass and soil belong to, she's sure they won't mind too much that she's using their memorial as a substitute, a shrine of sorts at which to say a silent prayer and remember, for a little while, all of the friends who are lost to her in one way or another.

She suspects, on the occasions she thinks about it too closely, that this is probably kind of morbid of her. But her bonds even to those long gone are still precious to her, and morbid or not, it's a way of keeping hold of those bonds, of keeping them fresh in her memory.

So she lights a stick of incense in a tiny burner that she's set down in front of the stone, brings her hands gently together before her, and, closing her eyes, Minako remembers.

[ooc: planning thread here!]

OPEN

[viced]

The government was often suspicious of Adrian Maskin. Ever wary that the man who wrote pro-import literature was a suspicious person, he could feel the government's eyes and ears on him. He couldn't shut down the cameras, not always, he had to live with their ever-lingering gaze at his back, malfunctioning only when absolutely necessary.

Being back in the City was haunting, weird, terrifying. He'd loved it, running it, and he'd loved the people. It was fucking hell to run, but the City itself had never been something he hated. He despised the new City, they ever-present tightened noose around their necks, the imposing heaviness that lingered.

He was here for a reason. He was here because so few people had seen Adrian Maskin's face. Facial recognition was vital, he knew. They knew his words, but he had to start now, to move forward. He couldn't let himself out, he couldn't run on a platform of experience and knowledge. He was a new up and comer, and he'd be running against old dinosaurs. He'd have to sell it, and sell it well. He was here to make connections with the natives. Of course, he'd interviewed imports before, in secret, as Maskin. He'd never shown his face to anyone but his editor, to the few people who he'd spoken with, he was still unknown.

It was more than just a penname, though, it was a fucking identity. It was his life.

He walked through the City streets, new face, the angles all wrong to be the former import politician, the left side and neck missing telltale scarring that had always identified him. He wore sunglasses in the daytime, and his eyes were a muddy brown thanks to contacts, and his hair darkened to black, the cut just a hair shorter than he'd always kept it. Slicked away from his face.

He needed to sell himself to the natives, but weren't they all natives by now anyway? Trapped in this world?

[retropolis]

[ Nelson didn't much like leaving the house, but he forced himself to do it anyway. Things had gotten bad in the City -- even worse than he'd feared them getting when he'd been home -- and he'd given up the fight for a better tomorrow. Everyone could be their own saviors; it was getting hard enough to get himself through life, let alone save others. He didn't need to work, he lived alone, and nothing he'd grown up loving and wanting to protect was here. There was nothing here. What he'd thought could be a new opportunity had instead just turned into an apocalypse.

It took alcohol to make him leave, usually, one or two drinks before he could make himself get out the door. He wasn't agoraphobic but he had certainly taken to seclusion, but forced himself out now and then to stay in shape and so that he didn't go insane. He stood, two or three or four drinks gone (he'd fallen into the bad habit of losing count, refilling his glass before it was empty), by the Brooklyn Bridge and looked over the side a bit wistfully.

He thought about it often. Considered it strongly. But he knew how death could work in the City, and even now he always had that doubt-- that fear of failing even the most simple task. There wasn't any fanfare to it either, not here. It'd just be a matter of disappearing. Or not. ]

God. What happened?

[ When looking at the water began to make him dizzy he hid his face behind one hand, gripping the railing with the other. He muttered to himself: ]

Everything's wrong. Everything, I never wanted to live to see-- [ And tipsily grabbed at the first person he saw walking by, a bit desperately. ] What happened?

Open

[governorkang]

A: Post-Mission

Every step sent a jolt of pain through Kang's left arm, even with it cradled up against his chest. He had a couple of small patches of scales (and the skin underneath) freshly scraped off, a barely noticable circular hole in the membrane of one wing that he'd gotten courtesy of a gun, and a cut above his right eye covered in sticky, greenish blood. He cursed quietly in Nerakese, pausing at the door to the infirmary; who was going to cover his combat lesson tomorrow with such short notice when the only medics available for two days didn't have any healing powers?

B: The Streets

Kang had tried to learn to mimic a different accent than the one he had naturally, to better fit in when he had to go out in his human body, but he'd never really gotten the hang of it. He'd also tried to say that it was Romanian when people asked, since that was what it seemed to sound most similar to, but then he got strange looks; he appeared to be of korean descent. So, he'd just decided to try not to speak to natives if he could help it.

He casually walked down the street with his hands in his pockets, doing nothing to stand out. He was headed for a small shop hidden in plain sight that sold several of the components he needed to cast his spells. The owner also had ties to the black market and helped several of the imports acquire certain items.

C: Create Your Own

Any other interactions you can think of.

[OOC: Planning thread here.]

OPEN.

[swordedpast]

          1. For a few years, as things got bad, he fought with the various networks of resistance, striking quickly and precisely at government targets. Sometimes he worked with others, but more often, he worked on his own--or with Rin. The two of them were a team, and so they fought, even if it meant they often had to move from place to place just as they were settling in.

But as the trouble deepened, as it became more and more clear that no one was going home, things began to change. Archer had never shown much in the way of affection for the world he came from--he talked often enough of the arcane rules of its magic, but never of any fond memories from it. But he did have a goal there. Was it the loss of that which let him fall out of the heroics that had once so perversely driven him? Was that it? Or was it Rin's increasing need for someone to tend to her in this fickle world?

(It was Rin.)

In any case, the man with the swords has grown scarce of late. He's almost retired, you might say. But not quite. He still sometimes emerges from the quiet and the shadows to return to the light of fighting for what's right.

          2. Most people get grey hairs as they age, the color leaching out of their hair only then. Archer? Whatever turned his hair white, he hasn't mentioned it, but with suspicion now falling heavily on any physical oddity, he dyes his hair black even though he's older. (He doesn't look quite as much older as he should. Maybe five years, but not ten. Will he ever look forty?) He also wears his bangs down for some reason. Who can say?

Oddly, he seems gentler these days, as dark as they are. Sometimes his eyes still have that profoundly empty look, but at other times, he smiles more sincerely than before. "There are people here it's not so bad to be protecting," he might have confided to someone or another, at some point, before looking away awkwardly.

So there's nothing special about him and Rin in the small, quiet town they live in. Nothing special at all, except maybe that they're foreigners. They're a part of the community, aren't they? Archer even cooks or cleans or feeds pets for neighbors sometimes.

(They have a somewhat fat orange cat themselves.)

A: YOU'RE CALLING IN A FAVOR.
          He's done his best not to rely on anyone in a while. But all the same, Archer has not existed in a self-reliant vacuum over the past ten years. Sometimes, he's needed help. And he refuses to take that help without stubbornly leaving an impression: someday, he will be the ally of the one who helped him. He might not be their ally forever. He might not fight the whole world for them. That's a little beyond him, you know. But he'll help in return.

          So here he is, with his darkened hair and his serious eyes. He may have faded out of the hero business more than he ever imagined he could, but someone's called him in again, and he won't say no.

B: YOU'RE BEING CALLED ON FOR A FAVOR.
          The message arrives through clandestine pathways. It's signed with a sketch of a bow, the kind that shoots arrows (or swords, in this case), and it comes with a note that your help is needed as well as directions for how to contact him in return. A bow isn't a very specific signature, but those directions should make it clear enough who's calling. No one else of note lives in that insignificant little town.

          He'll be waiting in a small park, or perhaps a little diner or cafe. He'll explain the situation soon enough, in this town so idyllic as to be dull, where since he's careful, the government never quite finds him. Probably.

C: THEY'RE ALL OUT OF FAVORS.
          He shouldn't be in the City again. Didn't he turn his back on this place years ago? Too close to the center of it all. Too much danger to Rin, too much chance of him being drawn back into the thick of heroics. But for some reason, a message has come. Rin was needed back in the City, and so he comes too.

          He barely looks like himself when he arrives, slipping quietly amidst alleyways and through crowds. He isn't even wearing red anymore. Some people might still recognize him, though.

prompt one for now, couple weeks before city stuff? <3

[gandere]

She's never certain how their future will end up anymore.

For Rin Tohsaka who always remains a step or two ahead, there's a significant value she places on the future. Having been raised to create a suitable heir, Rin's not entirely happy with this situation. No, that's not true. Her spirits are lifted when she has her spirit that lifts her alongside her, but these missions they go on every couple months are taxing.

It ends the same. They have to pack up and move before home can finally sink it's fangs into her.

For some reason, she decides to stick her heels into the ground this time. Rare enough that they argue (always friendly banter, but not like this), but she's refusing to leave this little town in the middle of Nowhere, Canada.

Hours have passed since she gave him the ultimatum, so it isn't surprising that she's already moved on to cleaning up. In all honesty, she expects Archer to not return. At least not while she's awake. He may slip in undetected when she's deep asleep, victim to her unspoken nightmares, but not while her eyes are still wide and her mouth still able to scream at him.

Open!

[deductives]

It's been a few months since Sherlock's last visit to the City. If John hadn't stayed behind, he's not sure he'd still visit at all. It's not that he needs to stay away. No, as far as the government knew, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were long dead, killed in the early waves of registration resistance. He travels now under the pseudonym, Scott Trevelyan, an expatriate from Britain who holds professorships at several unremarkable universities across the country. In reality, Sherlock rarely taught a class, and has been traveling far more globally in order to keep up his consulting business, and to collect intelligence for the growing imPort resistance groups.

He seeks no credit or glory for this work, and certainly doesn't socialize even if these people are on his side. It only invites trouble. Sherlock only dreams of the day he and John can live in London under their true identities again. Even if their real London seems eternally closed off. Deep down, Sherlock relishes this far more than returning home, where he'd be doing much of the same thing, but only in complete isolation.

For now, though, he's just a ghost haunting streets that barely look familiar, surveying the damage seven years has done. He hasn't done much to alter his appearance, but time and not living with John anymore have had their own effects. His eyes, though still sharp as ever, are more sunken, and his face is more sallow without anyone around to force him to eat regularly. Cigarettes have replaced that once again, and it's rare to see him without one pursed between his lips. His hair is shorter and tinted auburn, no longer framing his face with unkempt black curls.

Sherlock's adaptability and affinity for disguise, however, have been his greatest ally in remaining unseen. Even if he doesn't look terribly different when he isn't trying to, a quick change of clothes and a few changing facial ticks allow him to blend into the crowds. And when that isn't enough, he simply sinks back into the shadows that he knows all to o well now, and someone might wonder if he was ever really there at all.

Re: Open!

[foreshadower]

It's not the City, that Sherlock finds himself in, so to speak. Just outside it, actually. He rarely stepped into the City, features that stood out, movements that revealed him to be import simply by existing.

Ah, but the Shade loved the world. He walked and stepped where he wished, and stood in crowds all over the world, with little trouble, or little question of his identity. The issue was that he didn't trust the City, after discovering with a few close scrapes that perhaps the enforcement would be able to stop him.

He traveled, walking shadows and listening where he could. People didn't look for imports so much outside of the City. This was where they were thought to congregate, and many did.

Today, it was New Jersey, the scene where they had first met a haunting specter, much like the clocktower that loomed above. The Shade stepped out of the shadows, darkness clinging and dripping off of him in ways that it had only suggested before. He spent much of his time walking in the shadows, and it was having an effect. He was starting to forget that he was human again.

"Mr. Trevelyan, was it?" his voice, even, sounded different. Oh, not in timbre, or tone, but in accent, years without speaking wiping away the years of removing inflection and tone. He sounded more authentic to his time, even as he tipped his hat.

OPEN

[liverletdie]

It had taken a long, long time to get out. Years. He'd been trapped inside his home in upstate New York, the guards keeping him on tight lockdown. Ghost had gotten him out, removed the chain that tethered him there, keeping him from leaving, from being effective. He'd never escaped, not until now.

That didn't mean things were better, though. Hell, they were worse. At least locked away and used by the government, he got three square meals, something to read, and even if it was little more than that, at least he had something.

Meals weren't coming as easy. Covering his tracks was even harder. How did you get from one part of the world to the other without passports? He was adaptable, sure. He could do a lot, embezzle money that was never found, thanks to a revitalized, quick brain, he could slush funds into an account, get a passport, shave his face, but all of it took time, and everything was closely monitored.

The government knew who they were dealing with, they'd known exactly how his powers worked, and what they needed to do.

He was travelling the world as best he could, looking for the parts he needed. The scrap. The metal. It was expensive. His suit had cost him several billion dollars, and if he could, he'd have broke that back out.

It wasn't an option.

So he had to move. He could be anywhere, his hair dyed blonde, no facial hair, everything about him changed, but there were things he couldn't hide. The ports on the back of his neck, if he wasn't wearing a high-necked jacket, the way he moved. There were things he couldn't hide, no matter what. ]

[osreborn]

[ Norman kept on top of news like this -- escapes, sure, but usually he couldn't be bothered to care. Only in certain cases -- certain cases of certain significance -- did Norman specifically request to be assigned. Personally.

For this one in particular he brought an old friend out to play; one that had faded somewhat over the years, but still stood out in its garishly painted red, whites, and blues.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, Stark.

It was much easier searching by land and air. ]

look at all that open

[sewerrat]

[So much had happened in the first years, before the regime change, before the land of America became hostile to his kind (funny, how they always seem hostile to some kind or another). The Porter had seen fit to send Silva back at some point before, back to the streets of London, sending him to the deserted Scottish moors, sending him to his own death. He hadn't been the same when he was brought back to the City. But at least it answered Silva's age old question of if he could truly restart his old hacker-for-hire business here. No. No point. There was never any point to his life anymore. He could only continue on and become something else. Someone new.

It didn't take long for that chance to spring up. Silva knows dangerous change when he sees it, knows well how to go to ground, how to slip away, disappear, spend his time surviving. Very quickly, he recognizes that this change is going to stay, can feel the terror in the people around him, natives and Imports alike, like gooseflesh zipping along his skin, like pores drowning in nervous sweat. And he knows it's finally time to shed old skin. Raoul Silva fades away as though he had never existed. Fakes his own death, in fact, with a car bomb and a borrowed cadaver so badly destroyed that identification would prove nearly impossible.

It's catharsis, in a way, watching someone in his vehicle burn to a crisp, a stand in for himself. Burning. The irony nearly chokes him. But it lets Tiago Rodriguez rise back to the surface. The old agent returning and putting his skills to the test. He tosses his blue-tinted contacts. Stops dying his hair. Dark brown roots eventually retake his looks, sliding back into his distinctly hispanic appearance that he had purposely altered so long ago.

The years pass. He's getting older. But he makes a point of staying in shape, so his knees aren't killing him. Rarely trusts a soul. He can't, Tiago can't. He knows the worth of trust, knows the pain of having it broken. Sometime during the long weeks and months and years, he carves out a niche underground, filled with electronics, with computers, with monitors. Plugs himself directly into the power supply. Masks himself as best as he can.

And watches the world above turn.

Tiago has always been brilliant with computers; that's probably why Lachesis gifted him with technopathy. He certainly hasn't let the present go to waste. He's used it so much to his advantage that he feels he can do almost anything so long as he can connect to it. And sometimes he does. Even helps people, when he can. Abandoned, given up, tortured, interrogated. Those that need an invisible hand the most.

The ghost in the machine, as it were, does not go unnoticed. So he makes himself a name: Xolotl. Funny, how his days of decorative skull imagery are long behind him, but he has to have at least a little fun with the whole thing. He doesn't ally himself directly with the resistance, with any group or renegade or vigilante, although the government officials tend to think of him as one. Sometimes someone even manages to find him, though they tend not to know the face behind the virtual troublemaker.

In the light of day, he appears to be a slowly greying nothing special nobody. Best to keep it that way.]

[doubleoohbaby]

[James would have done the same in Silva's shoes. It's that agent training coming into play, combined with mass amounts of common sense and a need for survival. The fake death was a nice touch. His own decisions hadn't been entirely different, but there'd been the added help of a magical girlfriend who could constantly teleport and disguise the both of them. Even then, James and Zee had hidden away, just like Silva, keeping a low profile and watching closely at the ebb and flow of resistance fighters and the opposition, while doing their best to reach out a silent hand of support to those that needed it.

But support like that needed more than just a helping hand. It needed fake documents, information gained and numerous other activities that weren't entirely legal, especially in today's climate. Sometimes laws had to be broken for the greater good, Bond knew that better than anyone. He even understood it enough to swallow his own pride and seek out allies where he might not have before.

Allies like Silva. Or Tiago. Or Xolotl. Or whatever the fuck he was calling himself these days.

James knew the sort of things his old 'enemy' was capable of. Knew perfectly well how good he was at computers, at watching, at planning. It's the sort of knowledge and expertise that James really could do with having under his belt as an extra contact to turn to when he needs. The past had to be forgotten, what had happened before was another world, literally. Now it was just 'us' and 'them', ImPorts against the world. They had to stick together.

It had been tough to track him down. Near impossible. But James had his ways, much like Tiago had his ways. Eventually it came down to years of searching and a little bit of luck that brought James his success, arranging it all so nicely to have Zee teleport him from afar.

And here he was, in some underground lair that brings back memories from so so long ago, back in England, back in his home world, except this isn't Churchill's old bunker and it's not full of MI6. The surroundings don't surprise him though, all wires and electrics, so typically predictable considering the online movements of this Xolotl. It's hard to expect what else he'll find though, beyond that figure glued to the selection of monitors. A lot has changed since these two last met, and yet James remains a constant as is so often the case. He's not changed, not really. Perhaps a little more rugged around the edges, a few more creases between his brow, greying temples and days of unshaven scruff at his chin that signals he's been a little too busy to consider shaving, but all that is physical and the course of aging. He doesn't bother with the suits much any more either, sticking to a nicely fitted pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a black bomber jacket, all of which keep him comfortable and are just that little bit easier to manoeuvre in should this meeting go sour.]

Xolotl? Seems rather fitting, all things considered. [His voice cuts through the dim lighting, a little gruffer but just as unenthusiastic as always.]

opennnnnn

[dragony]

All in all, it shouldn't even count as hiding. The tells are there, plainly visible to the naked eye, so long as one is willing to spend more than a few seconds looking. Her arms are as covered as ever, wrist to shoulder, but now fabric and leather have gone the way of layered ink, intricate and busy, masking all scars that lay against the skin. She's still too narrow, her face drawn from too much stress and too little sleep; a strong wind seems liable to knock her over.

Earthquakes do little to shake her balance nowadays.

You'd see her face in side columns or promotional pamphlets at public libraries; she smiles, kindly, and turns her face to its good side. She hides the bad side under a multitude of covers, masks and patches; all custom, many crafted and given to her by her fans.

These creations, like hers, are beautiful in construction, and gruesome in construction. Pastel horrors and neon sorrows.

The old name hides in the new; the old face visible in the new. It does not count as hiding, but what point is there in pursuing her? She has no leads, she seems no risk to the established powers, no betrayal to whatever rebellion may be forming. As ever, her only enemy is herself, and it is a battle she is losing.

When she sweeps into the building, her makeup is perfect, but her cheeks are smeared with charcoal, her knuckles shiny with black, her fingers dusted with color. She carries a bag too large for her slim size; she speaks in low tones, but too fast, like she fell out of a cinema feature long before they were as colorfully painted as she.

She won't be here long; perhaps it's only one last drink for the night before the last of the bars close, or the recovery of one insured package from a post office box, or the depositing of a check, or the pick-up of too much take-out, or a frenzied purchase of two dozen light bulbs and discount spices. She moves in and out like a summer storm, an untamed mildness.

If you take the time to look, the spade-shaped mask swallowing much of her face bears a painting of a gray-haired child. His hands pull at his cheeks (over her cheek), and tearing at skin. His fingers are the haired legs of spiders; staring reveals his eyes (over what would be her eye) to be milked with cataracts. His hair is not painted; it is cobweb, gathered and glued carefully into place.

If you take the time to stare, she will stare back.

[amoray]

He stares.

She could be doing altogether worse, he imagines. He certainly is. He's not really hiding either, for altogether separate reasons; still broad and blond, brilliant streak of purple untouched, though he's more... subdued, almost. Ruka was never exactly quiet in style, what with the eyepatch and the sometimes teal hair and all, but now it's like she's sucked all the color out of him and taken it for her own.

Eridan dresses in black, accented lightly with purple. He drinks at some quiet little corner of the bar — vodka, tonight, because he's in one of his moods. And he doesn't say anything when she walks in.

He just stares.

open.

[scarabsuited]

He's more sold on the notion of heroes coming in different forms nowadays, given how out of shape he's gotten. Somehow sitting at a terminal encrypting calls and messages doesn't maintain those teenaged biceps all that well – who knew? Besides the Scarab, forever pointing out the obvious when a rhetorical thought wafted by. It kept Jaime very self-aware, for better or worse.

It could be worse, he thinks. A lot worse. He was never on the receiving end of the "hospitality" of those ImPort-centric "hospitals." He found Abby amidst all the chaos. He had a skill that mattered – that could do something for so many people. So he embraced it and moved forward, best one could given the circumstances.

The bunker moved time to time, depending on how close certain unsavory types got, but the routines were the same. Those welcome knew the passkeys to the assorted entrances connected to it – even one not-too-glamorous-transporter, thanks to more engineering-minded assistance. Known ImPorts he came across – those come across by those he knew – were given small commlinks, designed to interact with each other not unlike that network that had united so many of them years before. This time, though, sponsored by a Beetle, not a mysterious Iron Suit.

Jaime Reyes does what he can from that bunker and those screens: routes to safe locations, hotspot surveillance, safe communication connections...and, you know, the occasional nag to a long-lost or estranged friend to try and draw them back, pull them away from miserable reality for just a second. Sometimes it's enough to bicker or banter as if nothing had changed. And then someone brings up the kids, and slowly they are brought back to Here and Now.

Really, it could be worse.

open.

[remarkablyspry]

It had taken more than two years for most of Steve's hair to grow back, though nowhere near as wild and thick as it had been before. He had found it startling and strange how incredibly disturbed he had become when it was gone, how much of an identifier it had become. Now with it back, it seemed to dull the impact of his captive years; he was one pill bottle rattle shy of being able to put it utterly out of his mind for a day.

He wasn't going to get far from the effects of that time, certainly, and his dependency on certain elements of that hateful government had ensured a number of poor decisions made – made and in dire need of atonement. Hence why things seldom went off a hundred percent when certain persons were present at that stadium or its adjacent offices.

Not that Steve the janitor and all-around fix-it man had anything to do about it or anything. He just had the keys to every room and facility – no big deal.

Besides, when he wasn't cleaning toilets or replacing lightbulbs, Steve was often home at a dingy apartment complex, reading manuals or scrawling out another recalled memory of his life in the Wilherser System. It'd make a great book, he thinks, if only doing so wouldn't draw too much unwanted attention to himself. He'd had quite enough of that.

Perhaps, though, if he were to spy a familiar name in the news or on the agendas he spied in executive offices, he'd have one more chance to atone for those awful, selfish mistakes he'd made.

[acrossyourpath]

[ Felicia tries not to wander the City too often; it's risky, of course, when someone deals in business such as she does, but information trade doesn't come risk-free. She has to get it somewhere. She keeps the sunglasses on, dressed to blend in -- no one looks as closely at pregnant women, anyway. So when she goes into yet another office building, she's hardly expecting any notice. In and out; that's the plan.

She glances at the janitor, but briefly. There's something mildly familiar about him, but nothing jumps right to her mind. ]

open.

[soldieringblue]

Blue, Soldier Blue, and Someone traveled together, but not always at the same time. Sometimes, Blue opened his eyes first and began to scour the area for lost friends. He was calmer, then, more careful and aware of the circumstances, hazy though they remained. But it wouldn't take long for Soldier Blue to surface and send him away, away and out of sight no matter the cost of detection; he wouldn't know any better.

Someone would cause a scene, would be certain to draw dangerous attention and make his situation more dire than the moment before. It wasn't his fault; he didn't know where he was, who he was, or why he was anywhere at all. Those hazy figments in his mind made no sense until one or the other reclaimed control, and then only for brief moments in time. Or, maybe, days. He wouldn't remember well enough to be sure.

Open fields of wheat or dense subway tunnels...they would flash before his eyes, almost unreal for the moment it took to settle.

Sometimes, one of them would call out, casting caution aside and taking the leap of fath: Somewhere, there had to be somebody who could hear and know.

Where are you? How can I find you?

[glowsferatu]

Where he was is exactly the question Kanaya was trying to answer. She'd heard rumors he was back, and she wasn't about to let him get captured, so she had to leave the City for a couple weeks to get away. Away from the jammers, away from the noise and bustle, just to find herself somewhere she could stretch out her senses and just feel the world around her. She'd lost too many connections over the years, and even the hint of reestablishing one is a chance she won't lose.

She'd spent most of the last two weeks in a motel upstate, studying the space and waiting for a sign. His thread was so irregular, erratic. She might think she saw it only to find him gone once she had the portal open. Six times this has happened in twice as many days, and six had always been her number. Sixth astrological sign, sixth caste from the bottom, six letters in her name, six spines in the emblem of Space, six legs before she cocooned. An ill omen, an unlucky position, story of her life. She's tried of fortune frowning on her, and she isn't about to surrender to failure. Eventually she'd make it, she knew she would.

Seventh time's the charm.

It was almost odd to see him now, formerly so tall, now almost shorter than her. The years change so much. She wasn't even sure he noticed her when she touched his arm, a little nervous. She has to dig deep to find her voice. "Soldier."