One x One Lavvy's writing samples

[Lavvy]

Exactly what it looks like, just a quick sampling of some of my more recent writing. Please don't post here, thank you~!
Just a random sampling of some of my more recent posts, to give you an idea of what my writing style is.

It is worth noting that the longer posts come from rps where i was already very familiar and established with the world and lore. Think of them as the 'top of my game' posts. Shorter posts, where I'm making things up as I go along, are more to be expected when starting out in new worlds. ​

 

[Lavvy]

• The question of getting a slave had been one that had loomed over his head for the past several years. His parents had encouraged it. After all, he was plenty well off enough for it these days. He had no want for money, or work, or space. His villa was comfortable, plenty spacious enough for an entire family to live in, but without being too expansive and empty, even with only one resident abiding inside. By all accounts, he could use a good hand around the house. Nevermind how difficult it was to keep the place clean all by himself but, as his father kept insisting on pointing out, the older Dr.Aegis became, the more frail he grew. It was, frankly, an embarrassing problem to have to deal with at his age. But, none the less, it was a problem. He'd maintained his body carefully throughout the years, so he was better off than most in his position. He didn't need a wheelchair yet. But, year by year and month by month, his muscles slowly began to fail him. He'd need the chair, sooner or later. And the less he strained his muscles in the meantime, the farther back he could push his ultimate fate of being wheelchair bound. Every time he sat to have brunch with his parents these days, they harped him about it. His mother had a slave. She'd helped her keep her life together when she was younger, touring around to different venues across the country. These days Lilliah was more of a typical, domestic house pet. She and his parents all seemed content with it. They always went on about how "We just worry about you, Toby. What if you fall, and you're stuck all alone in that big empty house of yours? What then?" and even when the mage assured his parents that he was still plenty strong enough to pull himself off of the floor - and even if he weren't, he has been working on his telekinesis - they couldn't help but fret. They themselves were getting on in years, they would remind him. But Lilliah was closer to Tobais' age, and it made life just so much easier. They offered to come along, to help him through the process, but each time he waved them off. Dealing with all the forms and tedious bureaucracy of acquiring a slave wasn't his problem. Hell, all of his work was dealing with bureaucracy, after all. No, what Tobias was concerned with was his space.
  
  There were so few places in the city where he could appreciate real silence. He'd sunk a good deal of the money he'd gotten from.. well, very generous friends of his, into buying a plot of land where he could put up a fence, put space on all sides so that he was out of range of any meandering crowds and passerby. The rings he wore to dampen the sound helped, but even with the enchantments, he could always hear the dull murmur of thoughts around him. He'd spent so much time, effort, and money building this house, his sanctuary. Where he could be alone with no ones thoughts but his own. He didn't need to worry about trying to awkwardly move away when people tried to touch him or shake his hand, or explain why he acted as though he was repulsed by the idea. He didn't have to listen or to answer. He could simply be. He dreaded the thought of someone encroaching upon that sanctity, nevermind how much work a slave could be. Depending on their race and history, there were all kinds of legalities to follow. And what if he went out and bought someone, and then after two years they didn't get along? Tobias dreaded the thought of being that guy, the one who came back and returned a slave and ruined that persons chances of landing with the right people. But then, what? Was he just doomed to be miserable with someone he couldn't stand if he made the wrong choice? It seemed like a lose lose situation. These, and other, various issues, had precluded the psychic from purchasing a slave for years. But his time was finally up. Ironically, despite what he'd assured his parents... he did fall. And while he was glad no one was around to see it, or tell him 'I told you so,' it was frightening when he had trouble pulling himself up again after his crutches had clattered away from him across the marble floors. He was able to use his telekinesis to pull them back that time, but it had been a vibrant wake up call. He may have only been in his thirties, but he just couldn't go on acting like he had the body of other men his age. He didn't, and he wouldn't. He needed aid as if he were some eighty year old infirm. He wasn't going to a home, so he was going to need a slave.
  
  And so the past several months had been spent doing research. In what spare time he had, he poured over every guide he could find about how to determine the best kind of fit for a slave. There were more books and walkthroughs for first time slave buyers than even he could read in any manageable timeframe. Naturally, there was some conflicting information, but most of the basics seemed to be generally agreed upon. He was fairly certain that he'd do better with a reformed slave than a bred one, but he didn't want to close any doors. So he'd scoured the internet, records, libraries, and naturally, he'd gotten opinions from many of the upper class families whom he assisted and carried on business with these days. Most of them actually preferred bred slaves, it seemed. In fact the Fontaines - oh, don't worry Doctor, you wouldn't know them, they fell from grace a while before your time - but you know they actually owned their own kennels at one point. Oh yes. Bears and Bulls mostly, it seemed. Strength and temperament. Well, that one was dissolved now, but there were so man reputable kennels, depending on what you wanted. The Avalanches were primarily bred for guards, intimidating appearance and ferocity. Too overbearing. The Pitches were a luxury line, highly sought for their chic black large predator metas. That was hardly what he needed. Decorative slaves, really. There were all kinds of purebred lines built to suit different purposes - hard labor, child rearing, maid and filing, bodyguards.... none of the niche breeds suited his needs. But even amongst the highbrow, there were a few who strongly urged him in the other direction, insisting that reformed slaves were he way to go. There were all kinds of reasons. Bred slaves tended to be a bit mindless, they said. They don't know how to operate on their own. They're too dependent. They have no life experience, so they're difficult to get along with and relate to. Reformed slaves are trained by the division, so you know that training will hold, unlike some hokey breeding programs. Reformed slaves tended to have more personality, knew what to do when left to their own devices, and tended to be more grateful to have a good home, providing they were well taken care of. By the end of his field study, he'd decided he agreed more with the latter than the former. A reformed slave would suit him better. And it wasn't as if the normal dangers that the highbrow feared applied to him; if there were any problems regarding the training of his slave sticking, he'd know.
  
  So then came the review process. A reformed slave meant he'd be checking the stock from the government-run slaving facilities. Most were helpful enough, posting profiles and slave statuses for all of their stock on helpful (if poorly designed) websites. For a few months, this was all Dr.Aegis did. He skimmed profiles, looking at age, race, past, everything. Sometimes he called the center to ask a few questions about a promising prospect. A few times, he even visited the locations in person to take his rings off and meet the prospective slaves in person. But in the end, he always came home alone. He refused to rush this. Refused to commit to buying someone when he wasn't completely certain that he would want to keep that person with him until he died. How anyone made these kinds of decisions on a whim were beyond him. It was worse than getting married.
  
  The online profile of Mikhail Nicolaev seemed promising enough. There were a few quirks - the repossession, the retraining, his age. But that actually piqued Tobias' interest. Most of the potentials he'd looked at had more... sparkling records. And none of them had fit. He was finding more and more that those with a few nicks and notches in their history suited him better. Like a pair of shoes that had already been broken in. But perhaps that just made him odd. It wouldn't be the first mark for him, there. Dr.Aegis was well known for being an eccentric. A social butterfly who absolutely hated to be touched, and required a lot of alone time. Yet he still insisted on going out amongst crowds and soirees, and by all accounts seemed to enjoy them. He wore odd clothes, cloaks and long scarves to wind around his neck and face, that he bought from thrift stores of all places. Fortunately for him, the upper crust liked him well enough to simply accept his odd habits as charming, and let them slide with little to no contempt. His parents, of course, had taught him his thrifting habits, and regardless of his new social status, he felt little need to exchange them for spending pointless amounts of money on hand-tailored clothes like the rest of the stuffy snoots. In any case, apparently it was the case with slaves as well. The second-hand slaves just suited him better than the shiny fresh ones.
  
  Mikhail had been in this facility for some time, it seemed. No doubt his age and his past had a hand in that. Oddly, it seemed that the metamorphose was, in fact, a bred slave, exactly as he'd been trying to avoid by checking out the government facilities. Still, he caught his interest enough that he warranted a closer look. Keeping his options open and all. So he'd called, asked the same questions he'd asked about a dozen other slaves. Apparently he was well behaved, didn't belong in a household with children. A little too scarred up for the tastes of most civilized folk, but a little too soft around the edges to make for a proper, ferocious bodyguard. Considered a bit too much of a risk for the professional stuff - retraining and all. But, of course, those kinds of things didn't concern Tobias. He'd be able to see the truth of the matter. So after running the attendant through the usual ring of questions, and finding them quite amenable, he set up a meeting.
  
  And so there he was.
  This was his first visit to this particular facility. His months-long search had him going back and fourth between half the facilities in the city, but it was easy to miss some that fell through the cracks. He'd actually only stumbled across the listings for this particular location because his mother had sent him a link to a different slave there; a cute little thing, but not to his liking, nor his needs. But the browsing had led him to Mikhails profile. His dress shoes clicked tidily against the tile floor as he entered, a long, dark shawl wrapped several times across his neck, shoulders, and the lower half of his face. It mostly concealed the big, obnoxious scar on his left cheek. Mostly. He approached the desk, stating simply that he had an appointment to interview #355j0. The clerk nodded, smiling and starting to prattle on about this and that, how most people just came in and browsed and never bothered setting up actual interview appointments, which was a shame, because it made life SO much easier on the workers, and... well. She was a loud thinker. Even with his rings on, Tobias could almost make out the exact words of her thoughts. She'd be more annoying for it if her thoughts weren't so simple and genuine. In a way she was charming, like an overexcited child. She had him sign a few waivers - essentially stating that Dr.Aegis wouldn't try to sue the city if a bear ripped his face off in the interview room - and showed him to the meeting room they'd be using. Quietly, the psychic slipped the rings off of his fingers, one by one, until Louise's thoughts were a loud, clear bell in between his ears. She really did hope this was a good match. She was so terribly fond of Mikhail. She could never afford a slave herself, on government secretary pay, but if she could, she'd want one like Mikhail. Maybe younger. But gosh, this psychic sure seemed chilly. He wouldn't abuse him if he DID take Mikhail, would he? Sure he had a scary face, but Mik was really such a sweet bear... on and on her brain went. By the time she shuffled him into the meeting room, he felt much more at ease both about Louise as well as Mikhail.
  
  "We'll send him right in in just a minute~!"
  The little elf piped at him, holding the door so that he could hobble in on his crutches more easily. Tobias smiled gently back, but the expression was lost beneath the shawl. The secretary quietly closed the door behind her, and her thoughts became more distant and faint. Carefully, he lowered himself into one of the chairs. One at a time, he un-clamped his arms from his crutches, setting them to one side of his chair and leaning back. Nothing but to wait and see.

 

[Lavvy]

• "You've quit."
  
  It was a good thing that laughter had fled his chest years ago, or he might have even scoffed. Even Leon knew that he wasn't talking about cigarettes. Quitting smoking in a place like this was like saying you'd quit eating. It was one of the few methods of stress relief any of the prisoners had. He knew what he meant. Had the werewolf ever used before? If he had, surely he must have known that quitting wasn't as simple as a firm 'stop that.' It never was. And Leon was already resigned to the fact that he'd be dependent on substances to get him through for the remainder of his (hopefully mercifully brief) life. Odin would say it over and over, until his head hurt from repeating it, and it wouldn't make it true. Leon couldn't imagine quitting, really and truly. Even when the alchemists were putting him through a dry spell, they always gave him just enough. Just that little bit of water in the desert, enough to keep him alive and desperate enough for more. Just one more. Just another little taste. He'd do anything. Anything. If the werewolf thought that 'anything' excluded going behind his back, then he was just as stupid as he looked. Or maybe he did know. But if that was the case, why even bother? Was he just planning on beating the fuck out of him when he caught him? Or did he really not have any plans of making him comply? That seemed like an odd, and unlikely tactic, but Leon couldn't be sure. He could never tell what other people were thinking. Much less someone as stoic as Odin. Well, maybe 'stoic' wasn't exactly the right word. More like, his face was a permanent scowl, so it was difficult to differentiate his various kinds of anger. was that a werewolf thing? Just feeling angry all of the time? He hadn't ever known any, personally. It wasn't as if there was an overabundance of them. In any case he didn't respond, merely keeping his eyes down and nodding dimly as he said that he would be the one handling the trades from now on. The way the larger man glowered at him gave him the distinct impression of being prey. Sure, he had been on the bottom rung of the prison ladder for years, but it wasn't quite the same as feeling like someone was looking at you like they wanted to eat you. It was a feeling he'd gotten from a few vampires and one or two ghouls since he'd been on the inside, but he'd had a bit of an irrational fear of them since childhood. Of course, it wasn't as if he had never traded his blood before, either. Not an experience he wantd to repeat. In fact, there were several trades he never wanted to follow through with again, people he'd avoided after having particularly unpleasant interactions with fulfilling his ends of their deals. That feeling made him a little nauseated, when Odin said he'd be handling the trades. "If you need anything you tell me." It was the same kind of arrangement that whores working the streets had with the pimps who were supposed to guard them from the hungry eyes in the shadowy corners. They gave their money right to the pimp, and he'd buy them what they asked him for from the funds. It kept them close, kept them from slipping away to someone else. It was a similar agreement he'd had with the alchemists. He was older now, and more beaten down. He knew better than to trust Odin, had trouble trying to trust Julian. Did the werewolf plan on whoring them out? It wasn't an uncommon arrangement, inside.
  
  His face had reddened when he glanced sideways, saw the expression on Julians face. Odin probably knew what he was talking about trading. Julian had always been too clever by half. He doubted the mage hadn't figured it out. He didn't want him to know, but it was also something of a public secret. Everyone knew that they could work out deals to get what they wanted out of the fairy, as long as you did it when the alchemists backs were turned. And inmates tended to want for subtlety. But he at least had the choice, then, of which deals he did and didn't want to take. But if Odin was insisting on making the deals, then, did he have a say anymore? There was no denying that the three of them would need all the help they could get, but did Odin have any reason to care about his boundaries? Would he care who Leon felt was too rough in their handling, too hungry, too greedy? He didn't have much control to begin with. Hadn't in years. Like hell was he going to relinquish what little he had so easily. But he couldn't exactly tell Odin 'no' either, could he? He turned his face away, not wanting Julian to see it. The fear and shame and apprehension written in his features. He might be able to go on behind the werewolfs back, but in the end, he would still have to do as he told him. He could keep making his own trades, but he'd have to give up whetever Odin told him to for whoever had what the three of them needed. The alchemists, at least, hadn't whored him out that way. Certainly, a few of their circle had.... made use, of Leons trade system, but it had always been willing, always in exchange for more. More of whatever would keep him content and subdued enough to stand being alive. It wasn't the same. He'd always had a say, even if the alternative had been hellish withdrawal. He'd always done the choosing. Giving that up felt shameful, and frightening. His thoughts flickered, briefly, to trying to bite through his own tongue a few nights ago. The little sores on the underside of his tongue had closed up, a byproduct of his quick healing as a fairy. It had been a ridiculously stupid attempt, bound to fail. Still, he dimly wondered if it wouldn't be better to just give up, fade away into nothing. Going on was just so tiring. He was so, so tired. Down to his bones, and he had been for years. What kept him going?
  
  Tacks.
  He reminded himself, as firmly as he could. He could endure it, Whatever Odin had in mind, he could do it. If it meant he'd get out one day, and find the one who did this to him. He'd snap the neck of the man who looked just like him. He'd watch the life drain out of his own face, and then it would be okay. He could give up then, but not before. He'd forgotten, but he had to keep sight of it. He just needed to last that long. He ran a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes down and averted from both Odin and Julian. He just needed to survive.
  It didn't have to be in one piece.
  
  
  It was cloudy when they were shuffled into the yard. It still felt strange to the fairy, following along after Julian and Odin instead of trotting over to the usual corner where the alchemists lingered. For the most part, the alchemist Circle was still keeping their eyes away from him. Likely that would keep on being the case until Pikes fate was known. The fairy glanced around the yard, looking for the figure of his new cellmate, Mallory. The towering ghoul was still threatening, but he was, at least somewhat, on the fairys side. Or maybe Leon was just on his good side. But he had been absent at count, and as he searched for him, he was absent still in the yard. It gave him a sick feeling in his gut. He'd only just started to forge an alliance and already the ghoul had vanished. Why did the universe seem to conspire against him? Another muscle wall would have been really, really beneficial. Where had he gone? He kept quiet, trying to emulate Julians habits to avoid pissing off his new werewolf overlord. Off to one side, a movement caught his eye. Cautiously, he glanced over, casual. It was Reggie, a dark-skinned vampire with a very subdued disposition. He was in for a minor offense, and generally easy to get along with. He affiliated himself with a sect of vampires and stray ghouls who mostly kept to themselves and out of the way, a small ring of people with short sentences who wanted to keep it that way. Despite being a blood drinker, Reggie had always been fairly amicable with Leon. Possibly because he was high out of his mind half of the time. The vampire repeated his motion, just a slight tilting of his chin while looking directly at the fairy. He knew what it meant. The vampires look was somewhat questioning. All of his old 'associates' were in a sort of grey area, now that the fairy was under new ownership. The pattern was broken, and none of them wanted to end up with a smashed-in face or a snapped wrist. Still, Reggie was pretty well addicted to Leons dust. He was always bartering with Leon to get small portions of it, to make him warm and tingly all over, shuddering in ecstasy. Leon liked dealing with him because he was so adamant about staying out of trouble. It also meant that he'd been unable to buy any kind of protection from him, since he and his sect stalwartly refused to engage in prison politick as much as possible, but it made him safe, simple to deal with. Reggie was the perfect sort to test the waters with when it came to Odins new policy. He lifted an eyebrow at the vampire, glancing to Odin and back for a moment before turning away. What was the best way to approach the subject with him? Julian seemed to be convinced that the mere sound of his voice was a source of agitation for the man. Still, it could only be seen as a good thing, right? Leon asking for permission, trying to abide by him? He cleared his throat a little before speaking up, waiting until the three of them were far enough removed from other circles that they wouldn't be overheard.
  "Uh, Odin? Can I go talk to Reggie?" He cast his eyes to the side, briefly, in the direction of the vampire. Reggie stood to the side near the wall, casual. He wasn't staring intently at them, but when looked at he nodded, slightly, in their direction. A motion meant to be taken as friendly acknowledgement. "He's... one of those associates I mentioned."

 

[Lavvy]

"Aww, Y'poer lil squib. 'Ere ere." Pippin patted the top of the quivering boys head. "Frey wassit? Heh, y'look t'be a mite 'frayed' at's a certain!" The alchemist laughed out loud, clearly entertained by his own joke. Rick didn't seem to share his enthusiasm, but didn't roll his eyes or groan. Pip was like an overexcited child. In many ways, he was one of Ricks children, much like Vincent, and Pietr. He was accustomed to the youngest brothers.... eccentricities. He'd never been quite right in the head. But there were much better things to be than normal. Like, say a little bit of a genius. There was no telling what Pippin might have been able to accomplish had he been given access to a proper education. Hell, there was still a lot he might accomplish still. But at the moment, the old nymph was decidedly more concerned about what to do with his new guest.

"It really might just be the unluckiest bastard that there was. But I'd rather be completely certain." The nymph explained, watching the human continue to snivel and shake and be... well. Generally pathetic overall. Rick couldn't empathize with him much at all. Even when he'd been a desperate street urchin, fleeing from the lap of luxurious slavery and into the jaws of rough, life-threatening freedom, he'd never collapsed so helplessly. He'd never allowed himself to be helpless, to be pathetic... to be like this. But, to be fair, he'd never watched a middle-aged elf get torn apart by lycans, either. Well. He saw a young elf get torn in and his corpse savaged by a werewolf but, that was another matter. "I need Pietr to get the truth for me. I can turn a profit off of him, but I need to make sure before I can."

"Aye, e's got a foine face 'ats certain. Bu' Piper en't here jus yet. A'course yer always welcom' ta' hang 'round, unc'l!" Pippin piped, as cheery as ever. He put a hand on Freys shoulder, companionable. "An' lil Frayed 'ere, I'm sure he don' min' waitin' round a bit fer m'bruther. D'ya, Frey?"
He knelt again, tapping two fingers under the little humans chin to tilt his face up to look at him again. "Why doan'cha tell Pip a lil' 'boutcherself, eh?" He was probably a little difficult to understand, with his quick speech and thick accent. "After all, M'sure yer more'n jussa pretty face. What'dya like t'do, Frey?"

 

[Lavvy]

• Leto squinted upwards, holding an arm up to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. Despite the fact that red, angry dust clouds obscured a great deal of its light, it still felt awfully bright to him. Underground, the world was lit at intervals by calming pale blue lights. They gave the cities a feeling of calm security. Up here, on the surface, the harsh hazy orange light just seemed wild, and oppressive. Around him footmen scurried left and right, checking off cargo lists and hurriedly connecting and disconnecting fuel lines and pipes. He nodded an affirmative to his second in command as she finalized a packing order for him before scurrying off to execute his commands. With the hangar behind him, the hot winds buffeted at his face, and tousled his dark red hair. He was still in his military uniform, although he now regretted not taking the footmens advice about changing into looser civilian clothes.It was going to take him forever to get the sand out of the stiff fabric. He sighed, vainly brushing the dust off of his shoulder for the eleventh time that morning. He was paler than the surface dwellers, as was to be expected, with olive tinged skin smattered with freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, sharp features, thick , dark eyebrows set in a permanent scowl, and cold grey eyes. He may have only been a squadron leader, but he walked with the gait of a Commander, hands clasped behind him, and eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. The symbol of his caution was marked clearly on his face; a long, jagged scar that reached from the tip of one eyebrow, traced along the outside of his cheekbone, and curved just under his chin, a pale line of knitted flesh. The scar was old, and had healed cleanly, detracting nothing from his polished appearance. Well. Usually polished.
  
  As he turned to reenter the hangar he scowled, trying in vain to get his hair back into its proper place, but between the sand and the wind, every attempt was ineffectual. He stepped back inside to see the Chief, flanked by none other than the Commander Fulgress herself. Leto kept his distance, pretending to be watching one of the crews loading more of the supply crates, but keeping an ear trained towards his superiors. The powers that be had deigned that the reason for this great trek of military personnel, gear, and Mechs remain kept only by the higher ups. Lower ranking officers like himself were to simply do as they always did: obey. Still, that didn't mean that Leto couldn't try and enlighten himself, if the opportunity came up. Unfortunately he was too far to catch anything of relevance. Likely, they weren't divulging anything too new here in the open hangar anyway. Soon enough the Commander and her attendants departed, which Leto took as his cue to approach the Chief, a middle-aged man with an eyepatch and bushy moustache.
  "Chief, my crew informs me that our squadrons preparations are complete. After we finish our triple-check of the lists, we will be ready to mobilize at your command." The chief nodded and waved a hand.
  "That's all well and good, Captain. But you do realize we're not scheduled to move out for another two hours, right?" Leto decided it was best not to respond. The Chief had an... oddly relaxed approach to his duty, especially compared to the other officers of his rank. It couldn't be helped.
  "Yes, sir, be that as it may, I really feel I must voice my concerns one last time-"
  The chief was already rolling his eyes with a look that said this again? as he started walking off, Leto striding briskly alongside him "I still think the inclusion of the surface transport units is excessive. I understand the necessity for their mechs when it comes to escorting civilians, but I assure you my team can handle scouting and defending the caravan. With the numbers, we-" but the Chief held up his hand, and Leto immediately fell silent.
  "Captain, we've been over this. The surface isn't a trench. Navigating the wastes is a very different game from militia deployment, and the Surface Escort Team has done it back and fourth a dozen and a half times. They're here with us for a reason. There's no point in questioning the higher ups, so best can that racket now." Leto bowed his head, sufficiently cowed. With a snort, the Chief handed over a small file in a manilla folder. "Now, take this and go to the C-Dock. You're to rendevous with your Platoon leader and the other Squad leaders there. You'll be working closely with the Beta team, so I want you and the Beta leader to stick close. Understood? Now get moving." And without another word, he spun on his heel and shuffled off into the crowd. Leto stood, holding the folder in hand and allowing himself a sigh of frustration, before following suit and heading off towards C-Dock. As he went, he thumbed through the personnel file the Chief had given. He glanced through the names, his eyes lingering on the name of the Beta Team Captain, who was listed as his partner. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about that name was oddly familiar. It felt.... like an irritating itch in the back of his gut.
  "I don't like where this is going..." he thought to himself as he opened the door to the conference room, currently populated only by other underground militia captains, awaiting the arrival of the Platoon Leader and.... the Surface Team? Leto glanced at a wall clock with a poorly disguised look of agitation. They couldn't possibly be late on their first day due to depart, could they?

 

[Lavvy]

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Nothing nothing nothing. How long had it been? A few weeks, at least. No one handled loss 'well', not really and truly. Not when it came to people that close to them. It wasn't as if Elroy had never lost anyone. There was a reason Haven members clung so tightly together, after all. Those were the kinds of things that Elroy didn't need to worry about the alchemist over. Things like, 'what if his fake id didn't scan?' 'What if the authorities dragged him back to the division?' 'Worse, what if someone other than the authorities found out?' They weren't like normal citizens. There was no failsafe for people like them. Like Elroy. There was no safety net, no one who could come looking for them when they vanished mysteriously, no concerned family members who could go to the police with tears in their eyes begging 'find my baby, please.' If his mother cared what happened to him, she was in no position to do anything about it. Not for lack of choice, mind you. She could have done as Elroy had done, as his older brother had done before him. But change was difficult, and there was the eternal debate in the concept of 'freedom.' What were you willing to sacrifice for it? A bird in a cage was safer than a bird in the bush, there was no denying that. Outside of the cage there were cats and hawks, hunters and disease and storms and traps. You could never fly inside of the cage, but you could sing and live for as long as your captors decided your feathers were still pretty. You could be safe. Elroy would rather die. It was watching others die around him that was difficult, and everyone handled it differently.

Elroy was accustomed to watching people around him disappear. Or, at least, as accustomed to it as a person could be while remaining relatively sane. To the nymph, he wasn't an outcast hiding in a dismal city. He was a soldier waging war, and that was simply the way of war. But it didn't mean that he handled the loss 'well.' It was just a little bit less immediately self-destructive than some. Some might argue that disconnecting from reality, forgoing most bonds with most other living beings in favor of devoting himself to an ideal, was far from healthy. But it was all that he could do. In Haven, people came, and people went. There were only a few, tight-knit rings that stayed over the years, only the most paranoid and the most mistrusting. Like Elroy. But even in Haven, some people couldn't accept that they were in a warzone, and when a person they'd let in close wound up on the chopping block, they couldn't take it. They broke. Elroy hadn't been able to save his comrades before. They were difficult to reach, and each effort on his part usually seemed to have no effect. Lester Knox was not a part of Elroy's war. But he was suffering nonetheless, and every past failure on the nymphs part couldn't preclude him from trying yet again. He'd vowed that he would never stop fighting until he was dead, no matter what the case. Lesters suffering was not something that he could abate or influence, but it was another battlefield for him still. After too long a stretch of silence, he needed to know, at least, that the alchemist wasn't dead. And now, it seemed, that necessitated going outside.

Roy had a small arsenal prepared specifically for going outside. A new identity, false documents, a disguise, and numerous fallbacks. If nothing else, he had means of escape. Thank the nonexistant god for a city full of power lines. With a sigh, the nymph slowly started disconnecting himself from his matrixed system. He tended to have parts of himself transformed here and there, reaching through the lines he'd traced through his building. An eye peering through a camera here, and ear listening there, none connected too directly to his base system, a tangle of home made computer systems, towers, and servers that could all be melted down at a moments notice and rebuilt anew later on. The nymph pulled his headphones from his skull, and for a moment, there was a bright beam of blue crackling energy between the headphone and the left side of his skull, where his ear should have been. But in the next moment, it snapped back into place, his ear glowing faintly blue for a moment before settling completely back into its physical form. He rubbed the lingering numbless away with his fingers as he disconnected himself, bit by bit, from the rest of his rig, powering it down station by station as he withdrew fingers and limbs and realigned them back into himself, until no part of him was a line of snapping blue energy, and all of him was a man, physical and solid. The ritual of preparing to go outside of his hovel was one thing, but the rigamaroll of preparing to leave Haven territory was another completely. It was a full two hours before Elroy left his building, and by then he didn't look like Elroy at all.

His name was Elton Bradley, and his criminal record was mostly clean, with the exception of a few parking violations, a speeding ticket here and there, and one issue with disorderly conduct, but he promises that was over a decade ago, and he was young and drunk and foolish. Elton dropped out of college and went into the workforce early. He liked watching tennis in sports bars, but griped because people only ever wanted to watch football or soccer. Elton had been born a citizen, to two upstanding but unremarkable citizens. Elton had close-cropped black hair and tended to wear dark sunglasses because he had sensitive eyes, tended to keep his head low because he was just kind of a bumbling, insecure sort of dude who didn't have the spine for so much as an argument on the bus. Elton minded his own business and, for the most part, people didn't mind Elton. He was just such an unremarkable guy. It wasn't quite cold yet, but the wind had a little more chill in it than Elton preferred, so as the perfectly normal, unassuming citizen quickly exited Haven territory and rejoined the streets of normal, civil society, he wound his plain cream scarf around his shoulders. He tugged out his phone - Eltons phone, of course. With no connections to any strange computer servers or mysterious lines of service - and did as most people did, tapping away idly to avoid having to actually engage any other passers by in pleasantries or conversation. Elton just wasn't the kind of guy people tended to notice.

So he ghosted through the city slowly, meandering, until he finally found himself at the door of Lesters apartment. Pushing his dark sunglasses up, he rapped on the door loudly with his knuckles. They stung.
"Less." His voice was deep and firm, resonating soundly in a way that he knew would reach through the door. It was an oddly commanding tone, a sharp contrast to Eltons facade. It didn't fit the sheepish citizen at all, somehow shattered the illusion without directly contradicting anything outright. But Elton wasn't here to see Lester. Elroy was. After a pause, he rapped at the door again, louder this time. "Lester, it's me. Let me in." No response. He could hear something inside shifting. Possibly Bandit. He hoped he wouldn't have to deal with the dog, particularly if she was starving because her master was swinging from a ceiling fan inside. Fucking hell, he hoped that wasn't what he was about to find. But as the silence stretched on, it turned into a cold feeling in his guts. His expression never shifted, but sweat started to bead on his brow. "...I'm coming inside now. Stay put." He sorely hoped that he wasn't just talking to the dog. A quick glance around gave Elroy the in he needed. Directly above him was a light, typically used to keep the door illuminated after dark so people didn't have to fumble with their keys in the dark. In this case, however, it was a welcome mat for an electric nymph like him. Like electricity, Roys transformation happened in the blink of an eye. One moment he was standing there, looking up at the sky light, and then there was a flash of white-blue, an arc of electricity lancing up into the socket, and then the hall was empty.

Navigating circuitry in his energy form was more difficult than he made it look. It wasn't as if he could actually see where he was going, or look down on the entire grid like a maze. Instead he could only reach tendrils of himself, stretching out swaths of energy like sparking tentacles through the power lines to find the dead ends and open sockets. Fortunately, in houses and apartments, most everything was connected, so his search for an in was fairly brief. No more than a few seconds. But in escape attempts he had become sorely lost in the citys power lines on more than one occasion. There was a reason fleeing into them was a last resort. But the lines running through Lesters apartment were mercifully simple. So in another flash of blue light, the electric nymph zapped out of a wall socket not too far from the door. For a moment he stood there in his energy form, a tall column of crackling blue-white electricity, shaped vaguely like a human. It was always a strange sight to see. But within an instant it compressed down and flashed back to solidity, a man again. Elroy rubbed some of the tingling numbness out of his arms as he stalked deeper into the apartment. It stank. Not like anything in particular, but just like... neglect. There was a certain, stagnant quality that the air took on in confined spaces when the contents inside were left to squallor for too long. Even without active rot, there was just something... missing. No movement to stir the dust, no fresh air blowing in through door and windows from comings and goings. The air tasted stale.

"Less." He called, turning to peer into the kitchen before looking further in, headed towards the bedroom. Quietly, he repeated in his head.
'Don't be dead, you bastard. I'm not in the mood to find another body. So don't be dead. I can't take care of your damn dog, she'll bite me.' As he reached the bedroom door, he took a breath, holding it in as he pushed it open.
"Less?"

He was there, on the bed, not hanging from the ceiling. That was a start. There was no stink of blood, no red splatter against a wall, so odor of rot. That boded well. The alchemist was curled up on his bed, unmoving. Who knew how long he'd been there. Roy stood still for a moment, but finally let out the breath he'd been holding when he saw the slight rise and fall of the younger mans sides. He sighed, crossing over to stand in front of him before kneeling down to peer at him. It was hard to believe that Lester was a full decade younger than him.
"Less. How long have you been like this?"

 

[Lavvy]

• Y U N O xxt h e xx w e r e w o l f
  location --Thrift Shop Delights fighting arenaxx mood --hangryxx company --Just his opponent in the ringxx
  
  142652
  
  
  Tacks was pleased to see someone was finally taking the bait. He twitched an eyebrow, however, when he saw that the movement originated from the ranks of a few Ghost gang members. He nervously tugged on his collar. Tacks dealings with the gangs of the city in the past had ended... less than amicably. These days he mostly relied on no one noticing him. So he was relieved to see the gang member who was approaching him was... less than intimidating, to say the least. And, judging by the chiding way the others with him clicked their tongues and shook their heads at him, this brat was just some low grade underling. Good. That meant he was safe to wheel and deal. He exhaled softly and quirked his thin lips into a cruel grin as he listened to the boy, producing some miscellaneous drug fare and... what he assumed was a wallet. Chump change, and hardly worth his time. But the boys nerves were written plainly on his face. Tacks couldn't help but be reminded of himself, years ago when he'd been a young upstart. Just a normal, successful young lawyer, and not yet a gambling addicted fiend. He could have had a great life. Why deprive this kid, who clearly wasn't near so well off as he had been, to get his kicks too? Tacks laughed, loudly and obnoxiously, at the pitiful offering.
  "Sure sure, kid. I don't really feel right taking candy from a baby, but we all gotta learn sometime, right? Bet's on!" He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth when the queer character in the hoodie from before approached him as well. Upon closer inspection, this guy wasn't just some creeper here to get his rocks off to some bloodsport. He was also betting on Yuno, but his terms were... odd? Never own another slave again? That was... weird, and kinda steep. Just as Tacks was doubting that he had anything worth a risk like that, however minute, he opened his jacket to reveal... holy shit. At a glance, Tacks would guess just one of those necklaces could buy him a yacht. So all the gold and money on his person, he said? Hell, even if playboy here left his wallet at home, the jewelry was worth twice as much as one werewolf. His eyes widened taking in the display. After a moments consideration and a glance at the ring, he furrowed his brow and nodded seriously.
  "Deal, moneybags."
  He turned his eyes to the ring, where the fight had already begun. He saw Yuno, covered in sweat but struggling nonetheless. He sorely wished he was a psychic or something so he could silently send him the message to throw the match. It would make things worlds easier for the both of them. In any case, Tacks was hardly worried. One slave could only do so much, after all.
  
  While Tacks played his game up top, Yuno was having his own struggle down in the ring. With his back against the wall, literally, Yuno panted heavily, sweat rolling down his back and stinging at the wound on his shoulder, which burned in angry protest. At this rate, the angry gorilla closing in on him was going to pummel him into the dust. His chest heaved and his eyes darted back and forth. Kakuzu had left him no openings... so he would have to make one. Yuno lunged straight at him, making a desperate swipe for his face. Reflexively, the fighter leaned back, away from the blow and halting his advance. Kakuzu launched a fist at the same moment. Yuno didn't have time to escape, the the blow caught him square in the jaw. The force of the impact sent him flying across the arena, tumbling through the dust before skidding to a halt laying face down. The rolling had torn open his previous wound, which now bled bright red blood freely, seeping into the dirt floor. Topside, Tacks grinned wickedly. Yuno shakily moved his arms, pushing himself off of the ground slowly. He paused for a moment, turning his head and spitting blood from his mouth. Kakuzu took his time, slowly, terrifyingly advancing towards him. But despite how slowly and shakily he had moved getting up, Yuno suddenly crouched and darted towards him, keeping his body low, moving shockingly fast. Kakuzu was clearly taken aback as Yuno lunged at one thick left leg. His palms collided forcefully with the kneecap, sending the gorilla staggering back to try and lessen the blow. Kakuzu slammed a massive fist down, and Yuno dodged to the right, jumping away and then kicking against the ground to spring right back, this time aiming for his right knee. Kakuzu saw it coming this time, and quickly jumped back, yanking his leg out from the line of fire, but Yuno got what he was looking for; he smelled fear, if only for a moment.
  
  Yuno retreated back, crouching and keeping his eyes on Kakuzu as the fighter flared his nostrils and bared his long, vicious teeth. In Yunos career of fighting, he had learned a vast array of tricks, and one common fallback was this - any veteran fighter has a leg injury. Anyone who had been at it for more than a year or two had a kneecap busted, a femur fractured, a hip twisted, something. If they were still in it they would have healed well enough, but any good joint injury would always be a sore spot,and many fighters would compensate their style to shield that weaker limb. Yuno now used this to his advantage and locked his eyes onto his target; right leg. He lunged again, feigning right and then darting to the left as Kakuzu brought his fist down. He made a passing kick, stomping on Kakuzus left foot and feeling the satisfying crunch of small bones underneath. The gorilla howled spinning to try and grab Yuno as the werewolf twisted behind him and aimed another savage kick to the back of his right knee. The consecutive blows brought the veteran fighter down to his knees. Seeing his opportunity, Yuno seized the chance and leapt onto Kakuzus back. He wrapped his long, lithe legs around the gorillas neck, grabbed his skull with his arms, and started squeezing his thighs as hard as he could. Kakuzu pounded the ground, feebly grasping at Yunos legs in a vain attempt to pry them from his neck. Yuno kept his legs locked and felt his opponents strength fleeing underneath him. Tacks started viciously swearing at Yuno under his breath. They were both certain Yunos victory was secure, for a moment. But then, Kakuzu suddenly reached up and grabbed Yuno by his bad shoulder. Yuno hissed, but kept his legs locked in place, until Kakuzu dug his thick fingers into the weeping wound and yanked upward. Yuno yelped loudly, releasing his grip lest his arm be torn off at the shoulderblade. Kakuzu flung the werewolf like a rag doll, across the stadium once again, this time sending him colliding with one of the walls. The wall thundered and rattled at the impact, and there was a splatter of blood left on it when Yuno fell away and collapsed onto the ground. The crowds roared, gasping and cheering. Kakuzu grunted as he limped to where Yunos limp body lay. Yunos muscles twitched and spasmed, and his back was all red and brown, slick and sticky with blood and dirt and the mud made from their mingling.
  
  It seemed fairly evident that Yuno was unconscious, and Tacks allowed himself a sigh of relief. Yuno was such a tenacious fighter, under normal circumstances he wouldn't have bet against him, even against a monster like Kakuzu. But Tacks had known all along that the shoulder wound would be his undoing. It was like walking around with a target painted on you. Tacks grinned, drumming his lingers along the railing in front of him, and allowing himself a brief, cocky grin at the rich kid and the Ghost druggie. They were both such greenhorns, it was really to be expected. He just hoped that moneybags didn't try and throw a hissy fit when he tried to get his winnings from him.
  
  On the ground floor, Kakuzu reached Yuno, still struggling with balancing himself, with his left foot broken and his right knee bruised. He growled, reaching down a grabbing a fistfull of dreadlocks. Yuno made no move to resist, and remained limp as the gorilla held him up by his hair. He cocked a fist back readying a finishing blow, when Yunos eyes snapped open. He reached above his head, grabbing the big fist holding him to steady himself, picked his feet up off the ground, swung, and piledrove his entire weight into Kakuzus right knee. Once again, he felt a gratifying crack as the blow hit. Kakuzu roared, stumbling back and falling with a colossal thud. Yuno was on him in an instant, showering Kakuzus skull with a flurry of kicks. He kicked his jaw, his temple, his crown, stomped on his face, repeating over and over. Blood spattered and teeth flew this way and that. Yuno was furious, kicking his face from one side to another even as the fighter shifted back into his human shape and tried to shield his head with his arms, succeeding only in earning a broken forearm as well. Kakuzu managed to shout something recognizable as "I Yield!" Yuno hesitated, scowled, and then gave him one more solid kick to the ear before stepping off of him for the cleanup crew to come retrieve. Kakuzus face was a bloody, toothless, yellow and purple mess of rapidly swelling flesh. Yuno spat on him as he turned away, holding onto his wounded shoulder as the cleanup crew for him ushered him out of the ring, and into the hands of the capable medics waiting in the slave quarters. Everyone knew that no caim would touch a ring fighter with a ten foot pole.
  
  The stands had filled with uproarious cheers and applause when Yuno brought Kakuzu down. It was a thrilling match, and a close one; just the kind that the crowds adored. Fights like this were what made Yuno such a valuable fighter; he could really rile up a crowd. And Tacks had just lost him. His mouth hung agape as the fighters exited the arena, one on a stretcher and the other on his own feet. Tacks tried to convince himself that what he was seeing wasn't the truth - it was some kind of mixup, a trick of the eyes or something, but no. Yuno had just fought and won his fourth fight, and Tacks had lost the bets. Not only would he not touch an ounce of that wildly tacky and equally wildly expensive jewelry from the out of place rich boy, but some, some random.. some street punk was going to walk off with one of his best fighters! He slowly turned to face the two young men, mouth still open and struggling to find words to say.
  "I, uh, I can't.... that.... I mean you can't really.... that...I-I..." He rubbed the back of his neck, mind racing. There had to be a loophole, right? A way to not lose completely?? He glanced behind the street kid. He saw Ghost gang members, some sitting stoic, and others hooping and cheering, still wound up from the come-from-behind victory. But they had all watched the bets being placed. Even if this kid had no rank, there's no way all of these guys would stand by and let Tacks brush him off without paying what he owed. So he had to face the fact that Yuno was gone from him. As for the rich kid... his eyes flicked over the ornaments covering his chest and fingers and sighed sadly. No, he hadn't made any specifications, just blindly agreed to his terms, too excited at the sight of such wealth so close. As for the never owning slaves bit, well, he'd really never intended to lose much there anyway. As far as the official tallys held, he didn't own any slaves. Still, watching those winnings slip from his grasp... it was painful. He felt like he could cry.
  
  
  Shortly after the match ended, and the next round had started, Yuno came up into the spectators stands, directed by one of the attendants. His right arm was in a sling, with his right shoulder completely wrapped up and padded. Another wrapping was wound around his head, with gauze on the back of his skull. He was covered in small scratches and bruises, but the dirt, grime, and blood had all been rinsed and washed from him, so he was mostly put together enough. although he was clearly in a terrible mood, he still smirked when he walked up to Tacks. He knew that Tacks hadn't expected him to win that last match, so he took smug satisfaction in the ruffled face that his master made at him. By the look of it, he'd bet against him again. It really annoyed Yuno that he would play this game, fighting him until he was worn out and then betting against him. It was a cheap trick, it got Yuno beat up, and most people were too smart to fall for such an obvious play (although he still got people gambling with him, so he supposed some people were dumb enough to fall for it). He sneered at his master, but Tacks looked even more unhappy than usual, and he had an oddly... guilty look on his face, like he was about to tell Yuno something he didn't want to hear. He stopped smiling.
  "...What?"

 

[Lavvy]

• As Ava wrapped up her battle, she turned back to find her other two companions already engaged in fights of their own. Huh. Did munna usually travel in packs? She narrowed her eyes, watching each of them closely, analyzing their techniques. They were obviously amateurs (she thought this as if she herself wasn't a rookie trainer), and their fights seemed rather clumsy. Still, Calla managed to utilize what type advantage she did have against the round psychic. Nidoran really was a good all-around pokemon. A very balanced and hardy starter. Unlike... she glanced down at the Tynamo in her hand, who wiggled happily even at that minute amount of attention. Maybe she should have gone with Elekid. Not as much of a utility in the longrun, but more immediately useful and would still grow into a powerhouse. Mitey wouldn't be truly useful for a long time yet - he had a heck of a way to go before he got close to evolving. And even then, Ava would need to get her hands on a thunder stone to bring out his full potential. She tugged out his pokeball, and the tiny fish pokemon managed to look... distinctly disappointed as she withdrew him again. He disappeared in a flash of red light just as Kaname was wrapping up her battle.
  
  Ava watched, wide-eyed, as she scooped up a bit of the glittering plume that the munna emitted. Shit, she'd completely forgotten about trying to get the mist from the munna. Maybe they only emitted it when defeated. Damn, and here she'd gone and caught hers. Still, maybe it was for the best. She couldn't be waiting on Mitey and an egg. Even if munna wasn't her first choice for a psychic type, it gave her a good special attacker pokemon while she waited on Mitey to grow. Tauros would do for a passable physical attacker, until she found something more suitable. Next she would just need a wall, and then she could focus on fine tuning her base team and building from there. Although, admittedly, she had failed to factor in just how difficult real world pokemon capturing could be. And, unbeknownst to Ava, there were many other factors that she hadn't considered, which would no doubt come back to bite her. Like training her pokemon, or how to bond with them, and what a difference that would make. She had a lot to learn, but for the moment, she viewed her pokemon as tools, pieces on a chess board.
  
  She watched with cool eyes as Calla finished up her battle, falling back as the wild pokemon rushed her. It was a little startling, but the other girl seemed to be all right, so Ava didn't exactly leap to her aid. Kanames battle had ended in the plume of glittering mist, although Ava sincerely questioned the girls choice to battle with a baby togepi against a munna. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about it for the moment. The three converged, and Ava idly rested a hand on Ramses' side. He mooed.
  "Mmhmmm. I guess my dislike of psychic pokemon came in handy! You wanna see it?”
  She squinted, leaning forward to peer at the strange, shimmering substance in the vial. It was... oddly hypnotic, in a way. She made a soft sound before leaning back and away again, resting her shoulder against the thick scruff of fur around Ramses' neck and shoulders.
  ”I hope that Munna doesn’t tell the others how horrible I was, heh.” Ava silently doubted that would be the case, but then, she realized that she knew very little about pokemon behavior. Huh. Learning about that might help in the long term...She knew some grim facts about ariados, and scattered facts about random pokemon here and there, but very little solid information.
  ""Don’t worry, Calla! I’m sure you’ll have more chances to get a strong pokemon. I’ll help you, okay? And I’m sure Ava will help you too! We can totes beat any of the pokemon coming our way!” As the peppy girl hooked her arm through Avas, pulling her closer, she made a short, disgusted sound, immediately yanking back. She really didn't like being touched so casually by someone she barely knew. She drew decidedly back, folding her arms over her chest and frowning.
  "Could we not do that?" She said coldly before turning away, hefting herself up and onto her tauros' back again. She really hated walking, so she would avoid it as much as she could with Ramses' help. "As for helping, about the only thing I can do is tell you which pokemon are useless and which ones are worth their salt. I'm not exactly rocking a stellar lineup right now." Quite done with talking and being touched, Ava kicked Ramses' sides, spurring the pokemon to trot forward and ahead of the other girls. She knew that her reaction probably could have been less severe - they were only trying to be friends, after all. But Ava was new to this, and tended to communicate... poorly. She dropped her eyes down, curling her fingers in Ramses thick mane. Should... she say something else to them?
  
  She didn't get far at all before a sudden, loud flapping noise caught her attention. She looked up just in time to get a face full of bat. Ava shrieked, bringing her arms up to block her face as a swarm of bat pokemon blew past and around her, occasionally bapping her with their wings as they gushed past. Ramses, bless his heart, was only mildly startled, taking a couple steps back rather than losing his mind, as most tauros would. Ava flailed her arms, trying to shoo the swarm away from her face. It worked for most of the zubat, screeching as they disappeared into the evening mist. There was an exception, however. Something furry and heavy smacked right into Avas face, despite her flailing. She nearly fell off of her tauros. She flung the thing away from her, flailing.
  "Augh-!" Still holding her arms out in front of her, she finally looked up to get a look at what had hit her. The purple, fuzzy pokemon spun a bit in the air before righting itself, flapping leathery wings and staring at Ava with big eyes and even bigger ears. She recognized the bat pokemon as a noibat - a dragon type. Now that she thought about it, Professor Pine hadspecified that she was supposed to catch, train, and evolve a dragon. Awfully good luck to run into one so early on... even if it had been a little more literal than she would have liked. Withdrawing the same pokeball as before, she released Mitey - the tiny electric fish needed all the battle experience he could get. Mitey hopped out excitedly, already eager to rush the bat. The noibat seemed amused, flying around in little circles around the tynamo before its ears started to vibrate. The screeching sound made Ava yelp, clamping her hands over her ears. Ramses lowed loudly, rearing back and dumping Ava off of his back as he shook his head. The trainer landed with a resounding thud, ears pounding as she stood and shook herself off. In front of her and Ramses, Mitey cooed softly, twirling in circles, clearly very confused and dazed. Ava swore, straightening up and not bothering trying to calm Ramses down, for the moment. Instead she focused on Mitey and his battle.
  "C'mon, Mitey, snap out of it! Use charge beam on it!" The little fish cooed again, confidantly launching a dazzling charge beam... in the completely wrong direction. It merely hit a piece of brush, which fell and bopped him on the head. If anything, he seemed even more startled and confused. The noibat batted its wings harder and harder then, generating a small gust of wind. It was more than enough to knock the tiny fish back, damaging him further. Ava fumbled, tugging out a pokeball quickly. Maybe she could just catch it and end it quickly. She tossed the pokeball, which fell laughably short of the little pokemon, rolling off into the grass. The noibat actually followed it with its eyes and... seemed to laugh. She turned bright red.
  "Ugh-! Shut up, you-!!" She shook an angry fist, which only made the dragon bat laugh more.
  
  In the meantime Ramses, startled and seeking comfort, turned tail and ran when Ava didn't comfort him, instead running back to Kaname and Calla, trying to hide his hulking frame behind the two of them. Ava took the noibats laughter as an opportunity, pointing a finger,
  "Mitey, now!" The tiny fish was still very confused, but spun over and fired off another charge beam, and this time he hit his mark. The bright beam hit one broad ear, making the little bat squeal in dismay. Ava was ready this time, aiming a second pokeball and lobbing it at the noibat. It disappeared in a flash of light, the pokeball plopping onto the grass to shake a couple of times before finally clicking shut. Ava sighed in relief, scooping it up and pocketing it before turning back to Mitey. The little pokemon was still making occasional cooing noises, circling and spinning over and over itself in the air. Ava scooped the writhing fish up, watching its confused motions. "Geez, are you okay...?" She glanced around, looking for Ramses before spotting him still hiding behind Calla and Kaname. Ava glanced away, embarrassed, still holding her confused fish in one hand.
  "Oh. Uh.... sorry, I guess. About him."
  
  █ location▸Dreamyard █ mood▸Flustered█ company▸Reina & Kaname

 

[Lavvy]

I R O N S I D E
------------------------------------
xxxxxxxCassius Brutus


The embarrassing truth was that Ironside was lost.

Terminus had warned him over and over again - stay away from the slums. It was the kind of place where young wannabe heroes vanished, and their bodies were never recovered. The anti-hero (and anti-law enforcement) mentality there was near cultish, to the point that simply existing there as a hero was enough of an invite for a very violent end from the bloodthirsty gangs that ran the territory. He respected and trusted his mentor, so despite his relative faith in his own training and abilities, he had intended to avoid the hotbead of violence altogether. However, his teacher had also pointed out a primary flaw of Ironside's repeatedly - he was single minded. He'd tried to work on it, but the hero was still young, still learning. He tended to get completely wrapped up in what he was doing, to the point that he would ignore his circumstances or surroundings (Terminus had backed his apprentice up and over small separators and flower pots many times during their practice sessions). This particular failing had come back to haunt him once again. The young D-Class hero had been on the tail of a petty assaulter making a bolt for it, and he'd been so desperate to catch him. He'd though that aiding in ten crimes would be easily accomplished within the space of a year - not so. Between law enforcement being reluctant (or sometimes outright refusing) to cooperate with him and write his credits out, successes when no one was around to document it, losing targets to other nearby heroes, and general mishaps, his progress had been agonizingly slow. But catching a bolting suspect fleeing from a scene would be something concrete and irrefutable - a definitive tally mark to add to his ladder-climbing.

But that scrawny little shit had bolted into the Slums, of all places. And Ironside had been so intent on making sure he didn't lose the suspect, he lost himself instead. They were already well into the thick of the slums before Cass found himself dodging the sharp, low-hanging edges of rusted tin roofs on short ramshackle shacks and he realized where he was. It was fortunate that he did, and pulled himself to a stop, letting the suspect disappear into the tangle of slumping makeshift houses and winding dirt and gravel paths. If he hadn't, he likely would have been lead right into the thick of gang infested territory, where he'd likely have been ganged up on and taken down. Permanently. He swore quietly, quickly turning his head this way and that. He needed to get out of there, and fast - D heroes didn't last long in the slums, even with body armor under his leather clothes. Plus, he was only armed with his escrima and a taser. Not exactly a thrilling arsenal, especially with no powers to level the playing field. He did his best to discern the direction he had come from - which was difficult, given how many twists and turns he had taken. He started off quickly, trying to navigate his way through the leaning mazes of makeshift dens when a gunshot suddenly seized his attention. It rang loud and clear, not very far from him at all. What he needed was to get out a.s.a.p., but someone shooting a gun usually meant that someone else was being shot at. And at the end of the day, a hero had one job - the job that the first 'heroes' had devoted themselves to - protecting people. It was why civilians had insisted on enstating them legally in the first place. Terminus had reminded him of it frequently. Granted, the old hero had also reminded him repeatedly not to get over his head, and he couldn't save others if he didn't save himself, but that was out the window as he turned on his heel, bolting towards the source of the shot.

It only took three turns before he skidded to a halt, stopping at the sight of three men on the ground and one standing, literally holding a smoking gun. There was a flicker of movement in the corner of Ironside's vision - the blur of someone else fleeing - but he zeroed in on the four in front of him. Two were on the ground in obvious pain, momentarily incapacitated. The third, the shooter, faced the fourth, a young man who looked like a thrift-store throwaway pile in bright tacky colors. But the poor fashion choices weren't of any concern at all, next to the dark pooling of dark red blood that was starting to seep through the bright, cheery colors. Ironside couldn't see the shooters face, since he was standing behind him. If he was going to strike, it needed to be right then, before the men on the ground alerted the shooter. So, without hesitation, Ironside lunged forward, escrima in hand, bolting past the men on the ground and swinging one stick in a wide arc. He felt the firm, reverberating crack as it made contact with the back of the shooters head. It actually made Ironside wince a little bit, hoping he hadn't cracked the mans skull or caused a brain hemmorage. Suspect death - even accidental - was a sure way to get his license permanently revoked. Unlike his mentor, Ironside didn't have enough sway to get away with criminal brutality. Yet. In either case, the shooters grasp on his weapon went limp... as did the rest of him. He crumpled to the ground like a puppet with the strings cut, collapsing into a boneless heap.

Ironside paused, looking at the three slummers on the ground. The shooter was unconscious now, but the other two were already trying to regain their footing. For a moment, the young hero panicked. What should he do? did he need to run, or try to fight? He glanced over his shoulder at the shooting victim - shit, he was bleeding fast - and then back. He did some quick mental math, and then quickly turned, kneeling down in front of the multi-colored mess.
"Sorry about this-!" He apologized, voice a little panicked as he quickly hefted the male into his arms, holding him against his chest as he bolted, fast as he could, away.

This could have looked like anything. After all, as a D-Class hero, Ironside didn't have a distinct outfit. He was clad as usual - all leather to conceal his body armor, a biker helmet on his head with a heavily tinted visor, gloves, and his belt with holsters for his escrima. He could have been anyone kidnapping this injured boy to do who knew what with. Still, the victim had to realize that it was a step up from being shot. Still, the young hero felt the need to explain himself briefly to the bleeding victim in his arms. He told himself that it was to give the guy something other than the pain of the wound to focus on. The truth was closer to it being a coping mechanism for himself, to help deal with the panic. He wasn't used to dealing with cases of people actually being severely injured.
"My name is Ironside, I'm a hero-" Honestly, that was probably a bad idea to tell this stranger. They were still in the slums, and wound aside, he was covering up his face with a bandanna. The shooting had likely been some gang dispute that Ironside had interrupted. This guy might pull a shiv or something on him just for admitting that he was a hero in the heart of the slums. But - again - he was panicked. "I'm gonna get you out of here and to a hospital, okay??" He almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself it was true, skidding to a halt and looking left and right. He didn't realize that, by running around in a panic, he was attracting more unsavory eyes. It was like flailing in shark-infested waters.
"You uh, don't know which way 'out of here' would be, do you??"

█ location▸The Slums █ mood▸Mild panic █ company▸A Fashion disaster tbh