Realistic or Modern Of Men Made Gods

[Vudukudu]

Andrew's eyes slowly surveyed the scene. No signs of forced entry, scans had detected no fingerprints, gunpowder residue, nothing distinctly unnatural, no irregular energy signatures. Nothing.


Nothing except the body of John Mandellus, a White Lister. Andrew had added him to the White List two years ago, having come across him in a warehouse, manipulating electrical current. He'd been the first superhuman Andrew had interacted with up close; they had been good friends. When he was in town, they'd get coffee together. John ordered a mocha, he a regular, black coffee. Chilean blend.


Now, he was dead. On-site autopsy revealed nothing of interest; no bullet wounds, no signs of cardiac arrest, not a stroke, not an aneurysm, no fractures, blunt force trauma, burns, lacerations, nothing but an odd, vibrant redness to the capillaries in his eyes. It clashed brightly with his fading, electric blue eyes. There used to be so much light in them. He thumbed the transmit button on his earpiece.


"Eagle, this is Mother Robin. An egg has fallen from the nest. Third one in two weeks. How respond?"


There were a brief few seconds of silence on the line before a tired sounding woman answered. "Mother Robin, secure eggs and abandon the nest. Relocate to the Villa. How copy?"


Andrew groaned audibly, earning a few curious glances from the GSD crime scene staff around him. Command had just sent out the most worrying order he could receive in a time like this. His entire roster would have to be rounded up and moved to the Villa, a secure base on the Lake front. With three of his assigned roster dead, that meant a few were still unaccounted for: Alex Thomason, Roger Cannon, and Fletcher Deaton. A few thumb taps on his PDA sent out a pre-typed email to each of them, as well as a text message and automated voice message. Each presented the same message -


GSD Operative Andrew Oliver has put out a level 18 alert. Pack a bag with anything you'll need to go underground for three months. Messages have already been distributed to your employers, family, and friends. Do not attempt to contact any of them. Within 30 minutes, a blue taxi will reach your home address. Board it with your belongings. This is not a drill; this alert has been sent out as a response to multiple murders in your locale. Do not reply.





It was the exact sort of message he'd hoped would never be sent out, because it meant two things; someone out there was killing his people, and there was nothing else he could do to keep them safe.


@Darth Bambi @Crow Cadaver

 

[Crow Cadaver]

Hot water poured down from the shower head, and Fletch stepped into the stream. He didn't start washing he just stood there, letting the heat seep into his skin. He needed to wake up because he had work orders in for this morning, but his brain seemed determined to stay asleep. That didn't bother him too much because with his brain remaining asleep he wasn't assaulted by the voices. Five minutes passed, then ten. The water temperature started to drop very quickly.


"I swear, if you don't heat my water back up I'm going to replace you," he yelled out to the water heater. There was a moment when he thought he would have to jump out of the shower before it got any colder, but then the temperature shot the other direction. The once hot water had become scalding. He jumped out of the shower. He shut the water off and grabbed a towel, "What did I do to you?"


He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one. The water heater had an unusual personality in that way.


He brushed his teeth. He ran a hand over his scruffy face; he considered shaving, but he had already showered. He decided it wasn't worth the hassle. Then, before he left he bathroom, he grabbed a couple of prescription strength ibuprofen and washed them down with a gulp of water from the sink. The voices whispered and tickled at his brain, but he ignored them as best he could. Ibuprofen was his safe bet on keeping the voices calm. The more they whispered the more of a headache, the more of a headache the more he stressed, and the more he stressed the louder the voices grew because he couldn't shut them out. A vicious cycle that never ended. He had tried anti-psychotics, but they messed with his head. Depression with never ending voices had caused him to consider dark things, and he never wanted to be in that deep again.


After getting dressed and eating a poptart, Fletch grabbed his coat, keys, and phone. He made it to the door when his phone vibrated to alert him of an email.


Message - the phone whispered.


"Yeah, I know. What's it say?" he asked, stuffing his keys and phone in his pockets. He walked out the door, and then the phone whispered the contents of the message into his head. He sighed. He opened his door and went back inside.


The GSD rarely messaged him. Thee first time had been right after his... his mistake. He stood just inside the door of his small out on the grounds of an apartment complex and contemplated his options. He considered running before anything else. The GSD scared him a little bit. They had been intense when he had met them, but the circumstances had been unfavorable. The message also said that people had been murdered. Running meant that he would be on his own which he favored, but not when someone was looking to stick a knife in his back.


He marched down the hall and grabbed his bag. He threw clothes, toiletries, and electronics into the bag. He dragged it to the living room. He waited, still going back and forth between running and doing as he was told. He hated that phrase, 'doing what he was told.' It left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd been on his own since eighteen, he didn't need a babysitter.


The blue taxi arrived, just as the message had said.


"I hate staying in new places," Fletch cursed under his breath.


He shut and locked his door, then boarded the taxi.

 

[Darth Bambi]

Alex felt like throwing his phone against the wall.


A level 18 alert.


A level 18 "Forget your life. You're going to be living out of a suitcase for the foreseeable future" alert.


Damn it, he just came off an undercover assignment. He needed time to unwind, to let go of his Ed Manning persona, calm his nerves and be himself again. The stresses of working for The Crab these last few months had been difficult, to say the least. Rather, the stresses of working for The Crab, with his notorious penchant for killing random underlings whenever things didn't go his way or just whenever he felt the whim take him, had been difficult.


Three months stuck with that freak, dodging his anger while gathering information on his operations. Every day had been a challenge not to be beheaded. And it had all been pointless in the end. Some of the evidence had been "lost" by the DA's office, meaning that The Crab was likely not even going to go to prison. And, even if he does, he won't be in for long. The only good thing to come out of Alex's work was that he had managed to deflect some of his rage onto Shiny Boy Jones and Mercer, two of his lieutenants who were known but unproven rapists and murderers. They had been his most competent men before he killed them, and had kept his organization afloat. It was going to be a long time before he could replace them.


Wishing he could have a good stiff drink to steady his nerves, Alex grabbed his go-bag out of the closet and checked the apartment to make sure everything was in order. Naturally, it was. He didn't get to spend enough time here for anything to get out of order. Hell, he wasn't here enough for the place to even look properly lived in. Anything personal and important to him he kept at his parent's place where it would be safe it something happened. The things here were just things, nice to have but replaceable.


Alex gave a mental sigh, turned off the lights, and locked up, thinking that it was a good thing for everybody that he loved his job so much.


Tally ho, as mom would say.

 

[Grin]

Outside of a church in Gary Indiana, two police officers question a haggard, balding man with a handlebar mustache. Behind them, the church's doors are completely gone, apparently blasted off. They lay, bent and warped, on the church's broad stairs.


"So let me get this straight, Mister Cannon" said the lead police officer, "You just happened to come by here and see three guys, with the poor boxes in a bag, laying on top of those doors?"


"Yeah," said Mr. Cannon, "That's right. Pretty sure it's obvious they were trying to rob the poor box. I'm not Detective Munch or anything, but seems pretty clear to me."


The officer rolled his eyes, not once looking away from his notepad. "We'll get back to that, sure. I'm more interested in the damage to the church right now. Never seen anything quite like it - a blast, but no burns. Couldn't have been from anything conventional. Looks to me like we got some sort of super freak running around."


Mr. Cannon frowned. "Let me get this straight," he retorted, "Three guys sneak into a church trying to rob poor people, and you geniuses are more concerned about some property damage? Call me old-fashioned, but I'd think you be more concerned about the actual criminals here!"


"Property damage is a crime, sir," says the police officer, "And the perp is still at large. Thanks for your time, we'll be in touch."


Bite me, thinks Mr. Cannon. The truth his, he didn't mean to blow the doors off the church, it was just a reflex. He was alone in the church, lonely and desperate, praying for a sign from God. He heard a commotion in the vestibule - banging sounds, to be precise. He investigated and saw three men trying to dislodge the poor boxes with crowbars.


Instinctively, he shouted "HEY!" as he rushed to stop them. The ensuing sonic blast blew the three men backwards and into the church door.


Screw these pigs, Mr. Cannon thought, they just don't get it. This country's going straight into Satan's slow-cooker, and these idiots are busy looking for more victims to throw into the soup. Mr. Cannon contemplates the scenario, wondering if this, in fact, WAS the sign from God he was asking for.


If that wasn't it, the following would most certainly qualify.



began to play on his phone; his ringtone for unknown numbers. Rolling his eyes, Mr. Cannon flipped open his Tracfone and pushed the green button. "Yeah?"
The voice on the other end spoke with calm military precision. "Roger Cannon. GSD Operative Andrew Oliver has put out a level 18 alert. Pack a bag with anything you'll need to go underground for three months. Messages have already been distributed to your employers, family, and friends. Do not attempt to contact any of them. Within 30 minutes, a blue taxi will reach your home address. Board it with your belongings. This is not a drill; this alert has been sent out as a response to multiple murders in your locale. Do not reply." Click.


Roger frowned as he folded his Tracfone shut. As badly as he wanted this to be a prank, he'd been involved with too much hush-hush BS in the Army to dismiss the tone and language of that message. It seems that after throwing him away and leaving him to die, His Government decided to take him back.


"Fan-freakin'-tastic," Roger muttered under his breath. Looks like his prayers were answered.


By the time Roger walked home, the blue cab was already waiting. Roger stalled the driver with a hand signal and ran upstairs to his dingy little apartment. It didn't take him long to pack; a few changes of civilian clothing, his toothbrush and razors, a couple cartons of cigarettes, and his black-and-white pirate themed hero's gimmick - the one he debated wearing even as he was making it, yet was suddenly relieved at the significance of its meaning.


Roger was not happy with his government right now, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to answer the call of service. Any purpose is better than no purpose, after all.


Roger tossed his bag into the blue trunk and climbed into the back. The privateer was thus commissioned. The time has come to fly the Jolly Roger.

 

[Lena]

Lori jumped as her phone buzzed, nearly dropping the nail polish brush was holding. A drop of the cherry-pink paint fell onto the tacky bed spread she was sitting on. She didn't care too much; the smell would evaporate by the time she went to bed, and she wasn't exactly trying to impress anyone, here. The message was more interesting. She didn't know who would be trying to get in contact with her. Maybe a telemarketer, or the fellow from the bus stop earlier... did she give him her number? Would it be rude that she didn't remember his name? Whatever. She wasn't that interested, and he had seemed clingy anyways.


She waved her hand in the air, fingers fanning to dry the nail polish she had already put on and picked the phone up, unlocking it quickly and pressing it to her ear. The voice she heard did not belong to the fellow from the bus stop. It didn't belong to a telemarketer, either. She listened to it once, then replayed it, stomach twisting into knots. GSD Operatives. Murders. In her locale. Fucking shit. This wasn't... this wasn't her life! She worked as a bartender, for fuck's sake. This couldn't be happening. Palms sweating, Lori ran a hand through her hair, managing to ruin her nail polish and hairstyle in one smooth move. Then she took a deep breath, counted to five in her head, and took a second to think about what that meant. She wondered, briefly, what her boss would think of her being called away like this... Hell, they had probably called her Dad, too, though it's been years since Lori had been in contact with him. Great, like she wasn't enough of a disappointment already.


Sighing, Lori stood, tossing the little things she actually cared about into her duffel bag. Her nails were a mess, and she didn't want to make a bad impression, here, but she left the least important for the last, keeping the nail polish remover handy as she packed everything else. She wondered how she still cared about something like her nails when things like this were happening, but, then again, you didn't have to be a mind reader to know that it was little things that made the overall impression. She checked that her suitcase had the things she wanted to have on her; her phone charger, her exercise clothing, a few changes of other clothing, her laptop, make up, four rolls of chapstick, three protein bars and the one suit she owned, just in case.


She knew that there were things scattered in the room she'd regret not taking later, but she saw the blue taxi pull up under her window as promised. No need to keep the government waiting. Grabbing her bag and purse, she pulled her boots on and then slipped quietly out of the building.

 

[Vudukudu]

The streets of Chicago abruptly filled with two hundred identical blue taxis, all bearing the exact same serial numbers and license plates. It was a rarely used protocol, meant to throw off any possible pursuers in the event that a GSD asset was in danger. Filling the streets with identical automobiles, each driven by a rookie agent with no information on the identity of the passengers. Four of these taxis were driven by veteran field agents, and these vehicles were the ones assigned to retrieve the persons of interest.


Andrew drew the morgue sheet over his friend, then left the pristine apartment in the care of the examiners. There was little else for him to do besides reach the Villa and wait, as well as re-familiarize himself with his List. He recalled each of their names, but he'd done most of his work with them secretly, opting to let them live out their own lives rather than confront them. He'd always preferred it that way; these people usually just wanted to be left alone. He hated shattering the illusion for them like this.


Once he reached the street level, he drew the keys to his motorcycle out of his pocket and straddled the leather seat, fumbling around behind him for his helmet. Two agents nearby gave him slight nods, affirming that their security detail had gone down without incident. He grinned and donned the helmet, framing his head in a sleek, red case. The last thing he heard was the screech of tires and a gunshot.


--------------------------------------------------


Agents Mori and Samson were stationed on the street corner outside Mandellus' apartment. Their SO, Agent Oliver, had just left the building. If he'd come out a minute earlier, he'd have caught them gossiping about him and his record. The man was something of a local legend, though none of the stories were based in reality.


The squeal of tires broke their silence. A white pick-up truck slammed into the car in front of Andrew's motorcycle, pinning him into his parking spot. A high-velocity round followed, cracking audibly above the noise of traffic from a window across the street. The bullet sheared off the chin of his helmet, deflected downwards, and bored a hole clean through the space between his neck and shoulder. He gasped as the torrent of blood erupted from his shoulder, then slumped off the side of his bike. The other agents were in place immediately, spraying rounds towards the shooter as they moved to secure Andrew.


Every GSD commlink in Chicago flared at once. "We have an Agent down on Cullom Street. Enemy sniper is in play, we need immediate medical support!"


Hands closed over Andrew's wound as his vision blurred, stemming the flood of crimson. Other agents arrived on the scene, moving to hunt down the sniper while a medical team began triage-style treatment on the sidewalk. Once he was stabilized, he was loaded into the back of an unmarked grey van and driven to the Villa, where a proper medical team could examine the injury.


Andrew was the first to reach the Villa. On-site, a surgical team extracted the bullet fragments from his chest, including a few that had gotten dangerously close to his heart. The hole was cleaned and stitched, and after an hour of touch-and-go surgery, he was awoken from his anesthesia-induced sleep. His left arm was in a sling to support the severed ligaments, and there was clear stitching around his left shoulder, but he was otherwise the picture of health. The doctors wheeled his bed out onto the Villa's front step, propped his bed up so he was sitting, and left him to await the taxis.

 

[Grin]

Roger's fingers tap nervously against the inside of the cab's door. "Mind if I smoke in here?"


"What, like cigarettes? Those filthy things kill, you know," responds the cabbie.


Roger growls out a low chuckle and responds, "Well, I guess we know which of you spooks didn't read my dossier."


"I was referring to my own health, Sargent," was the cabbie's curt reply. After an exasperated moment of awkward silence, the cabbie added, "We'll be to our destination in a minute. Can it wait?"


Good question, thinks Roger to himself. He never had a really good way of gauging his super-tumor's growth. For all he knew, he was a five-minute smoke break away from a swift withering death at any given moment. On the other hand, Roger knew that "benevolent meta-cancer" was his own cross to bear; no sense in making other people suffer for his affliction - even insufferable twerps like this cabbie. "It can wait ONE minute. Hopefully your ETAs are more on-point than your sense of humor."


"Har har, Mister Cannon," the driver replies.


Fifty-four seconds later, the cab's custom burst-proof tires crunch the gravel outside the Villa. Roger's left hand reaches for the door latch even as his right hand fishes a Pall Mall Full Flavor from his jeans pocket. As he shoulders his way out of the back-seat, his eyes meet the gaze of a bed-ridden man wearing a sling. With eyes firmly locked on the man, Roger places the cigarette in his mouth and lights up, never once breaking his gaze.


Roger hears a loud sigh behind him. "FYI, Mister Cannon, I'm not actually a cabbie. You still have to get your own bags from the trunk." Roger grunts, still not breaking his gaze. He maneuvers to the trunk, feels for his bag, and removes it. His thoughts race while staring at the bed-ridden man. His face is familiar, Roger thinks, but from where?


After a few more seconds, someone next to the bed-ridden man waves for Roger to come closer. Roger holds up the hand containing his still-lit cigarette. The person makes an "OK" sign and then repeats his wave-in. Roger exhales a plume of blue-white smoke from his nose and shrugs. "Guess that's my cue."

 

[Crow Cadaver]

He grabbed the handle of his bag with one hand and the "oh-shit" handle of the door with the other. The only thing keeping him from flying from one end of the car to the other with some of the turns the GSD cabby made was the seat belt he had on. The voices that Fletch heard told him that the car was greatly enjoying the stretch of its underused muscle, but the seat belt seemed to be worried it wouldn't hold up to the strain.


"Where did they hire you from?" Fletch asked, leaning forward during one of the few moments on a straight shot. "Aren't you supposed to at least make sure your fare gets to the destination in one piece?"


"Tactical driving maneuvers are used to reveal and lose tails," the cab driver responded dryly.


"What?" Fletcher demanded, not catching the full understanding because the driver had taken another quick turn.


"I'm making sure that someone isn't following us to The Villa," the driver explained.


"You work for GSD? A cabby works for GSD?"


"I'm Agent Goldman," he answered. He threw a look back at Fletch in the rearview mirror, and smiled.


"Were you a NASCAR operator at one point?" Fletch yelped during another turn, and the agent laughed heartily.


"If only! I worked the President's motorcade."


"I'm sure he felt safe, also explains why he was so thin," Goldman asked, his eyebrows near his hairline in the mirror.


"Throwing up every few minutes would help anyone lose weight," was the short response.


"Well, throw up outside of the car," the agent said with a laugh. The car slowed and pulled up behind a second blue taxi. A man with a handlebar mustache and what appeared to be another GSD agent stood at the rear of the car. Mustache had a bag in hand and was walking toward a man laid up in what appeared to be a hospital bed. The agent threw the car into park, turned in his seat, and smiled, "Next time you need a ride, let me know. Grab your bag and head inside."


Fletch unbuckled, shoved open the door, and got out before Goldman changed his mind and wanted to take him for another spin around the block. He eyed the mustached man as he walked up the stairs. He knew he wasn't going to be the only one here, but he had still hoped that he wouldn't have to be cooped up with others. The little hope he'd kept had just washed away. He walked up the stairs toward the man on the bed, and shook his head.

 

[Lena]

Lori held onto her bag a little too tightly as she climbed into the blue taxi. It smelled weirdly new despite not seeming that way from the outside, and she couldn't pick much trace of emotion up when she ran her hands over the leather of the seat. They were already driving by the point that she realized that the man driving was no cabbie; his intent filled the air in front of her, telling a different story. There was a lot more motivation than she generally picked up from people, and she had to resist the urge to crack open a window. Lori couldn't be entirely sure, but she'd guess that he was an operative. She knew he was not here to hurt her, at least, and relaxed a little, having no idea how long the ride would be.


"Lovely night, isn't it?" Came the voice of the man who was not a taxi driver. They felt layered, and there was a note of amusement in his voice. She had been too distracted to pick any extra meaning from him as he had spoken, and she mentally pinched herself.


"Uh, yes?" She tried, unsure what kind of response was expected from her. As far as she was concerned, the night wasn't particularly lovely, but despite knowing his intent, she found herself a little wary of this man. He seemed like he could kill her with one hand tied behind his back. She could see the outline of a concealed gun on him, too, when she looked, and, after all, she was stuck in the car with him. Wait, was she? Very carefully, when they slowed to a stop at a red light, Lori checked to see, finding the door locked. She could feel that he had noticed her trying the door handle, and picked up on a few conclusions he had made about her, but when he didn't comment on it, neither did she.


It was about a half hour of rather careless driving after that before they arrived at the destination. Lori was glad to be there; in the last while, as the silence intensified, and she felt skittish by now.


"Thanks," She muttered, grabbing her duffle, checking that she had her purse, and slipping out of the car. She could see that the blue taxi stayed in place as she walked up to her destination, and she walked just a little faster, taking notice of two men ahead of her. She could pick up the annoyance of the younger one, and the questions swimming in the head of the older one with the mustache. She tried to distance herself best she could, figuring that it would be very easily to learn something she didn't want to know, here.

 

[Vudukudu]

(To keep the pace Im going to bunny Bambi to the Villa.)


Andrew's charges arrived in near unison, the four unloading from the taxis. Each had a bag with them, something that brought a faint grin to his lips. The last time he'd run something like this, someone had been caught unready and had showed up with nothing. They'd become close friends, but she was gone now.


He coughed into his uninjured hand, then flashed his usual, confident smile. "Alex, Fletch, Lori, its nice to see you again." He said, turning his head to look at Cannon. "I'd shake, but I seem to have lost the use of my arm. Nice to meet you, Mr. Cannon, though I wish it were under better circumstances." He added, wearily laying his head back onto the pillow. He gripped a small joystick on the side of the bed, pulling it towards himself and waving for them to follow. The bed slowly rolled backwards towards the open doors, into the hall.


He maintained an air of amicability, and could not have sounded more casual. "First, I would like to apologize. I wish it hadn't come to this, and I promise, we are doing everything in our power to resolve the situation. As far as your family and friends know, you were caught in a car accident this morning and received severe burn wounds. You're being flown to Israel to see the world's greatest cosmetic surgeon, and you're being kept in an environmentally sealed bubble to avoid contact with any bacteria which may infect your wounds. You'll be home at.. well, an uncertain date, looking good as new." He explained, lazily guiding the cart into the veranda.


"And.. I suppose an introduction is in order. You three have met me before, though I won't be offended if you don't remember. Mr. Cannon, I'm Andrew Oliver, a GSD Operative. I'm your handler. I've been hanging around, keeping an eye on you guys and making sure the wrong sort of people don't find you. You're all here today because someone has been targeting folks like you, as well as my staff, and earlier, went after me personally. This is the safest place on Earth, and I promise you'll be well looked after by Agents John Thomas, Sarah Locutio, Maribeth Hayes, and Michael Hamm. I will personally be on the hunt for the people responsible, and have you home within the week." He continued, occasionally coughing and wheezing. His lungs were still recovering, evidently.


"Thank you in advance for your cooperation, please direct any questions you have to me, and get comfortable. There are bedrooms upstairs. One of my agents will be around to collect your cell phones and any computers you may be carrying to insure you cannot be traced back to here through any communications activity. Any concerns?"

 

[Grin]

(( TAG: @Vudukudu @Lena ))


"Several," retorts Roger, "But this isn't my first rodeo, and you guys definitely aren't bog-standard spooks, so I'm not gonna do anything about it. For now at least."


Before Andrew can respond, Roger whips out his Tracfone and yanks the battery, then tears it in half. "Oh, and those phony messages to loved ones? I'll assume you were talking to the group. At least I hope you were." Roger drops the shattered bits onto a nearby table. "Just in case though, if you sent messages to anyone other than my dingbat landlady, they're probably not on the up-and-up."


Roger clears his throat and looks at the rest of the group. "Nice meeting you all," he says, "If anyone finds out where they're keeping the beer, give me a holler. I'm gonna stow my stuff and find a place to smoke."


Roger grabs his bag and walks towards the steps. As he begins going up the steps, he says, "Oh, and now that I know you've been watching me... THANKS FOR LETTING ME ROT FOR THE LAST TWO YEARS YOU SPOOKER FUCKS!!!" His BOOMING voice cracks several pictures and shatters a vase. Plaster falls from a few points in the ceiling.


Roger then turns to Lori and adds, "Pardon my French ma'am," before continuing his ascent.

 

[Crow Cadaver]

Fletch groaned inwardly the more Andrew talked. There were four guests to the house, including him, and five agents. Suddenly, he wished he had run. Too late, now he thought. Then handlebar - Mr. Conner, according to Andrew - went off.


"Any concerns?" Andrew finished?


"Several, but this isn't my first rodeo, and you guys definitely aren't bog-standard spooks, so I'm not gonna do anything about it. For now at least," he vented.


Fletch was surprised that the man wasn't pacing and wearing an aluminium hat. The man looked like he had been in Vietnam, and he acted as if he had been affected by one of the psychotropic gases. He ranted and raved about the 'phony messages', and Fletch had to hide his smile. He normally disliked people right off the bat, but this older man had a... rustic charm. He could tell the man was being completely serious, but it sounded so bizarre. The man cleared his throat, turned to regard everyone else and said in the most genteel manner he could muster - which was still pretty rough around the edges - said, "Nice meeting you all. If anyone finds out where they're keeping the beer, give me a holler. I'm gonna stow my stuff and find a place to smoke."


The smokes Roger had in his pockets cheered quietly into Fletch's head. Normally, he had to be around objects for an hour or so before they started talking to him, but objects that were craved and revered tended to develop a voice much faster. He wondered how much Handlebar liked the death sticks, or how much he needed them, for them to have already developed a personality in his head. Then Mr. Conner started shouting about the agents watching him, but never helping out. Fletch wondered about that for a moment; how nice it would have been to have a helping hand from Uncle Sam, but Uncle Sam gave with one hand while he picked your pocket with the other. The pictures on the walls cracked when his voice raised, and Fletch winced. Fletch realized he had just witnessed a portion of the man's ability. He let out a low whistle; he had never seen anything like that before.


"Pardon my French ma'am," Roger finished his tirade, with a nod to the only woman of the group. Then, the older man marched up the stairs.


"I think I'm good, but I need to head up to my room to...,"Fletch glanced at Lori and Alex, offered a crooked grin, then turned back to Andrew. He had nearly said he needed to calm the voices down, but he had saved himself the embarrassment. He didn't want or need everyone to know that he often sounded like a crazy person. He often sounded even crazier than Mr. Conner had. He planned on going upstairs and spend time allowing the objects in the room to develop personalities. If he waited until later, he would never be able to quiet them down before bed, and he didn't need any help in the not-sleeping department. He cleared his throat and continued, "I need put my things away. So, if ya need me, I'll be upstairs."


He moved up the stairs, and warily glanced at the pictures. If they developed voices later, he'd be hearing them complain for days or months. God, I hope we're not here that long.

 

[Lena]

Lori retreated back, shutting down a little, for now simply listening as the conversation unfolded. It was hard to believe this was reality. Most of the things she heard felt like something straight out of a science fiction show. Her initial feelings of skittishness and fear faded into a background of a sort of resigned dread. She pulled her fleece jacket around herself, staring down at the ground, posture defensive. At the same time, she found herself tuning out the conversation to study each of the people in front of her. Most of the time, doing that worked better than words.


The presence of the eldest man seemed the most imposing, and she looked over at him, picking up background themes before anything else. Bitterness. The noticeable need to make a difference. Loyalty. Annoyance. Paranoia, similar to what she got around conspiracy theorists. Addiction. This told a story. She'd guess war veteran. She felt his temper flare up suddenly as he walked up the stairs, though she did not expect what followed. The sound of his voice was suddenly shattering, and she dropped her bag, pressing her hands to her ears, eyes wide as she watched him, snapping out of her forage into his consciousness. When he seemed done, she dropped her hands back down, surprised when he addressed her, and rather unimpressed with the apology. She found that while, due to what she could pick up of his story, she couldn't help but respect this man, she did not like him one bit. His comment was exactly the kind of shit that made her want to reenact one of George Carlin's more known comedy routines (the one that, notably, consisted of only seven words). Now was not the time, though.


Rubbing absently at her her ears, she turned to the second man as he made his exit. His head seemed to full of things, and she found that she did not want to enter further. She didn't know what she would find, but her gut feeling screamed for her to back off. She glanced away, hearing only vague whispers from his mind as he left.


She turned to the man in charge (Andrew, right?), glancing up to meet his eyes. She could see that his intentions were fairly similar to the operative in the cab, though she found that she preferred his mind to the one before, if only because there was something more genuine to it. Something she'd hesitate to call gentleness, but that was very human nonetheless. There was something else on the forefront of his mind, though, and she caught a glimpse of it. Often, if she got her hands on a memory, she would feel a little bit of it, and right now, she was caught with a brief, sharp pain in her shoulder, along with the impression off bullets. Barely keeping herself from exclaiming, she gasped lightly, taking a step back and picking up her things in one fluid movement.


"I'm going to, uh... upstairs. I mean, I'm going upstairs, not I'm going to upstairs." She stuttered a little, starting to retreat after the first two men.

 

[Darth Bambi]

Alex watched the exchange with a bit of bemusement. This seemed like a rather eclectic group even for undercover capes. Oliver he knew. They'd worked before a couple of times. He was competent, professional and efficient, and didn't seem to be prone to the hardass, controlling mentality that so many handlers tended to develop. Alex didn't know him well, but he didn't dislike the man yet, which was more than he could say for some of the other handlers he'd dealt with.


The other three, though, were unknown quantities, and the paranoia that kept him alive when working undercover had him studying them from the moment he saw them.


The woman, Lori, and Conner both had that twitchy "feel" to them that some capes with mental powers get. Few people would ever pick up on it, but it was one of those odd things that Alex had a knack for detecting. One of the side effects of his own power was a kind of synaesthesia that let him draw a little more information from the things he saw and heard than a normal person might.


For instance, Conner, he noticed, seemed to pay far more attention to the things in the room than to the people, which was curious. He also sounded like electrical blue, which was... well, without more information it was useless, to be honest. But it was interesting. The woman, on the other hand, was possibly a bit easier to guess about. The way she held herself. The way she focused on the people in the room without seeming to look that closely at them. The way she seemed to draw in on herself and avoid touching anyone or anything. If she wasn't a contact telepath, or something similar, he'd eat his hat.


She was also rather good looking, but that was neither here nor there.


Roger, on the other hand, was a complete unknown, but something about him put Alex off. He had the permanent scowl of someone who who was perpetually angry, and held himself with that sense of assurance you get from people who lived hard lives and were tough and strong enough to weather it. He also reeked of alpha male, something Alex was very used to dealing with working undercover. Successful henchmen tended to one of two types, alpha males competent enough to handle the dangers of working with superpowers, all too many of whom were either psychopaths or sociopaths, or betas who had mastered the art of ingratiating themselves with their employers. Roger was definitely the first type.


Alex smiled to himself as Oliver stopped the bed and finished his speech. Hell, the mustache alone could tell you that. It took a real man to wear a handlebar.


Then Roger "spoke", and Alex's little smile disappeared as he tried not to scream in pain at the noise. The man as a sonic projector, of all things. He HATED sonic powers. They played hell with his inhuman biology. It didn't cause any harm, but it hurt like nothing else. He straightened up and glared at the man as Roger "apologized" for his language.


An alpha male with sonic powers, anger issues, and apparently poor impulse control? Yeah, this could be a real problem.

 

[Grin]

((OOC: Sorry about the length, I just had a "thing" going and wanted to run with it. Tagging @Vudukudu @Darth Bambi @Crow Cadaver @Lena ))


Upstairs, Roger closes his door, sets his bag on the bed, and looks around. With a slight chuckle and a knowing nod, he says, "Hmm, nice room. Cozy bed. A little plain. Nothing in here looks TOO EXPENSIVE..."


The last two words, growled out just a hair louder than normal human speech, send out a wide-dispersal shockwave. Just loud enough to give the spooks an earache, thinks Roger, as listening devices throughout the room emit a shrill whistle into their receivers.


Roger has no way of knowing how many of "Uncle Sam's Secret Superninjas" he just deafened temporarily, but he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining it was at least two. Your tax dollars at work, he muses to himself, with one more private chuckle.


His fun had, Roger lights another cigarette, removes an ashtray from his pack, and sets to the task of figuring out what the living shit he just got blue-cab'd into. He felt like he was being put on the wrong side of an escort mission, and in fact the whole setup stank of ulterior motives. For your protection, we're going to disappear you. Yeah, this felt SO much safer than before, when Roger could come and go as he pleased, nobody cared who he was, and didn't have to play Social Grab-Ass with the cast of a CW Network pilot. Even if something bad happened to him, then his landlady would know something was up when the rent didn't get paid, and file a missing person's report. Before, Roger was as safe as any other American, and his best case scenario was a swift sudden end from a sniper's bullet. Now, he was a hog-tied deer caught in the headlights of an invisible car.


If they think I'm just gonna stay put and be rescued like some damn video game princess then they got more than a little shouting coming to 'em, he thinks to himself. I'm a soldier and an American, not the goddamn Nuclear Football.


He unzips his bag and starts sorting through the contents. This was more an exercise in giving his hands something to do while he assessed the situation. This is evidenced by the pile-shaped wad of thrift store tee shirts that take up nearly half the case's interior, all of which were clearly collected in a single handful from a bedroom floor. Yet here he is, separating them out and folding each one to be stored in a dresser drawer, not because he has any inherent need for such frivolous things like order, but because he can think more clearly when he's doing a boring task.


He was positive he'd seen that Andrew guy somewhere. Positive. His brain just couldn't narrow down the when and where. Roger wanted to assume it was someone involved in The Patriot-Plus Project, but that couldn't possibly be it. After all, Roger made a point of committing every face and every nametag from that project to memory, and Andrew wasn't among those memories. Still, you don't forget a mug like that. Dudes like Andrew aren't even born kicking and screaming; they arrive just outside their mother's wombs, arms outstretched to receive a clipboard, a sit-rep, and a cup of black coffee. The Andrew Olivers of the world were dreaming of being men-in-black while their peers were still debating astronaut versus fireman. There was no question that Roger has seen Andrew before...


Sigh. Roger lifts up one of his dollar-store shirts and looks at it, for what seems like the first time. He didn't even remember buying half these things. His preferred method of wardrobe shopping was to go through the "XL" rack and grab any shirt that was less than three bucks. This often results in some interesting serendipity. This is what the shirt says:

Fold, fold, onto the pile. Next shirt.


Andrew seemed to know The Scooby-Doo Gang well enough though. Roger ponders his status as the odd-man-out in this particular foursome - apparently Andrew "handles" three greenhorns and their old crabby uncle, and only one of them never got a formal introduction. Roger wasn't sure if he should be offended or honored, but considering the admittedly swift and professional extraction operation he just pulled off, he suspected Mr. Oliver had a smart reason for keeping his distance all this time.


Roger remembers what he just did to the vase in the hallway, and the listening devices in his room, and remembers, I really can't judge here. If this went down six months ago, Roger suspects that the vase would have instead been powder, sprinkled across a pile of toothpicks where a table once stood. A year prior, both vase and table would have been dusting corpses. Yeah, thinks Roger, If I was a good spy working for a bad government, I'd probably avoid face-time with me too. He decided right then that even if he couldn't bring himself to like Andrew, he'd at least give him enough benefit of the doubt to wait for a proper briefing.


Roger looks at the next shirt:

Fold, fold, onto the pile. Next shirt.


Roger was going to need to hang out with these young pups to get to know them. The thought didn't excite him, not because he hated meeting new people, but because he was well aware of the awkwardness his presence caused around younger folks. The young lady in particular, Lori, was obviously going to have some beef with him; Roger could see it in the disapproving glint in her eyes when he apologized for swearing. The new feminist, thinks Roger, Hates being treated different, even if it's out of baseline respect. To her, I'm probably a fossil from an era her lib-arts professor taught her to hate.


Still, it is what it is. She's in the same situation he's in, and she's still more alive than the poor souls whose corpses litter the path to The Villa. And it bears repeating that she's one of the three people caught in the crossfire of his little "acting out" moment; even Roger could confess that it wasn't the best way to leave a first impression on bystanders who didn't know the whole story. He made a mental note to at least try and avoid offending her until he could be more certain of exactly how sensitive she was.


Roger looks at the next shirt and snickers:

Better stow that one for now, he thinks. Fold, fold, back into the suitcase. Next shirt.


Fletch was probably some kind of Sherlock Holmes wannabe, thought Roger. He observed how the young man's attention seemed more interested in the room and its props than he was in the actual people. It was a wild guess, of course, but then again most first impressions are, and Fletch seemed like he was in no hurry to paint his biography on a wall or anything. Roger was, however, impressed with the fact that Fletch seemed the least pained by his outburst. While everyone else was covering their ears and complaining with their eyes, Fletch just winced a little and continued his study of the room.


Roger decided that he'd try to get on good terms with Fletch. An observant person that doesn't scare easy is a good person to have on your side, especially when dealing with professional superspies - or the people powerful enough to be their enemies.


Roger looks at the next shirt:

Fold, fold, onto the pile. Next shirt.


Alex... Oh Lord. That kid, thinks Roger. Roger figures that a person who looks and dresses like The Most Generic Person Ever was clearly winning ALL the "America's Next Top Spook" awards. Alex was the next generation of the type of people genetically engineered to spy on civilians for a paycheck. That right there was enough to give Alex the last and smallest shrivelled portion of empathy on Roger's ever-dwindling Pity Platter, but there was also the matter of Alex's unique reaction to Roger's sonic boom. Whatever this kid is, he's especially sensitive to sonic shockwaves.


Roger figured he probably had super senses or something, but didn't waste too much time speculating on what he could simply ask Alex about in a few minutes. Yeah, an extended conversation wasn't likely to go well with the kid, but Roger was a sargent for a reason - he didn't need people to like him, they just needed to be able to rely on him. Roger decided he'd try to get the information he needed without inviting any small talk from him.


Roger looks at the next shirt:

Fold, fold, onto the pile.


Roger tamps out the last remaining centimeter of tobacco and heads for the bathroom, intent on flushing his butt down the toilet. He figured now was a good time to locate the kitchen of this place.

 

[Vudukudu]

Andrew's uninjured hand covered one ear as quickly as possible during Cannon's outburst. Even so, the volume left both ears ringing and a slightly pained expression on his face. Roger was, unfortunately, right. They had left him to rot, left him to decay and fall apart while Patriot-Plus' side effects tore him apart. The reason he'd been left to rot was not a secret to Andrew, however. Patriot-Plus had been resolved. A compound, synthesized after the successful completion of the program in other subjects, had been developed to "boil out" the effects. The subject would undergo an intense, but survivable fever, and awake a few days later, the picture of normality. Cannon could be cured, of his tumor and his cancer, and the solution was in a syringe in his pocket.


The thin, near-weightless hypodermic needle shifting in his pocket brought to light other memories. Watching the old man had been.. miserable. He might have been a rage-filled old timer, incapable of understanding the world Andrew slipped through, but he had an admirable idealism. He believed in a concept of America, if not the truth. Andrew had seen the way he looked at other vets, the list of what TV programs he watched monthly, the rest of it. And now, he'd brought him here. It might have been more peaceful to let the old man get silenced by whatever freak was doing this to his people.


"Dinner's at 7, sharp. Do be timely." He said plainly, looking at those still within earshot. "And you, Alex. I need your security clearance card. Senior officer's orders." He added, spouting the lie as truthfully as he could. He hoped the empath didn't pick it up and say something. The moment he had the card, he intended to rip it in half, destroying the signal transmitter inside. Even blue listers like Alex were under permanent surveillance, and Andrew had concerns about someone on the inside having a part in this.


The four of them seemed to be handling it pretty well. He'd heard nightmares from other agents forced to utilize this tactic. There had been a soccer mom who brought a toss-away phone to keep in touch with her kids. Another guy had come in and refused to eat, claiming that scooping him up and whisking him away like this was illegal.


Didn't he know? The GSD was above laws. He'd heard Supreme Court justices talk about this "penumbra" of rights. Things that could be read out of the Constitution, things like privacy. While people argued about the right to privacy, Andrew knew everything down to the name of the cashier who'd sold Lori her nail polish. Right to privacy? Not if you're on a List or know someone who is.

 

[Crow Cadaver]

(( OOC: Not really important to the plot, but I felt it right to give you a peek into his process.))


Fletch passed by Mr. Cannon's room on his way to the first open door, and heard the man shout again. He winced and thought, That man could put a cheerleader to shame. He tightened his hold on his bag, and moved along. He shut the door to the room he claimed, sat the bag down on the bed, and started unpacking. All of the items, including the bag itself, had long ago created personalities which required him to be pleasant toward them if he wanted to have a peaceful transition to a new place. He talked quietly, basically to himself, as he put the shirts, socks, pants, and underclothes away. He pacified the shirts he never wore with promises of wearing them soon, and pants that complained of being worn around the knees received promises that he would mend them when they tore. He hoped he spoke quietly enough to not be heard by anyone passing the door, but he understood that the odds of being overheard giving a motivational speech to the pair of underwear talking mutiny by splitting down the middle were about as high as a fat man not wanting a fourth plate from the Chinese buffet; they were both bound to happen.


After filing his belongings away, he sprawled casually on the bed to await the personification of the room. He could already hear the whispers stirring around the room, and then he would spend some time calming down objects that had never had an active voice before. Fletch knew that somewhere out there somebody thought his ability was awesome, and he wanted to tell that guy that he had never had to hear a toilet complain while taking a drawn out bathroom episode. He would have to have the same arguments with all of the new appliances, decorations, and furniture. The longer he considered what he had to accomplish in the room, the more agitated and antsy he grew. Finally, he blew out an exasperated sigh. Sleep be damned. I've not had enough coffee to deal with this.


He walked out of the room, and starred at the door the old man had chosen for his room. Well, hell, he thought. He remembered Cannon's complaint about being watched. He hoped to God no agents had been listening in while he got settled because that would be embarrassing. He wondered if there had been listening devices in his home at the apartment complex. He had never heard them speak, but if they had grown a personality reliant on the fact that they were spies then he probably never would have realized they were there. He hoped, now, that all of the objects in his room thought they were spies. It would be a nice change, he thought. He shook his head. He would never be that lucky. Coffee, stat.

 

[Lena]

There was, Lori had learned years ago, a sort of shift in someone when they lied. Their thoughts curved around in a rather strange way, and most people (if not all) felt a little bit of ingrained guilt at that. Everyone took notice when they didn't tell the truth, at least. It was one of the things easiest to spot. Lori was fairly sure anyone else would be blown away by how much people lied.


She immediately knew, then, when the agent in charge lied to the other one about the card. Destroy it, whispered his intent, and she turned to give him a curious look, meeting his eyes briefly. It wasn't her job to tell people when they were being lied to, though. She broke eye contact quickly, nodding and heading up the stairs silently.


Once she got to her room, she dropped her bag down to the ground roughly, and sat down on the bed. She wanted to think about what the others here (or, at least, her first impression of them, but her first impressions tended to be better than most), and that was what she did, rubbing lightly at her temples. There was no way she wasn't going to end up with a migraine a day if Mr. Cannon kept using his voice-powers, or whatever they were. She did not like the man; he had, from what she had seen, seemed condescending, and rather too... loud. Sure of himself and needing to assert it every minute. Despite that, he had seemed like the type of person you could trust to help in a crisis. She didn't think she needed to watch her back as much around him.


She didn't get too good of a look at the shorter, less interesting-looking man (was that shallow? Probably) before she left, but from what she had glimpsed, he had seemed just as suspicious and wary as she had felt. She had her reservations about Andrew, after catching his lie, but she'd postpone judgement. It was Fletcher that she found unnerving. There seemed a lot in his head, and she had picked up a flighty, twitchy feeling to him. She made her mind up to pry, later.


For now, she stood, glancing at her watch. Fifteen till seven. Well, better make herself look halfway decent if she wanted to stand a chance at a decent second impression. Lori pulled her hair back into a ponytail, nervous enough that it took her a few seconds to get it to look alright. She swapped out her ratty t-shirt and old hoodie for a tank top and stiff, vaguely professional-looking jacket, put on a layer of lipgloss and called it good. She doubted anyone would be paying much attention, but she'd feel a lot more confident like this.


She waited until seven exactly to slip out of her room, heading down the stairs with a lot more confidence than before, now that she had the chance to think about the situation.

 

[Grin]

One uneventful trip to the bathroom later, Roger smells something edible. Must be chow time, he thinks to himself. A glance at a clock in the hallway (still cracked slightly from his previous outburst) shows the time as 6:58. Roger hadn't heard Andrew mention "dinner at 7", but the idea did make sense to him - they were, after all, guests of Spook Villa, and that sort of arrangement was usually catered.


Roger isn't particularly hungry, but he figures the presence of food will draw the others as well. Andrew would also likely use this gathering as an opportunity to get everyone to sit still long enough for a briefing, something which would likely be followed by an opportunity to chit-chat while finishing off whatever was on the spit.


Roger absent-mindedly brushes off the front of his plain white t-shirt and heads down the stairs.

 

[Vudukudu]

A half dozen suspects ran through Andrew's head, each more curious than the last. Someone was targeting him specifically, from the look of it. They had targeted his assets to draw him out long enough to try to put a bullet through his head. Someone, either a mundane or a cape, he didn't know, was after him.


Ellis Anders? They'd clashed in Seattle at the beginning of his career. Ellis was on the Black List, for damn good reason. Some people with powers let it go to their head. Ellis had led a small metahuman cult, experimenting on people in an attempt to force evolution to pick up the pace. That kind of science was illegal across the globe, and even more dangerous in the hands of a terrorist with dreams of godhood. Ellis had been a pyrokinetic; unfortunately for him, his body wasn't burn resistant. Every time he played with fire, it bit back, and the man was a tattered pile of bandages when Andrew confronted him in the plaza. He was, for all intents and purposes, a flame throwing mummy. The news had latched onto that one for a good while. The tapes always ended the same way; an unidentifiable, suited young man putting four rounds into his chest. Had he survived? GSD records confirmed the kill, but..


The GSD had lied to him before. Had they taken him in to co-opt his research? The man was, admittedly, brilliant, and that was exactly the GSD's kind of play. But Ellis wouldn't have used a rifle. He'd have made sure Andrew knew who was killing him.


That left five others, each a malicious, vengeful, clever bastard. He flipped through the files on his phone, skimming through each before coming away dissatisfied. Soon enough, it was dinner, and despite the doctor's orders, he intended to sit down with the others. Dinner was prepared individually; all dietary concerns were in the database and had been handled. Andrew himself peered at a slurry of unappetizing grey paste. A chemical attack a year ago had left him incapable of consuming much else; it tasted vaguely of cherries.


As the others filtered in, he waved calmly and returned his attention to the paste. Finally, once all were present, he launched into the pleasantries.


"Good to see you all. Take a seat, do enjoy the meal." He started, waving towards the chairs. "First off, Mr. Cannon, I'd like to address your earlier comments. I'm not a spook. I'm a Field Investigator. That means, at worst, I keep track of people. Its not my job to disappear them, assassinate civilians, or any of the other tinfoil hat business you think I may be up to. I prefer to do my job the friendly way, as far as its possible.Spooks are what we send to tie up loose ends, though they prefer the term Special Tasks Group. I appreciate your service, and I ask the least you can do is appreciate mine, as its the only thing that's given you the peace to smoke and drink the time away. You're welcome." He continued, shooting a cold, hard stare at the man. His gaze promptly softened, shifting towards the others.


"With that bit out of the way, eat, drink, and be merry. May this be one of few meals at the Villa."

 

[Grin]

Roger notices that each of the place settings is different; different foods on each plate, and only one of them look even remotely appetizing to Roger. It was a bit of a surprise, not because they couldn't possibly know his favorite meal was three bacon cheeseburgers and a 12-pack of Miller High Life (it would be weirder if they didn't know that at this point), but because they bothered to serve it to him, while also having prepared some much more complex chow for his other three detainees. Andrew sat before a plate of what appeared to be a plate of Greek yogurt with clinical depression.


Roger makes his way to his place setting, and Andrew begins speaking. Roger expected an efficient guy like Andrew would start right in with a sit-rep, just so people being disappeared (allegedly for their safety) could choke back a few bites of this carefully-orchestrated feast without fearing it'd be their last meal. Here's where Roger's expectations take a turn for the unexpected:


"First off, Mr. Cannon, I'd like to address your earlier comments..." Roger listens in disbelief as Andrew browbeats him for his use of language - not the utterance of that more ubiquitous of the Seven Deadly Words, fuck, but for the use of the word spook. There was a "tinfoil hat" jab in there as well, something Roger had already been tired of fielding from radio show hosts and magazine writers, and he'd be damned if he was going to eat that sort of comment from a guy working for the same government that did this to him, and whose job was to watch him. Fuck you, SPOOK, Roger thought to himself, You are the one person in this room that knows - KNOWS - I haven't dreamed up a single conspiracy theory in my life. Now here we are, having dinner in the middle of a goddamn conspiracy reality, and you're still going to paint me as some piss-drinking wingnut in front of the others?


Roger barely heard Andrew's suggestion that he appreciate the peace of being able to smoke and drink in a crummy apartment, self-sequestered to avoid harming his fellow Americans as he single-handedly fought a guerrilla war against this government-subsidized supertumor. It was one last crumb of bitter cheese on top of a shit sandwich.


Still, it was clear Andrew was making an appeal to professionalism, and Roger had already decided that a man of Andrew's efficiency deserved the benefit of the doubt until at least after a sit-rep. The discarded man with the tumor thus decided to at least feign deference to the embraced man with the authority. Responding directly to Andrew's clarification (in which he says the spooks - of which his org only orders around and thus somehow aren't one - prefer to be called the Special Tasks Group), Roger smirks and replies, "Well, I'd prefer to be called Your Highness, but everyone just keeps calling me Tinfoil. Tell you what though, if it'll keep my ass out of another sensitivity training lecture, I'll try and ease up on hurting your ninjas' feelings."


Roger cracks open a beer and looks around the room. "By the way, sorry about earlier. Crap first impression, I admit it. My beef is not with any of you, it isn't even with Andrew specifically, but I dare any of you to spend two years in my boots and not act out a little at first opportunity. You have my word, going forward, that I will keep my cool."

 

[Darth Bambi]

The room they had assigned him was surprisingly nice. Homey, even. There was a large bed with blue sheets and a comforter. A flat screen TV. Desk. Bureau. Walk-in closet. A rather attractive watercolor of galloping horses on the wall. A small fridge. And, a laptop. All the comforts of home, really. He’d certainly dealt with worse the last six years.


Alex dropped his bag on the bed and began unpacking. One of the items held within, which he carefully left in its side pocket, was a cheap smart phone. It was the only piece of “spyware” that he owned, and had proven invaluable in the past. A gift from a good friend he had made while on a job in Brazil a while back, it had a couple of special features that had been lifesavers more than once.


The first was that it was completely secure. His friend, and supergenius with a focus on electronics, had made it so that it was impossible to tap or trace. Alex could call in death threats to the president personally, if he wanted, and even the Secret Service wouldn’t be able to track him down. He had no desire to do so, of course. Still, the point was that he could if, for some bizarre reason he wanted to.


The second feature, and the one that had been a literal lifesaver at least once, was that it had a built-in scanner that could pick up any electronic listening device or camera within twenty feet. That was the feature he called on now, subtly activating it as he pulled out some clothes. It pinged almost immediately, showing several of each just in his room.


Alex didn’t smile to himself. Experience had taught him to keep his emotions to himself and off his face. Still, he wanted to. It was nice to know that the GSD were still a bunch of underhanded, untrustworthy bastards. It was something you could rely on, and something that made them a little more predictable.


He finished putting everything away, tossing the bag into the closet when he was done. Time to join the others at dinner, he supposed. This promised to be interesting, at least.


"Good to see you all. Take a seat, do enjoy the meal." He started, waving towards the chairs…


Alex sat down, watching the others as Andrew politely dressed Roger down. He was genuinely impressed when the older man, instead of losing his temper, actually gave Andrew a bit of respect and then apologized to the rest. Maybe there’s hope for him after all, Alex thought as the rest of them started to eat.


The food looked surprisingly good, he noticed. Someone had obviously gone through some trouble to cook individual meals for everyone, and done so surprisingly quickly given that that this was all supposed to be a sudden emergency that no one had had any warning of. It was still possible, especially given some of the people the GSD had on staff, but it was suspicious.


There was nothing on his own plate, of course, just a goblet of wine, which he sipped from appreciatively. Since the change he got his energy from some other source, although what that source was is anybody’s guess. He had no need for food except for when he was injured and needed to replace lost biomass. Otherwise it was useless to him. He also had no sense of taste or smell anymore, which meant that he didn’t even have any desire for food. He could eat, but there was absolutely no point most of the time except when he was undercover and working to appear normal. The only thing he still enjoyed was alcohol. He couldn’t taste it, of course, but alcohol had complex and pleasant mouthfeels that he really enjoyed, especially that of fine wines.


A pity it couldn’t get him drunk, anymore. Still, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.


“Any idea who’s behind this”, he asked Andrew as he sipped the cabernet. “Or if they’re even after us, and not just you?”

 

[Lena]

Lori trickled into the room right behind one of the men, glancing around. The plate settings caught her by surprise; it wouldn't be too strange to set separate food up if, say, someone here was vegetarian or lactose intolerant, but it seemed as though every plate had been prepared exactly for each person. She had no trouble finding her own plate. It contained a sandwich (lightly grilled, greasy, garlic bread, cheese, various vegetables and mushrooms-- exactly the kind of thing she'd make for herself when she had time) and french fries. Unlike at least two of the other members of the congregation, she found that her drink was nonalcoholic. Despite what one might assume from the types of places she had worked in, she was glad for it. The last thing a person like her needed was a loose tongue. Besides, no matter how childish it was, there wasn't a time when she wouldn't enjoy a cup of hot apple cider.


She watched the interaction between Andrew and Mr. Cannon silently. Mr. Cannon seemed to the source of most conflict right now, and, honestly, she could relate at least somewhat. She was sure that if she had a bit more backbone, she'd have made at least a bit of a fuss by now. But she forced for now on getting a better impression of Alex, who she had skimmed over the first time.


She noted how much he thought about his drink, picked up the foreground thoughts about it. Only thing he could really enjoy, huh? Everyone here seemed to have a tragic backstory. She found that she wanted out before she ended up with something similar (not that her own past was exactly idyllic, but it was certainly a shit ton better than what most of the people in the room seemed to have). Here was the safest place for now, though, and she wasn't stupid, so she brought her attention back to Alex, fixating on him somewhat.


She quickly realized, from what she could pick up, that dismissing him had been a mistake. he had just looked so average when she had first taken a glance at him, she had been compelled to move on... but despite the fact that he seemed so plain, and the fact that he was the only person here not too much taller than her, she found that he might be the closest thing to the kind of superhero she's see on the pages of a comic book. She couldn't pick up much more than motivations and plans, but those were enough to know he was more than human. She didn't know if she could trust him, and so she decided to be wary of him.


His question was interesting, though, and practical. The sooner they knew, the sooner they could go home. So, despite not wanting to be involved, she found herself saying, "I, um... If you have something they touched for a long while, or owned, I could pick something up."


No names, of course, or anything of the sort. But motivations and goals could be enough to give them a lead. And she didn't have to go out because of the offer, right?

 

[Darth Bambi]

"Pick something up?" Alex said, turning to her. Apparently he'd guessed right about her powers. Handy ability to have. "How do you mean? And what kind of things can you get information from?" He glanced sideways at Andrew. "Would a bullet work, for instance?"

 

[Grin]

Roger liked where this conversation was going. It seemed that Nancy Drew & The Hardy Boys were probably just as eager as he was to be part of the solution. He was especially thrilled to confirm that he wasn't the only meta-powered individual in this situation. To be polite, Roger finished chewing the mouthful of burger (delicious, he noted) and spoke up.


"That does bring up something I've been thinking about, Andrew. Now seems like a good time to lay down a full sit-rep, and maybe we could all share with each other some details about our experience and abilities. Maybe we can help out instead of sitting around, y'know, be part of a solution if possible. After all," Roger smiles at the group, "There's GOT to be a good reason why you've been keeping an eye on us, and I'm hoping it isn't just because you like what you see when we're in the shower."


Roger flexes one of his biceps a little and smirks, adding in an obviously joking way "Not that I could blame you."