capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

Oh yeah? [ He asked, honestly curious. The guy wrote books? When the fuck had he written some fucking books? He honestly looked a little surprised, probably too surprised, but he played it off with a gentle, knowing smile. ]

Hell, half of us have pen names these days. I'm an author as well. Who knows, maybe you'll end up like Mark Twain or George Orwell. [ He awkwardly clasped a hand over his shoulder, offering his support. ]

Believe me, I know what you mean. It's an unfortunate side-effect of getting old.

[ Again, he played it off. He really did know what he meant. Hell, he recognized all to well Nelson's situation. He could feel a reflection between how he was feeling, and what his life had become. He couldn't sympathize too much though.

He wasn't an import. ]

[ Anyone else likely wouldn't have landed if they weren't sure. Norman Osborn wasn't that type of man, not these days. Every suspicion was acted on, because he had authority. He was doing a service. As long as he was tracking imPorts, few people cared.

And he did have some experience looking for Tony Stark. He knew what to look for.

He landed, and not gently. ]

Tell me the truth.

That is you, isn't it?

[if there's anything that Nepeta's good at by now, it's running. she speeds along behind Kanaya, eyes constantly roving the scenery to scout ahead for anyone who might become a threat in the near future. a cloud of apathy trails behind them, hopefully deterring curious passersby and agents alike from giving them anything more than a bored glance]

[ Norman's teeth ground, his eye narrowing. He dug his heel in further as Eddie spoke, wanting to provoke a reaction of pain rather than his steady dialogue. It wasn't an appropriate response, to Norman. Not to seeing him. ]

Don't make me laugh. [ He growled, convinced Eddie was lying, though there was a small part of him that wondered. No. That wouldn't be kept from him. No chance. ] I won't fall for that one, Nygma. You're a fugitive, just like all your friends. You're not getting away this time.

[ Nelson looks a little sheepish, biting his inner cheek. He'd never told anyone except Sally about his books -- it was embarrassing, honestly, and it had spiraled so quickly out of his own control -- but this man isn't an imPort; he doesn't know Nelson from anyone else on the street. Nelson doesn't imagine they'll see each other again after today. ]

I highly doubt that. It's a silly little crime series I wrote on -- uh -- on a whim, more than anything. I didn't expect them to sell the way they did... everyone thinks they're romance novels, of all things... but, I'm no writer. [ He's still bitter about the reception they got. It's a crime series, and it isn't smut. God! He sighs, gaze shifting downcast. It's easier than talking about his real problems. ] You don't really think about the reality of growing old when you've still got the future ahead of you. It seems like a goal. Full of promise and success.

Once isn't enough? [His voice broke like a reed, the pain in his back nothing compared to the ice gripping his chest. Not again, no, not again, he couldn't go through that brainwashing again. He knew it would murder him.]

Taking me in twice now, Norman, they're going to think you've a crush.

Awareness is a hard thing to shake. Uneasiness is a frequent companion, and shadows in the periphery are a common warning. Whether there are more birds around, or not, she certainly believes there to be.

It doesn't bode well.

At home (as home as any place can be, when she never feels comfortable anywhere at all), everything falls into the same pieces as always. The apartment smells like ambiguously Asian take-out, fresh that day (Karkat probably saw the delivery guy leave the building more than four hours ago), and the music that never turns off is playing something heady with brass.

It nearly masks the sound behind him, of bare feet walking across cold kitchen tile, of toes scuffing into carpet. The corners of fingernails drag across the wall, rumbling thunderous.

She stands across the room from him, a knight's jump over the checkerboard carpet, likewise caught on a threshold. She, and the space between them, are illuminated only by what moonlight filters in through the tall windows. Metal jewelry sparkles on her fingers, her wrists, as though reflecting light were replacement enough for speech.

Ruka doesn't say anything, standing there staring at the ghost in her living room.

[ Norman catches that flicker, and his one good eye widens in just barely restrained excitement.

He loves when a hunch works out so well.

He grabs a handful of Quentin's hair, dragging him aside enough so that they're not clogging up the sidewalk. Once that's done, he tazes Quenin again. ]

This is a lucky surprise. I didn't expect to find you until at least sundown. I hope you didn't have a busy day planned.

It's easier to relax once Shade is out in the open, and the sumptuous smell of his straight tobacco helps. While he may be in the habit again, Sherlock doesn't splurge on his cigarettes; they're cheap and always disappointingly low tar.

Shade's increasing ratio of shadow to man quietly alarms him every time they meet again. Sherlock always wondered in the back of his mind if relying on shadow walking too much could have adverse effects, and indeed some days he found himself staying within the dark far longer than he should. Deep down, his own power instills fear into him. Not only has it become a social boon, how long until it consumed him completely? Unlike Shade, he isn't an immortal. It's not common for Sherlock to admit being outmatched, but Shade is his elder in every way, especially when it came to the dark.

Sherlock pushes those thoughts away with another puff of smoke. The present is more important.

"As well as can be expected. Had a close shave with German customs last month, but nothing insurmountable." He furrows his brow. "I'm sure you've heard there's talk of lightening restrictions in Eastern Europe. We'll see how the rest of the Union feels about that."

Eridan didn't flinch, at Eddie's hands on his face; stilled, narrowed his eyes a touch, but didn't pull away. Fingernails points of heat into cool purple skin.

He waited.

And after Eddie let him go, he began to follow again, comfortable — at home, even, in those long minutes of silence. At least until his companion spoke again, and then his laughter rumbled out dark in all the empty spaces surrounding and between them. Subsonic, almost; like the way he expected mountains would sound, if they could chuckle.

"I'd prefer avoidin' that, honestly. They don't like bein' told no. They call people like your darlin' hatecrush in when people tell 'em no." And people like me, he didn't say, but didn't bother not implying. He exhaled; continued nonchalantly. "We can't all be nice enough to nail ourselves to the cross, Nygma."

The years had made him smarter, more cunning, more... well, a lot of things. They hadn't made him the least bit more nice. And he imagined Eddie had weathered worse in his years than rude commentary.

"But I suppose I wouldn't mind havin' the opportunity to tell Osborn to fuck himself in the socket." A thoughtful cluck of tongue. "If it honestly came down to it."

And the torture, pain, and death that would come after it — either a physical or spiritual death, it really depended on how useful they found his powers — all of that, he would gladly do, take, suffer. All of that for the opportunity to tell the Establishment that there was something they couldn't make him hand over.

But that would come off so sentimental, wouldn't it just? He'd shed sentimentality like a second skin years ago.

Setting foot inside City limits now made Sherlock feel much the same as he did when infiltrating government strongholds with his brother's identity. Consistently on edge, heart threatening to race at every sudden movement, and yet at the same time a sick, encompassing thrill and desire for thinly veiled, ugly truths that kept him moving forward.

More than a few unexpected familiar faces had taken the edge off slightly this visit. Sherlock didn't think so many people had managed to stay safely hidden in the City; he's not sure why they'd want to. John, of course, had charitable intentions, but others just seemed to cling stubbornly.

Then Sherlock noticed a somewhat unfamiliar face that put the edge right back on. The acclaimed pro-import writer Adrian Maskin was doing a press junket in town-- the flyers were all over. Sherlock had tried to read some of the books, but he couldn't stand political drivel. The one curious thing, however, was just how accurate some of the details in the books he'd skimmed were. Insider information when his sources seemed dubious at best. Of course he'd heard the rumors, but without actual evidence, Sherlock wasn't ready to believe that he could secretly be Mitchell Hundred. It's a dangerous line of investigation to pursue anyway, and he already has quite enough on his plate.

So naturally, he accidentally sets himself down that avenue regardless. When he went out to the closest book store from John's apartment complex, he had only intended to get his friend the crossword book he'd asked for, and maybe the evening paper. As luck would have it, however, the store was hosting a book signing for one of Maskin's bestsellers.

That thrill of being near a discovery takes over all of Sherlock's other senses, and he steps noiselessly inside, somehow seeming to avoid setting off the bell over the door.

Karkat jumps at the sound of her quiet footsteps, her fingernails against the wall, the realization that he was calling in the wrong direction. He whirls around and freezes when his gaze meets hers. The amber-chartreuse of her eye is more silver in the dim, pale lighting. He'd forgotten the way the curtain of dyed-black hair framed her face, the way she almost seemed to hide behind it. Memories of the way it felt to comb his fingers through it had dimmed, as had those of the way she would fit in his arms, the subtle shifts in her expression and posture, the timing of her heartbeat against his, the subtle things, the little things; he doesn't realize how much had faded away until now, standing in her living room, her mere paces away from him, looking at him.

His chest is an emotional contusion, the throb of each heartbeat sending a renewed wave of sorrow and relief and pain and longing and oh god, he missed her so much through him. For a moment it's all he can do to stare at her in return, a statue in the doorway. His dark clothes are tattered and worn, hanging loosely off of rake-thin shoulders; his face is more drawn than she will remember, the lines of his posture and expression more defensive, more wary.

The standoff cannot last forever, though. Karkat is the one to break first, the one to pierce the silence. His voice trembles faintly as he attempts to suppress the intensity of his emotional response.

"Please don't stab me this time," he says, cautious.

Edited 2013-03-05 05:56 (UTC)

His fingers ran over the novelty lighter trigger he had taken back from Eridan, his index stroking the metal almost lovingly. Norman's name cut into his spine, slicing down his nerves. He didn't react to it, not visibly -- the years past had also made him smarter, subtler. Giving Eridan that meaty sliver wouldn't help either of them; reactions could be bullets in delivery.

"You've interacted with Norman often," he said. It was a statement, a few tones short of an accusation. Stern, but without obvious judgment. He took a sharp turn around the corner, heedless now of watching eyes. Eddie was thinking in two places, the here and the prior, and both narratives ran reels in his neurons.

"Partnered?" It was a simple question, cutting to the marrow of their skeletal conversation. Partnered with Norman Osborn on what, recapturing? Interrogation? Torture? Pleasure?

Eddie, of all people, knew the depths of sadism Eridan could sink into.

"Home sweet home," he said, taking the key out to his shoddy Queens brick building. Smoke stacks sung to the sky, adding clouds of gray.

"Is it, though? I trust my information more than I trust you," Norman said breezily, looking through the dim lighting at the man in question. His tone was patient enough, his one good eye narrowed.

"Maybe I'm just here to ask some questions. For all you know."

"Never officially," Eridan replied, unashamed of the vagueness in his answer. He could estimate what Eddie was really asking, could give him what he wanted easily, and had absolutely no intention to do so without a proper struggle.

And, wwell. Making Eddie sweat was an indulgence the once prince hadn't had the pleasure of in a number of long, long years.

Eridan leaned around the other man at the opened door, scanning over the apartment's contents with a nonjudgmental flicker of eyes. He couldn't sneer at the modest accommodations, really. Just this morning he'd been content enough in his own cozy little hole in the wall.

"Nice place," he commented blandly. Could be worse. Could be concrete and full of government thugs.

Of course not. There's a little thing called results, Nygma. I'm a man who gets them. And you're what I'd have to call a loose end.

[ He leans down to yank Eddie up by his collar. ]

The fabric covering the left side of her face is fashioned from a sleeper's mask, thin quilted cushion, slashed in half and refashioned. Her clothing is a short nightdress, red, soft material, stained around her hips with smears of paint and ink in finger streaks and hand prints. It's not one he'll remember. The swirls of color and darkness on her arms are a little different; new tattoos covering old, details indistinguishable in the darkness save for blacker lines and darker values.

Brass becomes string; the first voice responding to Karkat is that of the muffled stereo in her bedroom, low French, pleading, wavering notes.

There seems no give in her shoulders, in the tightness of her jaw and her neck. Her hand slips from the wall, falling to her side. There is recognition in her face, and suspicion, as guarded in the late hour as in the bright sun. Her attention flicks over him, at each little detail: where his hair ends now compared to where it had, the angles his arms hang at his shoulders, the wideness of his stance, the cut of his cheek and the shape of his nose and everything hiding in his eyes—those and his horns the only points of color in his desaturated appearance.

She pulls in her cheeks to keep her teeth from chattering; a shiver runs up her spine, having nothing to do with temperature. Her hands flex at her sides. Nerves are swallowed in a visible roll down her throat.

"Would it hurt you if I did?"

"Freedom has its price," he said with a flick of a smile. A shadowed smugness hung in the air. "Make yourself comfortable. I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."

He gestured to the mainroom. A bed, a stack of newspapers and books. A laptop and a scattering of flashdrives to the side. A pile of corrupted motherboards in a corner. The kitchen was a closet to the left, but equipped with a humble water heater and sink. Eddie made the motions for tea.

"So what unofficial business did you partake with our mutual acquaintance?" It was a question spoken with a light air.

As the water whistled to a boil, Edward removed his actual revolver from under the sink.

[ 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. ]

"My, my. I would hardly get your hopes up on that one," he mentioned, lightly. "You know how the union gets," he held the pipe deftly, one handed, fingers lightly gripping the fine wood, even while his other hand held his hat, cane leaning against the back of the bench, somehow perfectly still.

He leaned back, smoking. The words weren't important, to the idle passerby who may hear. Just idle things, mere speculation. "They're often stuck in their ways far more than a rather new collaboration should be."

The Shade had been listening. Sherlock had good reason to fear the shadows, of course. He hardly knew the circumstances of Shade's transformation. He'd never been human, since receiving his powers. For some time, he was better, actually, than he'd been in a long time. However, isolation did funny things to a mind that was all shadow and only attempted at being human.

The Shade was an odd sort, all in all. It was a lucky thing Sherlock hadn't seen him bleed.

And in possibly the first brief whiff of awkwardness thus far, Eridan simply stood in the corner as Eddie made his motions. Glanced over the flash drives, read the covers of the newspapers.

It was only when he glanced back to answer Eddie that he became aware of the revolver, and felt a sudden pang of longing for the weight of his magnum. He wasn't entirely sure if it was to defend himself from his pursuers — or from Eddie.

"Fixated as ever, I take it?" He dragged fingertips along the nearest surface, examined dust that wasn't there. "Not surprised. Not after what he did to you. Helped do, really, but I'm sure he gives himself plenty a credit."

He rolled purple tongue against dull human teeth, thoughtfully. What were his odds of survival if Eddie turned that revolver against him, for whatever reason? He couldn't use his ranged powers again without tipping off every government man within a hundred foot radius, and crawling off to a hospital oozing purple was not an option.

Bad odds.

"In fact, I know he does." The soft shuffle of a mostly empty pack of cigarettes. He let one hang out of his teeth, patting himself down fruitlessly for a lighter. "You're the one that got away, right? He must obsess."

A soft huff of laughter. Eridan glanced back over, making a gun motion towards the end of his cigarette. And fired.

"Got a light?"

[ Landing so hard wasn't something he would have ever done, in his own suit. At least not without reason. As it was, it made the ground around them tremble, and he struggled to stay up, before he locked onto the details.

Oh hell no.

He'd known it still existed, of course. It'd never been recovered. It was a spike of anger that flared to life. Tony Stark had always been rather protective of his suited property. Norman had always been lucky he'd never gone on a rampage about it, overconfident that his suit could have always taken it.

But what happened when the suit wasn't here? ]

Me? Well, I'm me, but you're going to have to be a little more specific than that.

[ His heart thudded faster than it should have, systems fighting to regulate the very animal, very human reaction. Fear. He wouldn't be caught again.

Not after he'd just gotten out. ]

The publisher had suggested it, actually. 'You'll be in the City anyway,' they said. 'She'll see you at the bookstore, and you can have a quick chat,' they said. Why on God's green fucking Earth, did they want him to write a children's book? A primer for politics, they'd said. It was like a pitfall, if there was one wrong word. It would harm any chance of office, if he went too liberal, or too conservative. Especially if he wanted to run as an independent.

He'd agreed, though. He'd been in the City for his meetings, and his publisher knew where he was going with it. He was taking a day to sign books, though.

So there he was, eyes scanning for this supposedly famous children's book artist. Hell, he didn't even know what he was supposed to be looking for. Instead, he signed book after book, listening to the random person who disagreed with his works, politely smiling and nodding, respectfully disagreeing with the fucks.

They didn't have to live like he'd lived. They didn't know what it was like.

They'd never given up an identity, and still lived under suspicion. At one moment, he was signing, waving on the next person, after signing his name, 'Adrian Maskin', it read. Signature looped and sharp, wholly different from the blocky, almost precise signature that he'd once had.

He'd spent a month learning to sign his new name, fighting, and then killing all impulse to do anything else. Hell, he didn't even know if he could sign his old name anymore.

[ He was almost surprised. He'd never known Nelson wrote a series of books. The surprise on his face, however, could've been anything from surprise that this guy was so bitter, to surprise that he was an author. Hell, who knew, maybe he'd read them.

Although that was unlikely. Mitchell didn't read for pleasure. He used to, but that'd been ages, an entire lifetime ago, actually. Before his powers.

How much had he given up, because of one night, beneath this bridge, an entire universe away? ]

That's the worst part about getting old, if you ask me. You start to realize that in the end, all the things you think you're going to do don't amount to much. Or at least, they don't, when you look at it with that kind of perspective. I'm sure you'e done plenty to be proud of.

Eridan rarely needed any sort of assistance in doing what his superiors told him to; made a point of it, actually, that no one was immune to his powers, nobody was beyond him. They could fight, sure, they could put up a good show of struggling — but nobody, nobody could weather him forever. No ship was unsinkable.

Except sometimes they were.

Such as now. Six hours of stalemate and he was no closer to forcing answers out of the portly older man sitting across from him than he had been when he started. For some people, hopelessness wasn't the worst case scenario; sometimes, the idea of selling out was infinitely worse than the sucking absence of warmth in their chest ever could be. That left one brutal option, and it wasn't one he was trusted in performing alone. Sometimes he got carried away.

Nobody told him they'd called Norman in to help. In fact, the opening door caught him hovering the lit end of a cigarette hardly an inch from the man's eye, hissing threats through a great white's teeth. (He'd thought the alien form would add an intimidating edge. It hadn't helped much.) Reptilian yellow eyes flicked upwards, locked, and then narrowed.

"You lost?"

Open Post 002

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