Realistic or Modern A WORLD ON FIRE, pt. 1 | heartstringss & starboob.

[starboob]

With eyes bigger than their stomach, Reggie orders straight down the room service menu. Confident that some of the items are bound to have “no meat,” per the hottie’s request, they don’t bother to check, verify, or request changes or substitutions; and by the time the food comes up, they’ve forgotten about the request entirely. Perhaps because they’re now cradling an empty bottle of champagne as they lay comfortably on top of the rose petal laden bed, shoes kicked off, one leg over the other as they flip through the channels. ‘Where the fuck is the… Is that Spongebob? That shit still airing?’

Distractedly, they lose themselves to an episode, then another, and another. Their fingers curl around the neck of the bottle. (“Dude.” The air in her bedroom had been smokey. Two joints burned, one for each of them. Reggie stared at her wide eyed with revelation, like a prophet wizened by God. “I just figured out that his name is Patrick Star because he’s a starfish.” She had smiled. It could have drowned them and they would have called it salvation. Then she threw back her head, laughter bursting from her belly. “You’re so dumb.”) They vividly remember those endless summer days spent at her house, because theirs was always empty and cold. They’d laze around and watch reruns of everything they’d already seen a hundred times before and could quote better than any school book. Sometimes Reggie believes those were the best days of their life. But a life like that— a happy one, a normal one, will never be for them. Their fingers touch the raw flesh that circles their neck, their mind now flooding with flashes of those guards, the doctors, the victims who they made squirm.

‘Wonder if she heard I died. Wonder if…’ But Reggie knows she wouldn’t’ve mourned. To her, Reggie is (was?) just the singer of some band. Maybe she knew of them. Maybe she didn’t. Either way she never truly knew Reggie after that night. Their lungs still burn from how hard they ran after that.

The undead singer turns on their side and curls into a ball, pressing their eyes shut as supercuts play against the back of their eyelids. (Kisses stolen between classes. Screaming at each other in an alley. The curve of her hip.) When Wray makes her entrance from the bathroom, a wall of steam falling into the room after her, they nod their head in acknowledgement but stay in the bed without moving. Then, rather suddenly, they bolt up from the bed and stumble (practically summersault) to the bathroom. They fumble with the click lock, struggle out of their clothes, and crank the shower where they sit on the tiled floor and let the hot streams cover hot tears. ‘Nova. I’m sorry. I’m still sorry.’

At some point, they must’ve gotten themself out of the bathroom and ready for bed. At some point, they must have flopped belly first onto the mattress and let sleep pull them into her warm embrace. When their eyes next crack open, the green neon clock on the nightstand reads 6:53 AM. Way too fucking early. Content to sleep until it’s night again, they press their cheek against Wray’s chest, nuzzling into her.

They press their cheek against Wray’s chest.
TheypresstheircheekagainstWray’schest.

Wray’s chest.

Their eyes fly open, glancing down to confirm what they suspect. ‘Holyshit.’ When they recognize that her arms are also wrapped around them, the undead singer blinks— once, twice, and melts against Wray. ‘She’s totally warming up to you. Don’t fuck this up. She’s hot as Hell. Hotter than, even.’ Their own arm is around her waist and they move to pull her closer, but, just as they’re tilting their head up to look at her, the television blares a long and severe monotone signal.

The screen flashes, “TIMELY WARNING” three times before a robotic voice begins reciting its message. “Fugitive mutants have escaped a high security detention facility. These mutants are violent and dangerous. If you have any information on the whereabouts of these individuals call your local authorities. This has been a public service announcement.” Next, wanted posters flash across the screen. Wray’s face is first. The next is… that dude from the club last night? The one who fucking threatened them. Recalling that, Reggie also remembers the ringmaster (a babe), her eerie abilities, her faux desire to someday be friends, her warning. (She was not so babe like after all that.)

Reggie’s already rolling off of the bed and running around the hotel room, searching for where they threw their clothes last night. They don’t bother with decency (never have anyway) and strip right in front of their companion as they pull back on their jeans and t-shirt. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

There’s no time for Reggie to consider that they might be safe, since they have a government-issued day and time of death; it’s possible their card won’t show up in the stack but this doesn’t occur to them (yet). Urgency pulses through their veins as they make sure to gather up the little they brought with them. (It’s panic that has them grabbing a bowl of fruit from the night before.)

They bolt alongside Wray out of the hotel room not a second after confirming they have the essentials. Already, eyes seem to be clawing over them and Reggie doesn’t know who’s already seen the first of the PSA, who might recognize Wray. They can hear the announcement repeating itself from behind closed doors and wonder where their own face falls in that stack (if it does). The morning staff stand by their carts, lean against walls, eyes down at their phones. When they run by one, Reggie confirms they’re reading through the PSA and cycling through the wanted posters. A few look up as the blondies skirt by and Reggie whispers quick commands to make them forget. ‘Hotel doesn’t have a record of us. Stay calm. Stay calm.’

At first, they lead them towards the elevator, believing it will be the quickest way down but as they remember scenes from action movies they’ve consumed like manna, they veer them towards the stairwell. (Action movies also have scenes in stairwells, but Reggie figures they’ll have more space to run and fight. Also, considering Wray’s gifts, the stairwell will have more ammo.)

“Damn. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” They continue to mutter out curses under their breath as they spiral down the stairwell. Their head whips this way and that to each new sound, paranoid that eventually they’re going to run right into the jaws of a beast. And when they recall the escape from the facility, remembering the tranqs, they look over their shoulder at Wray, once again assessing she’ll be their best bet. “Can you make shields? They’re probably gonna have tranqs.” They huff this out just as they’re reaching the final level to this impossibly tall Vegas hotel. “Bet they aren't even far away.”

Cursed with always being right, five spherical bots then crash through the exit door. Their round bodies orient themselves towards the moving ones and their neon eyes flash bright red, fanning out a stream of light that runs over both of the mutants' forms. Naturally, this is where Reggie chucks the bowl of fruit at one of the bots and attempts to tackle another. It's strategic if the strategy is to get captured again.

 

[heartstringss]

​

Wray sighs in her sleep. It's been a long time since she’s last felt this safe, or this comfortable. No guards, no restraints… None of those huge, bright halogen light bulbs reflecting endless light off of an endless wall of strategically placed mirror-glass. The bed was soft enough that it felt like she was sleeping on a cloud, and not only that, but she could even breathe and move about freely. Christ, it was luxury. It was almost peaceful, and once she finally embraced Reggie and gave into her soul's innate desire for shared comfort and companionship… Honestly, it was probably the best sleep she had gotten in years. The insomnia all but dropped off completely, the tossing and turning stilled, and it was silence – not nightmares – which soon filled the inside of her mind.

Several hours pass before either one of the mutants stir again. Wray lay on her back, one arm looped around Reggie’s neck with her fingers splayed across their shoulder while the other arm lay simply draped across her stomach. Her breathing was quiet, face smooth and tranquil until the moment that the other mutant began to shift against her. She’s like a night creature in the sense that she’s constantly on her guard, always looking out for any hint of danger, her senses fine-tuned to catch even the smallest bit of sound or movement. Her eyes flit open for the briefest moment when she feels Reggie nuzzle against her, and a quiet hum escapes her lips when they finally settle by tucking themselves in close against the soft contour of her chest. She’s keenly aware of their hand where it lay warmly on her hip, practically skin on skin due to the fact her shirt had ridden up sometime overnight, but if she cares, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she simply squeezes their shoulders as if to say ‘stop moving,’ and lets her eyes drift shut as she quietly settles to fall back to sleep.

Before she can begin to doze off fully, all sense of safety is shattered and that all comes screeching to a halt. As soon as the TV starts blaring its signal of warning, mismatched eyes rip open and tear around the room to find the source of sound. Her fingers dig into Reggie’s shoulder as she listens to the monologue, a certain tenseness spreading throughout her face. Her jawline sets and teeth grind. She's hardly aware of the fact her nails are biting into the other’s skin, let alone that she might be leaving indents or potentially drawing blood. All she can focus on is what she sees and hears before her, which is–

There, on the screen, a second later:

Her name.
Her face.
Her exact height and weight.
Her distinguishing features (aka the eyes).
Her. It was her.

A shaky breath rips through her, the sirens blaring in her head now demanding an immediate call for action. Her mind is so consumed with the implication of her very own appearance at the start of the list that she doesn't see or recognize any others. Was the list randomly ordered or were they put that way for a specific reason? (Wray knew that the government had classifications for different types of mutants and that she herself had been considered 'highly desirable and extremely dangerous' for a long, long time among their military, but as for any of the others they had captured after her, she knew nothing. Reggie was the first other mutant she had seen or gotten close to in three whole years.)

Panic leeches at her brain, but when Reggie springs out of bed, Wray doesn't hesitate a second to follow them. While she works to get dressed and collect her things, she keeps Reggie in her sights the entire time as well. (It's not that she's afraid that they might leave her, but rather because she doesn't want to lose them.) She changes facing them, not even thinking to turn away or hide her body, much the same as they do. It could have been a momentous occasion any other time, but today… in this moment… there were much more important things to focus on instead.

"Fuck, my eyes."

She's not talking about the sunlight.

'Normal' was not at all a word that could be used to describe how these two looked, bolting out of their room, half-jogging down the hallway to the very first 'EXIT' sign they found. Wray shielded her eyes the entire time, knowing full well that she might pass for any other white girl… if not for the uniqueness of her eye color. (It'd be a lot less noticeable if the difference between the two weren't so dramatic, too.) When they pass housekeeping in the hallway, she's not surprised to find them stalled by their carts, phones out, staring at their screens. The first pair of eyes that flashes to her face and hesitates a second before lighting up with recognition, she clenches her fist at her stomach and nearly bites a hole straight through her lip. Fortunately, Reggie's powers and quick resourcefulness aids to keep the danger away for now, and a second later, when they tear out into the stairwell, door slamming against the wall behind them, then–and only then–does she relax enough to breathe again.

She's been holding Reggie's hand this entire time, but she hardly even noticed before now.

"Shields?" She echoes when they remind her of the tranquilizers which had been used at the facility. "Yes, I can make those." (How long did they have before they'd meet another foe? Had an increased police presence already been implemented outside? How much had changed while they had slept?) Her eyes flash each time they round each new set of stairs, like Reggie, expecting a beast might lie in wait no matter where they tried to hide.

They barely make it to the landing when the door crashes open and five machines roll out, the likes of which she'd never seen before–except, perhaps, inside her nightmares.

When a stream of lights flashes out and scans over their entire bodies, Wray's blood turns cold. She's not sure what to make of this, but there's little time to think of anything beyond attacking. Just as Reggie chucks a bowl of fruit through the air at one of the bots, Wray reaches out beside her and yanks at the corners of the room with all her might. Her blood runs ice cold, her dark eye practically black by this point while the other glares out a shade as pale as moonlight. Shadow leaks out of every corner, from every crack and crevice, every hidden nook and cranny of the stairwell. It spills out onto the floor like fog, a dark, swirling, ominous cloud that's vaguely interrupted when Reggie shoots out to tackle one of the bots. Her hand shoots out to grab their shirt just a second too late, and though she grasps onto the fabric, still, they slip right through her fingers.

It's that very moment that she demonstrates just how well she can erect a shield from shadow. A wall erupts from nothing, opaque in color but no less solid than any of the bricks that lay around them. It's this very wall that Reggie crashes into next, their fists connecting not with the cold, hard metal of the bots but instead with static, as a strange, creeping coldness sinks into the room and all the light bulbs flicker, buzz, and strain to stay alive.

"You idiot, come on," she spits as she curls her fist into Reggie's shirt and hauls them backwards. With her other hand, she yanks the shield down and crashes it on top of all five bots. They begin to climb the wall just as one of the machines fires off a laser from its eye that hits the fallen shield wall and makes it quake beneath their feet. Static crackles all around them as the pressure builds and lights go out. Glass shatters as the bulbs explode and fragments fall all over. A curse escapes her lips as she holds on tighter, just long enough to squeeze Reggie and herself over the threshold, and then–

The wall crumbles like paper the next time that one of the bots fires off, and Wray reaches up, covering her ears to block the sharpness of the laser's hum and other humongous cacophony of sound as the stairwell splits and sprays rubble all around.

"GO, GO," she yells at Reggie, glancing behind her just long enough to confirm the stairwell has caved in and although none of the bots have followed yet, she can already hear them beginning to shoot their way out. It was only a matter of time before they–

"Well, well, look who we have here."

It's not Wray, this time, who turns the hotel lobby black with thick, dark clouds. White eyes peek out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat sitting over a head with skin as dark as charcoal, as a man stands up and begins to cross the room. With a single sweep of his hand, lightning shoots down from the dark, stormy sky above and hits each light fixture. The bulbs explode and someone screams. There's a flash of movement from the shadows. Before either Wray or Reggie can react, a fourth mutant appears from nowhere and shoots across the room to locate the source of sound. There's a sickly crunch and squelch of flesh as blood sprays over the walls, then a heavy thud as the body hits the floor. (It's not the only body, either.)

"Can't say we didn't warn you, can you?" Another voice–this time a woman–rings out. Like the male before them, neither one was unfamiliar. They weren't the only ones. Others stepped forward too, many familiar faces from the last night's show, if either of them had happened to be paying attention to anyone but Eve. "Perhaps you're ready to rethink our offer now?"

 

[starboob]

Crunch. Their hand collides with the shadow shield before they can even stop it, before they can even be pulled back by the babe Wray. “Ah!” They gasp out, recoiling their hand the same moment that the other blonde grabs the collar of their shirt and chastises them. Reggie shakes out their hand, clutches it to their chest and tries to ignore the throbs in favor of keeping up with the escape route.

As the ground beneath their feet trembles, they look down, eyes widening when they stare into the red eye of the inferno itself that’s trying to pierce through the barrier. “Lasers!? Fucking lasers, dude!” They’d bite out the rest of their curses against these foreign bots, but making it out into the hotel lobby (and to sweet safety) takes precedence. (Still, they feel justified in their concern over goddamn laserbeams. Like, their will to live isn’t necessarily strong but they sure as Hell aren’t trying to get turned into a crisped piece of bacon on their way out. They’d fucking take the tranqs. …Well, no. That’s a lie, but they are vehemently startled by this development.) ‘Since when have these shitheads developed fucking lasers?’

Vaguely, they remember seeing a kid blow holes through the facility with their goddamn eyes during their escape. It’s unnerving to think about what the U.S. fucking government might have gathered from harvesting mutants off the streets like crops. (What were they planning with a power like Reggie’s? They don’t want to think about that.)

Those nightmarish thoughts will have to wait (thankfully) as they spill out into the middle of a storm— lobby? Reggie’s head whips backwards then around until they land on that man from the night before. As lightning comes down from the ceiling, they flinch, covering their head when shattered glass rains from the ceiling. But the shards never come over them and Reggie doesn’t think it’s luck. A quick look up reveals that someone in this entourage is suspending the shards above them (and not placing them elsewhere).

They curl their lip, already grabbing onto Wray’s hand to pull her through the lobby when the ringmaster makes her entrance like a threat. The bodies that hit the ground, the spray of gore, is not missed. Reggie avoids looking over at the carnage and keeps their gaze fixed on Eve and her army of goons. ‘Surrounded.’ The hairs on the back of their neck raise as their pulse races like lightning through their veins, lighting them up with fresh adrenaline.

“No need to be so cagey. We have a common enemy. We’re stronger together.” Eve holds her hands up in surrender but, somehow, Reggie doesn’t trust her. Especially the way she eyes Wray, appraising her like a piece of art. Which, mood— far be it from Reggie to judge someone for checking out the hotshot— but there’s something else to her gaze. It’s dangerous like an apex predator sizing up one of their own. The implications feel cataclysmic. “I won’t force you. This only works if it is your choice. My sources report there will be more than those bots for you to worry about in…” She checks her wrist watch. “Five minutes.”

Reggie looks at Wray, helpless. A blast echoes from the collapsed stairwell. They squeeze her hand.

“Should you be interested in what my friends and I have to offer, there’s a car outside. Clean plates. Full tank.” From seemingly out of nowhere, she produces a set of keys and jangles them in the air.

“You always fucking coerce people into friendship?” Reggie’s brow raises, but they approach the woman anyway, reaching for the keys and snatching them once they’re within reach. Eve doesn’t reply. She merely smirks and steps out of their way, though Reggie is still on guard, holding their breath just in case.

They’re allowed to leave without incident. None in Eve’s squad try to stop them or challenge them, but Reggie still doesn’t trust them. Once they’re outside, just as Eve promised, there’s a generic navy blue sedan with dark tinted windows waiting for them with another mutant leaning against the passenger’s side door. Wordless, they move out of the way and motion for them to get in the car. Reggie takes the driver’s seat and the new mutant knocks against their window to get them to roll down the window. Again, they’re quiet but they hand Reggie a backpack and then specifically pass Wray a large black umbrella as well as a pair of sunglasses. “Go east. Meet us in Toronto when it’s safe.”

‘Right. So never.’ Regardless of their inner commentary, they give a two finger salute, peel out of the hotel drop-off and speed onto the nearest highway, getting back on the 15. “If we take shifts driving, we can avoid staying in fucking Utah.” Fucking Utah. They reach over to turn on the radio and immediately find that all the stations are still blaring the same PSA from earlier. They flip it off.

After fifteen minutes of silence, they reach for the radio again just as the announcement ends. As it happens, the station immediately shifts into playing the song that caught their ear the other night.

Would you believe me now if I told you I got caught up in a wave?​

Comforting as the song is to the singer, they’re still checking the rearview every five minutes. “You think it was coincidence those fucking bots caught up to us?” Reggie doesn’t want to think about the implications if it’s not a coincidence, but this is the second morning they’ve been woken by a damn near almost recapture. “A crazy fucking ex of mine used to track my location with my phone.” They muse, but don’t consider this as a serious possibility seeing as neither of them have a phone between them. “Fuck.”

“And what’s with that fucking circus freak stalking us? The fuck has been going on since we’ve been locked up…” If Eve wants them to join her little troop of weirdos, she can count Reggie out. She might’ve hooked them up with this ride, but everything about the woman gives Reggie the chills. (In both good and bad ways.) “You heard of her before? She eyed you like a piece of fucking meat.” As if Reggie can even speak on that.

 

[heartstringss]

Lasers. When the first beam strikes the underside of her shadow's force field, Wray feels the ground rumble underneath her feet and tenses up in fear and expectation that the shield might fail. The bright red glow reflects an expression of slight panic in her eyes, though she certainly doesn't think to abandon her position either. Instead, she reaches deep inside herself and trains every last bit of focus to hold the force field strong and steady. Though she keeps Reggie in her sights at all times, Wray doesn't pay too much attention to them otherwise. Their voice is little more than a dull buzz at the edge of her consciousness whilst she grapples with the shield and lasers. (She's pretty freaked about the government's advancement to lasers too, but overall a lot less verbal by comparison.)

Frustrating as it all is, unfortunately, they're not awarded any time or opportunity to celebrate their escape from the stairwell, let alone deliberate their next steps. As soon as they spill out into the hotel lobby, Wray tenses with the threat of a new danger looming just ahead. A predator–definitely more than one–lay in wait amongst the shadows, the first to come forward being a tall, dark man with stormy gray eyes which paled to nearly white when he moved to generate storm clouds in the sky above. Lightning flashed across the roof and reflected back in those same eyes, then a deep, haunting voice which greeted them alongside a symphony of equally eerie, mirthless laughter. Wray's blood ran cold with recognition of the man and woman from the night before. A third and fourth mutant surfaced too, but neither spoke or came forward, instead choosing to remain in wait amongst the shadows. Their powers, unlike Eve's, were obvious. A weather manipulator, a telekinetic, and some kind of animorphic being. Christ, as if the bots weren't bad enough.

Wray's jaw is set with anger, fists clenched at her sides already harnessing all her energy to collect the shadows pooling underneath her feet. At a mere wave of her hand, she could sweep this entire gang up in her darkness, could even maim, dismember, or suffocate them easily if she wished. Her teeth grind, yet still she hesitates. When Reggie grabs onto her hand, her pulse skyrockets and she nearly loses it before recognition kicks in. Her feet move regardless, letting Reggie lead her towards the exit, until the moment that they're halted by the presence of the group's ringleader–Eve–at last stepping forward to speak.

For some reason, just like Reggie, Wray doesn't trust this group a single bit. Even if she were one to operate among a team, it's unlikely Wray would have ever joined a group like this. Too much raw power and arrogance. Too many suspicious-looking characters with hidden motives. People like this, whether they were human or mutant, were often unpredictable and dangerous. Unstable. She could practically see it in their eyes–the sheer bloodlust, something of a mission or vendetta the only thing which fueled their lives. It made her skin crawl. Just the way that Eve was looking at her (yeah, she caught it too), how she didn't even try to hide it. The tension building in the room felt like a noose around her throat, the weight of expectation more powerful than any laser. Yet, as Eve dictated, they still had a choice. Wray laughed. What choice was there in so few options? And with more reinforcements coming… Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

She stares at Reggie, recognizing the look of helplessness in their eyes. (She was always the strong one, wasn't she?) Despite her better judgment, her fingers tighten around the other's hand the exact same moment that a blast erupts from the collapsed stairwell behind them, and when Reggie squeezes, Wray squeezes back. She shakes her head, not to say that they shouldn't join the others because she knows that they have little other choice, but more to tell them she agreed. If more reinforcements were arriving in five minutes, at the very least, they would need that car to get away. It was too convenient. They would have to be stupid to try to run or get away without accepting Eve's help, however suspicious that help was. And Wray might have been stubborn, but she certainly wasn't stupid–and frankly, neither was Reggie.

Wray has to bite back the desire to tell Eve to go fuck herself, when at last she steps forward, following Reggie when they move to collect the keys. She grits her teeth but doesn't smile, doesn't say a single word, doesn't take her eyes off her for a single second, even. Adrenaline is coursing through her veins as she passes by the other woman, her skin hot as coals from where her blood boils underneath with rage. She has to fight back the urge to pull Reggie out of danger when they move too close, having to remind herself, again, they're only there to get the keys. She still had no idea what Eve was capable of, though something told her the other woman had likely never experienced captivity.

Once they're outside, Wray makes a break for the car alongside Reggie. She slides into the passenger seat, clicks her seat belt into place–and then, just for good measure, locks the doors. Her eyes track the third mutant's every movement, watching as they motion for Reggie to roll down the window and then pass a backpack through along with an umbrella and some sunglasses motioning for those to go to Wray. Without a word, she slips the sunglasses dutifully over her eyes and shoves the umbrella and the backpack at her feet. He says nothing of its purpose or its contents. They'll worry about that more a little later.

Once they're on the highway, though you'd think she might relax, frankly, you'd be wrong. She wrings her hands in her lap as her eyes survey the landscape from behind dark glasses, because even with the tinted windows, she's not taking any chances. The only time she looks at Reggie is when they reach over to turn the radio on and the PSA blares out instead. Her shoulders hunch around her ears, figure sliding as she sinks low into her seat and tries to make herself less visible through the windshield. If she could disappear into her shadow without causing a scene, she would. Without thinking, she buries her fingernails into her forearms where her hands grip at her elbows. Her head swims with worry, and it's that same worry which she dissolves into over the course of the next 15 minutes of silence. Thank God for the glasses, really, because at least they hide her eyes from Reggie too.

Some time later, a flicker of movement draws her back out of her thoughts, her head turning aside to reveal Reggie reaching for the radio once again. Wray tenses, first, then relaxes when the PSA beeps off and the radio switches over to music. She hardly recognizes the song, though its comforting melody hits her subconscious more powerfully than the lyrics themselves do.

Reggie's question yanks her back into the present: the bots. Was it a coincidence how quickly they'd appeared? "I don't know. I've never seen anything like that before. Have you?" What else had the government cooked up in the last three or so years that she had spent in captivity? Droids with lasers–Christ, it was like they'd fallen into a Star Wars film or something. "All I know is that I'm getting really fucking tired of running all the time."

"I think everyone's just lost their goddamn minds." As bad as it was in captivity, Wray could only imagine what it must have been like on the outside all those years. To remain free all that time, yet still hardly ever being free at all. Surely rumors of the mutants' disappearances would have started circulating at some point. There must have been thousands in captivity, potentially hundreds of thousands more still remaining on the outside, but how many had been added to the death toll? Hundreds? Thousands?

Her heart ached for Amina, Cas, and even Einar. Were they still alive or had they fallen or been captured too? Panic thrums inside her brain. Amina. Fuck, she hadn't thought of her in years. That part of her life, that distant past… less a memory, now, than it was a dream.

Her mind was buzzing with thoughts spinning round and round inside her brain. Am, the storm, the breakout, the bots, the lasers, Eve. Toronto-bound or not, Wray was just happy for any amount of distance between her and that group. That woman gave her the fucking creeps. "Nope, never seen her before." She tries to feign indifference on the matter, but it's not convincing in the slightest. She rakes a pale hand backwards through her hair, trying to ignore the implication thay Eve might have viewed her as some sort of equal. What were her fucking powers, though? The others weren't even trying to hide the status, which meant that likely Eve wasn't either, but as for her abilities, Wray had not a single fuckint clue.

"We're not going to fucking Toronto, but just keep driving north as long as you can for now and we'll switch when you get tired." She stretches her legs as much as she can around the backpack and umbrella in the floorboards. Staring hard at the backpack, she's almost hesitant to open it still. "What do you think is in this goddamn thing… weapons, food, hopefully a fucking map?" She reaches down and hauls it up into her lap, unzips the biggest pocket, and promptly curses. Right on top, a small black phone, likely a burner cell. Without hesitating, she hits the switch on the side door panel to roll down her window and chucks the thing outside. It explodes on the road, creating a satisfying spray of plastic and metal in the rear view mirror. "...You think they were gonna track us, too?"

 

[starboob]

REGGIE.​

Reggie’s fingers thrum against the steering wheel. Their eyes flicker over to the mirrors. The road is still empty, which is unsurprising given the relatively early hour, but that offers no comfort to the mutant with a target on their back. (They have to wonder whether or not their name or picture would come up. They’re supposed to be dead. Would the government walk back on that declaration? Or, perhaps, have they assigned Reggie a new identity? The only way to know would be to watch the PSA the next time it’s eventually blasted across the U.S.-fucking-A. or sift through the wanted posters online. Neither of which are appealing options. They aren’t certain they want to know the answer.) They suck in a breath and hold it for as long as they can manage before deflating, shifting over to listen to the other blonde.

“Nah, dude.” Of course what they remember of their past life is limited to blurs and flashes. Part of Reggie regrets they can't be of more use and another is desperate to get back to that lifestyle, if only to feel some semblance of normal again. “Can’t say there were fucking floating basketballs hovering around before I got the—” They hold up a finger gun to their head and pull the metaphoric trigger to finish. It honestly did feel like death being there. (Outside of the fact that their capture defined the moment of their federal death.) 'You fucking deserved it. Piece of shit.'

The mutant merely nods in response to the other being tired of running. (Goddamn two mornings in a row where they’ve woken up to bullets or lasers, Reggie is tired as well.) They rub their fists over their eyes, wiping away the sleep, yawn, and check the mirrors again before returning their eyes to the road.

“Yeah, I’m tryna think…” They mutter this under their breath, wondering if maybe they’d ever heard a mention of Eve. But their only coherent thought on her is that they don't think it can be a coincidence her name makes up half of ‘evil.’ (…Shit, maybe they should hand the wheel to Wray if they’re making these delirious loose associations.) Outside of that revelation, nothing comes to mind. (Fuck, and maybe they should also lay off the rockstar life. Could very well be the death of them. Again.) The only person they can think of who’d’ve been smart enough to keep tabs on dangerous mutants fucking hates their guts. Rightfully so. They were an ass to Soren the entire time she’d been their tour manager. Even if they were on speaking terms, they wouldn’t know how to contact her.

‘Shit. Soren.’ That bitch always kept her powers under lock and key. Hardly anyone even knew she was a mutant, but that doesn’t mean the government hasn’t figured out a way to identify mutants if those bots are any indication. ‘Soren’s probably gone into hiding. Paranoid fuck.’

However, all thoughts on that woman are interrupted— explosively— as Wray throws a fucking bomb out the window for whatever fucking reason. This causes them to jerk and swerve before they can right them again. “God fucking dammit— courtesy fucking warning, blondie! You wanna die!?” They look over at Wray, incredulous, and mutter more swears under their breath, barely catching the tail end of blondie’s question. They'd've tuned her out except for the fact that she brings a solid point on trackers. They pause, consider this, and their icy eyes narrow. Again, they check the mirrors and once assured they have no one following them, they pull off at the nearest exit and find an abandoned gas station to pull into.

“Can you use your dark magic or whatever to search for shady shit?” They unbuckle their seatbelt, open the door, and start manually checking the underside of the steering wheel for anything suspicious. Not that they know what a tracker even could look like. “Those fucking freaks probably do have a way of tracking us. Fuckin’ found us this morning. Right when that PSA went off. Right when those bots nearly had us cornered.” Reggie huffs, lifting the hood of the car now. "Fucking sus if you ask me."

“But it's game fucking over if they've got a telepath on their side.” Though Reggie doesn’t know much about mutations outside of their own, they do remember hooking up with a telepath once (13/10) who apparently knew how to track people down if she thought about them for long enough. She only needed a photo and she could find anyone. (Reggie asked her to find Nova. The request was innocuous enough being that Reggie is a horndog and Nova is America's most fuckable model.) That being said, if Eve only invites the deadly and dangerous into her fold, the telepath she'd have… Reggie doesn’t want to finish that thought, so they don’t. Even so, the blondies don’t get back into the car until they’re somewhat convinced there isn’t a device on them. Once that’s settled, Reggie takes the wheel again.

They stop for gas several hours later at a busy pitstop. With all the activity, the mutants are able to blend in for the entire fifteen minute break. In that time, Reggie steals someone’s Dodger’s baseball cap from their head, running off before they can be caught, and then kindly “asks” (hypnotizes) a biker for his leather jacket (simply because it looks cool as fuck). They also convince some sucker to trade cars, not at all convinced theirs is tracker free. While tempted to upgrade their generic sedan for something flashy, they’re wise enough to know it’s better to be as basic as possible. The sedan is merely traded for another like vehicle, but at least this one is black.

With that taken care of, the duo load up in their new car and continue, neither mutant wanting to stay in one place for too long. Reggie allows Wray the wheel this time. While they’re pretty sure they can make it to the next major city, their eyelids are getting heavy and, given how they died last time, they decide it’s not worth the risk.

By nightfall, they reach a shady motel that won’t ask questions. It’s fucking disgusting. Both blondes wrinkle their nose and make the most of it. They set up in separate beds and sleep for all of three hours before the sound of heavy tires screech in front of their room. Wray startles first and wakes up Reggie just before a gas bomb breaks through the window. Without needing to strategize— after all, there’s not much to ‘get the fuck out’— they break into the adjoining room, scare a sleezebag from his slumber, and bolt out his front door.

Once outside, Reggie hits the highest note they can, amplifies it with their newest mutation, and quite literally cut through the soldiers sent for them. They load back into their vehicle and speed off.

This becomes an unsettling pattern. They drive all day. Sleep a few hours. Wake to bullets, bots, bombs, or all three at once, escape by the skin of their teeth, and they’re running again. Reggie’s neck is developing impossible kinks (and not the fun kind) from getting most of their sleep while Wray drives. When they do find motels or abandoned homes to sleep in, they often share a bed, if not a room. Reggie finds it hard to sleep, even if they know they should, but they pretend because it’s the one time they’re able to have some human contact. If Wray figures out that they aren’t sleeping, she doesn’t make a fuss and lets them rest of her chest. (The couple of times Reggie has tried to escalate things, they’ve ended up shoved off the bed.)

Tires screech outside for the eighth morning in a row and Reggie groans. “What the fucking fuck!? How!?”

MARS.​

“Seen.” Mars looks over at Sean. “I believe that if you really put your big ol’ heart into it, you could beat me in a race.” Mars smiles her big smile (there are strawberry seeds stuck between her two front teeth) and pokes the kid’s cheek. She really is growing quite fond of him, which is a great trouble since she doesn’t plan to stick around. But she supposes this is just the life of being Mars. She often grows attached to those she’s around, for there is always something to appreciate in every soul. However, Seen (not a typo) is different. In his big eyes, she sees more sadness than joy even if he smiles as wide as she does most of the time. (At night, she wonders what he might’ve been put through back in Nevada, but never dares ask. Neither of them do. As far as either are concerned, they just met by chance. Rarely do they speak of the facility.)

“I kid, I kid. You’re like the lovechild between a snail and molasses in comparison to my red lightning.” Their expression turns suddenly thoughtful. Their gaze shifts down to their feet, flipping onto their back to kick them in the air, perhaps expecting to see red sparks like when they take off. “You know, I didn't used to have red lightning. Have your powers changed?”

 

[heartstringss]

Wray shoots an icy glare across the cabin at Reggie whenever they begin to raise their voice at her. (A stupid move, really, considering the absolute volatility of her temper and already paper-thin resemblance on her patience.) When they react next by jerking the car all over the road, Wray pinches her brow with one hand, and with the other, she reaches straight across the median between them and sinks her nails into the seat's edge beside Reggie's thigh. "For fuck’s sake, will you relax?" (They acted like they were trying to avoid some kind of explosion, as if the phone had been a bomb. Christ, it was just plastic.)

Though she presents an image that is normally cool and level-headed (even statuesque), clearly, this was a facade. Just beneath the surface, though concealed, remained a silent, deadly viper… ready to strike and kill at any moment. Yet, still, all the while Reggie's fingers choke the life out of the steering wheel, now panicking at the possibility of trackers, Wray remains in cold, steely silence. Her pulse point throbs so hard it aches, but otherwise she hardly moves a muscle. When Reggie peels the car across two lanes of traffic to catch the next exit, wheels spitting gravel as they grind to a halt outside of an old, abandoned gas station, she merely sighs in exasperation. But then…

"Dark magic?" She echoes with a breathy laugh, somehow more incredulous than it is amused. "That's not at all–" Okay, but why even bother trying to explain? No one ever understood her powers, not her parents or her teachers, not even the scientists who had tied her down and poked and prodded all these years. They couldn't contain or recreate it no matter how hard they had tried, and oh yes, how they'd tried… Bile chokes it's way up the backside of her throat just thinking about it, and reflexively, she retreats inside herself once more. Reggie's not paying attention anymore anyway, so whatever.

Without any further hesitation, Wray rips the door open and steps out of the vehicle. She walks around the front of the car and grabs Reggie by the collar to haul them out of the way, then backs up herself as well and shuts her eyes. She inhales deep, taking in the smell of earth, salt, and sweat, then reaches deep into the ether to conjure up a swirling mass of shadow from all the many nooks and crannies that make up the car's interior. It teems with life, a presence of pure energy itself, ever ominous, dark, and cold. She holds her hand outward in a fist to contain its presence as well as hold its shape, then, with a small breath, she loosens up her fist, turns her hand over, and splays her fingers wide. The swirling mass divides into multiple groups like tiny armies, soldiers marching on to their doom. They dove in and began to ransack through the car's interior, searching for anything that, at least to Wray's best knowledge of automotives and mechanics, might not actually belong. She makes quick work of the search with her tiny soldiers, surely not wanting to remain out in the open like this any longer than was absolutely necessary. She tunes Reggie out all the while, their persistent grumbling and whining little more than a mild nuisance at the farthest edge of her attention.

There's nothing. No odd microchip or coupler clipped into the wiring, no tiny homing beacon, nothing. When she finishes, the shadow army dissolves as well and just like that, the car is washed in light once more. "Let's get out of here," she says, already feeling too exposed. She's tired, cagey, not a huge fan of long drives in the passenger seat, but it's still better than being chased or shot at.

When they get to the next gas station–this one actually functioning–to fuel up and stretch their legs, Wray wanders off, but not so far as to risk losing Reggie in their sights. She hauls the backpack onto her shoulder, pops into the store to grab some water, a couple snacks, most of which end up covertly snuck into the bag just outside the camera and other bystanders' periphery. When she saunters up to the register to "pay" a couple minutes later, she slides only a single pack of winter fresh gum across the counter. She motions for a pack of Marlboro Blacks, tosses a single lighter in for good measure, slides a ten across the counter, then ducks out without another word. No one ever expects the pretty girls to get caught stealing, always too focused on their faces, tits or ass to watch their hands behind their backs.

Once she's reconvened with Reggie, Wray is honestly not the slightest bit surprised to find them wanting to switch cars, but as far as any acknowledgement or arguing goes, she doesn't say much else. She tosses the bag, cigarettes, and lighter into the other blonde's lap as she climbs behind the steering wheel, a single lit stick already perched between her own lips. Though she tries to drive "normal" to fit in, there are still just enough hard and bold maneuvers to show that Wray's not naturally the smoothest, least aggressive driver, either. She's hypervigilant, still incredibly confident even after years of solitude and years before that relying mainly on her home city's public transit. Driving has been a part of her life for so long, she could likely never lose the taste for speed nor the innate desire for control it satiated.

It's hell or high water from there on out. Hours later, they pull into the gravel lot of a small, scummy motel and "convince" the clerk to give them a double bed free of charge. Despite the conditions of the room, Wray is so exhausted that she nods off mere moments after her head has touched that sad excuse for a pillow.

When tires screech outside the room, Wray startles awake, immediately on high alert with the flood of light that blinds her throat the dingy window on the other side of the room. She sits up, tosses her pillow across the divide between their beds to wake Reggie as quietly and quickly as possible. In the next second, glass sprays from the shattered window and gas begins to fill the room. Wray shields her face against the glass, then just as quickly as she catches the first whiff of gas, she covers her nose and mouth instead. She moves almost blindly as she tosses herself off the bed, conjures up a shadow giant and knocks the door to the adjoining room straight off its hinges. They move without speaking as if driven by pure instinct, cutting through the mess of the adjoining room, unbothered by the violent swings and curses of the sleaze sleazebag whose sleep and privacy they are interrupting. The door bangs into the wall as they bolt outside and before they've even had a second to catch their breath or their bearings, a crowd of soldiers swarm upon them, raise their guns, and yell–

They're cut off, quite literally, by Reggie's highest note, and as the blood splatters and the bodies hit the ground, Wray (surprisingly?) flinches.

She's wide awake, almost painfully jittery when she's back behind the wheel a moment later. They drive in silence, both unable to relax, constantly checking both rearview and side mirrors. It's hours before they stop again. Find another motel. An abandoned house. A dark alleyway. Climb into their beds, occasionally the same bed, and pass out once again. Wray is so exhausted those next few days, she hardly even has the energy to fight when Reggie gets too close, when they roll over in bed and occasionally press their face into her shoulder, tuck their nose into her hair, toss their arm over her chest. Though she jolts awake every single time, heart hammering in her chest, immediately tense and ready to spring to action–once she's comfortable and has come to recognize the other's smell, the texture of their skin, outline of their torso in the dark… she doesn't push them off or argue. She relaxes into the touch a little, taking comfort in the peace and quiet, the momentary warmth they share in all that chaos. (Only once or twice does she actually push them off, times when they had been settled peacefully side-by-side, sharing in each other's warmth, and casually, Reggie's hand flitters from her shoulder to her breast–or from her waist to her ass–one hard shove and she clearly makes her point. Awake or not, she doesn't care, but at least there's one hard line still drawn into the sand.)

Even with her limited need for sleep, Wray's eyes are practically bloodshot from the constant break-ins that they keep experiencing. Like Reggie, she's already days past her patience wearing thin, so it goes without saying that her anger, too, is becoming more explosive. Something raw and primal claws its way out of her throat, the darkness building… it swirls in a dangerous haze, mounting higher and higher. Glass explodes as it overflows the room and spills outside. Consumes one soldier, then another and another. Flesh squelches as they're enveloped en masse, sucked dry, deflated, crushed in an instant. All color drains from out her face and her normally multicolored eyes turn both pitch black for an instant, not just the irises but the corneas as well. She doesn't notice that strange wave of power in the rush of everything else she's feeling, all that rage consuming her at once. Her jaw clenched tightly shut, she turns on Reggie with that same anger, but unlike with the soldiers, doesn't move so quickly to attack.

"We've switched cars multiple times. Never stayed in the same place more than a few days at once. Practically hit reset every single time these fuckers have shown up, but still, every time like clockwork, there they are. We're missing something. What are we fucking missing?"

Four hours. That's the most they've made it after each time that they've settled down somewhere before getting swarmed… again. No matter how long or far they drive. Four hours, sometimes less but rarely more.

"I'm so fucking tired of running." The words are mumbled harshly underneath her breath, yet still followed by, "Come on. Get in the fucking car, we gotta go."

The next drive, she moves mechanically, not speaking, as she drives. Her mind is elsewhere, fully occupied, that she hardly even notices the fact she's darkened the car unnaturally and that it's become so cold with all the shadows swirling at their feet. An uneasiness claws at the back of her skull, a tiny voice that's not her own.

They're missing something. Something isn't right. Something that… doesn't belong.

There's a faint tingling sensation, something digging at the underside of her right arm, a heat like infection rising, swelling. She scratches the itch but doesn't notice much else. Keeps rubbing that same spot on her arm off and on over the course of their next 5 hours on the road, an absent-minded touch like when you know you've got a splinter but you just can't get it out.

A slight bump forms after a while. A small abrasion. Her itching becomes more intentional later on that night, when she's hunkered down in the bathroom, sitting on the cool tile with her back against the tub, all the while Reggie remains out in the bedroom. A few candles light each room–Reggie's touch–and by that tiny candlelight, Wray can see the mark illuminated, but even without the light, she can see it, too.

A razor rests between her fingers, twirling back and forth inside her hand. Debating. She'd dug into the skin with her fingers (now bloody) a little bit already, but there was only so much she could do without a tool. There was something there, she knew it–had to be. Why was her arm developing this weird rash after their last drive but Reggie remained more or less completely unaffected? They hadn't talked about it, but whatever had manifested in her rage, it had… done something. A different kind of energy had developed in her body. She'd felt a more sort of… wholeness with that last slaughter. Even now, that energy buzzed and buzzed.

With a sharp breath, Wray grit her teeth and dug the razor into her skin. A second later, she hit something hard, like… metal?

"Reggie!" Her voice rose shrilly over the pain, adrenaline coursing through her veins even as a stream of blood began to pour over and through her fingers. The very same fingers that now took the blade and curved it around and underneath the edge of the small object planted inside her skin, pulled it up, dug it out, and–

–turning it over, she screamed. "Reggie, get the fuck in here now!"

---

Seen.

Sean does feel seen with Mars, ironically, even in times like these when they've just taken his name, wadded it up, and turned it inside-out for their own pleasure. To think he could have been forced to make this journey with anybody else or, gods forbid, had to go it solo--no doubt he would have been recaptured and imprisoned again by now. Because despite his ability to shape-shift into anything his heart desired, standing up for yourself ultimately still required guts, and guts was one thing Sean just didn't have. How many times had Catie had to jump in and save him from his bullies growing up, all the while he lay sniveling, nose bloodied, taking cover in her shadow? A coward, some would say. But Catie, she had never called him that-- and so far... so far, neither had Mars.

He feels a challenge rising in his gut, a deep, internal need to prove himself not a loser when the other (jokingly) dares him to a footrace. (It'd be a poor choice to even try, especially knowing the other's ability to amplify their speed to damn-near astronomical proportions, but obviously Sean's made poorer choices in his lifetime and, miraculously he's still kicking.

A crack of mischief shakes him up inside, but just as he lifts his hand and rises to his feet to meet them to their challenge--

I kid, I kid. You're like the lovechild between a snail and molasses in comparison to my red lightning.

His grin flakes into a pout. He thinks he might be able to mimic their appearance and catch them enough off-guard to get himself a head-start, but the walloping he'd likely receive once they caught up might not be worth it. Before he even gets a chance to try, Mars flops onto their back and kicks their feet into the air, which effectively distracts him and derails all prior trains of thought.

As the conversation shifts to one more sour, so too does his mood. His elbow knocks against Mars' knee as he moves to join them on the ground, and whether Mars wants him that close or not, he curls up into a ball and stays. "I can stay me longer," he says, not quite intentionally cryptic as he knows Mars has definitely seen him in his true form by now and therefore doesn't need an explanation. "I used to have a lot of trouble holding onto one single form for more than a few hours, but now I can, um-- now I can do it a little better, you know?"

"And shifting more erratically, I can do that a little more intentionally, now, too. It used to take a lot more focus that, quite frankly, I just didn't have. But at the same time, I also didn't really... care. I mean, like, to do it in the first place, you know?"

His experience had been different, surely, though it was still no less traumatic just the same. Comparatively, he had spent a lot more time learning how to perfect his ability the hard way, or perhaps more accurately, by force. How many days had he spent handcuffed to a desk laden with the files of different hostage identities, forced to mimic their appearances and their voices following a script, all the while he was being recorded and refused even the most basic necessities like food, water, toilet, or rest... until his body, brain, and will finally gave out, gave in, and he had no other choice but to play along? Compared to whatever those like Mars might have endured to cause a shift severe enough to amplify their powers, maybe he had had it easy. Or maybe he'd just had it different.

Did he want to go down that road with Mars, though? ...No, most certainly he did not. "Do you like your lightning streaks or hate them?" He asked instead, toying with the cuff around his wrist that holds the tracker they still haven't found a way to shake. That was something that had changed within him, too--no matter how he tried, he couldn't shift form without that tracker following along, too. No matter how he tried to hide himself, it would remain a dead giveaway under the right pair of watchful eyes until they found a way to get it off.