Existentialism (IC)

[Lydyn]

"Raven! What do we do! There's an entire team coming up the stairs right now!" Yelled a man within the large control room. There was thirteen of them in total, but not including the woman that was named 'Raven.' Terrorists that had taken over a nuclear weapons facility in Russia and regularly threatened the world for no known reason, now facing the threat of a Special Ops force storming the place and calling them on their bluff. The yelling man wasn't really that big or imposing, looking just like an average joe and sweating like a pig.

Raven smirked to the man and shrugged lightly, without care. "I suppose you fight, boys ... though I don't think you're going to win." The comment surprised almost all of the members, but the one woman who wasn't pulled her gun out on Raven with ease, as if expecting the black-haired woman to betray them all. All of them reeled in for a moment at the realization that someone had pulled a gun out, but Raven didn't even bother flinching. She knew what she was capable of and no bullet was going to stop her - in fact, everything was going according to plan. Soon it'd all be over.

"Fuck you! I knew yew'd leave us ta hang an' dry! Since you ain't gonna help, I'll jus' kill ya!" It was too late as a blur of images flashed through the room, spiraling random papers into the air and causing some of the members to cover their eyes, only to have the gun scream out as it shot a bullet into the wall. As the debris settled, Raven was gone ... and the Special Ops was only getting closer.



Kiowa, Colorado - Myles Nolan's Bookstore

December 21st, 2013 - 10:31 A.M.

Ding! Myles looked up from his book to see a teenager walk in, dressed in jeans, a hoodie, and a cap sitting on his head. He looked confident enough and causal and Myles just smiled at him as he returned the gesture with a nod. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal day taking care of his bookstore. It was a small bookstore along the main road, mostly lined with novels of fiction and non-fiction with a few shelves of comic books. Humble and pleasant, just the way Myles liked it, able to escape the real world and delve into fantasy worlds with heroes and villains, from magic to superpowers. It had always inspired him, reading heroic tales of great individuals saving the world from destruction and loved the feeling of allowing other people to escape into their own worlds too.

Today though, was not ordinary, not in the least. Be it fate's hand or by some higher design, the same teenage boy that walked into Myles' store that day would be the instrument in changing his life forever. Today, he would discover.

The boy eventually came around to the counter with a comic book of X-Men #132, a collectable of sorts that was tagged with a price of eighty dollars due to it's near mint condition that Myles had kept it in. This caused the man to look up from his book titled Warbreaker and setting it face down to keep his place as she started typing in the computer to find the price. "That'll be.." However before he could finish, the teenager touched the monitor for a moment as the screen glitched and as Myles pulled up the price, he stumbled for words in confusion. It clearly said it was only priced at five dollars, but Myles was way too organized to know it was an error. Flashing the kid an embarrassing smile, he went to correct the mistake and typed in the original eighty dollars and looked back to his costumer. "Eighty one seventy nine please.."

For a moment, the teenager hesitated and gave Myles a confused look before putting the comic on the counter and pointing to the screen. "It says five dollars though." Myles blinked for a moment and looked back to the monitor and shook his head in disbelief. What the hell? He sighed in frustration and went to work on changing it again, letting it read eigh- ... no, it was back to five dollars again. Furrowing his brow, he worked at the keyboard to get back to the editing screen and suddenly found himself locked out, like it had frozen and yet he could do anything else he wanted. His eyes slowly went to look over the kid.

Sometimes the soul is a funny thing. It can link and connect with others when we don't know ourselves why we feel so comfortable with one another. Sometimes it whispers to us though, and let's us know something is wrong, even when we don't know what it is.

"What did you do? H-how are you doing that?" Myles grabbed the teenager's hand only to have the boy retract his hand quickly and step back, almost shocked that Myles was somehow able to guess that the teenager was at fault, even if he couldn't prove anything. It didn't last long though - ding! Both of them looked towards the door to see two men dressed in suits staring back at them. At first, Myles didn't notice anything, but quickly his vision blurred as the men started walking towards them and soon enough it was all black.

Kiowa, Colorado - Myles Nolan's Bookstore

December 21st, 2013 - 3:02 P.M.

When he woke back up, he groaned in confusion, pulling himself up from the floor. It was bright and the clock read three in the afternoon. What? He glanced around to discover the boy was gone, the men were gone, and his store had been locked and the close sign flipped so he could see the word 'open' from inside his store. "What the fuck?" he asked himself out loud and looked around. Nothing. Holding his hand to his head for a moment, he sighed and brushed back his hair as he sat there and thought, placing his hands on the keyboard and staring at the editing screen. What is the world was that? Was that kid locking me out somehow? I need to unlock it ... I really don't want to close just to get this piece of shit working again. Myles flared in frustration at the thought, partially because it meant spending money and partially because he was so confused and hated being confused. He wanted his comic to be eighty like it was supposed to be!

Then it was. It felt a slight tingling, like a small voice was trying to beep in his mind, and the computer was suddenly unlocked and the book was set to eighty dollars again. "Did ..." he said out loud, trailing off as he stared at the computer screen. How? He looked down and remembered how the teenager was touching his monitor and that the price changed to five dollars and stood there, thinking, replaying it in his mind. After a few moments, he looked back up at the computer screen and warily willed the eighty dollars to change to five dollars.

X-Men #132, a comic book in near mint condition that normally sells for seven-five dollars was now selling for five dollars at Nolan's Bookstore on Main St, Kiowa, Colorado and Myles, the owner, did not press one key.

[Shinsib]

A shrouded figure moved slowly though the darkness of the cool Georgia night. His hair and eyes were dark and his figure was shrouded in a light brown tench coat. His black shirt and pants rounded off with a pair of black sneakers. He looked up at the blisteringly bright neon lights, the electric buzzing the only constant sound in the hallow night.
As the door pushed opened, the scene was a dramatic change. A soft almost elevator music played in the background of the dimmed bar. The figure pulled open his coat and moved up to the bar, his eyes glancing over the area and noted just a few patrons as he moved up to a stool.
The man behind the bar was in his fifties, his hair grey and his eyes light. He looked over at the younger man and offered a nod of greeding,
"Gene. What can I get for you tonight?"
The man in the trench coat opened it wider and looked the man in the eyes before responding to him in a tired sounding voice,
"Evening Sam.. The usual a cold beer..."
he was interrupted by the bartender,
"And a warm whiskey. Ya.. same thing, every night."
He says pouring a beer and setting it in front of Gene, who takes a long sip off of it before looking back up at Sam,

"Business slow again tonight? With all that terror talk on the news I would think a private eye would drum up a lot of business for himself."
Gene takes a sip out of his whiskey and then his beer again,
"You would think that.. but.. this economy is so bad.. I'm just running after rich people spouses and trying to cash in IOU's from Metro... It's a train wreck Sammy.."
Before he can finish that sentence he hears a tone form his pocket and slides out his phone,
"Shit.."
he says as he answer the call,
"Marviel."
the voice on the phone was a little thick accented and slightly gravelly,
"Superman.. I got a bone to throw you today old buddy."
"Joe, I don't do any more favors for Metro. I made myself very clear on that."
"No no no.. Look Gene, this is big league stuff here. FBI is needing someone. "
"Officer Friday, You should know by now that I don't like your prank calls."
"Gene.. Its legit. Look... I gave them your number.. You should. ing a .. all.. second."
Gene looked to his phone at the incoming call,
"Your right Joe.. I got a beep. "
He says and swaps over calls,
"Marviel."
the voice on the other end was middle aged and official sounding,
"Mr. Marviel.."
"Gene, or Detective if you will, I don't want to sound like a reject from a 50's comic strip."
"I apologize. Detective. This is agent Smith with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have called to offer you a temporary consulting position."
Gene thought for a moment and replied,
"Since when does the FBI hire in consultants?"
He says standing off his stool and walking toward a window,
"Since we have lost five agents to a Mole.. and need to hire more.. Expendable help. We are willing to offer you a sum of fifty thousand dollars as a consulting fee."
Gene considered his options for a moment,
"Fine.. I'll bite."
"Good, we already got you tickets for a flight tomorrow. You will be headed to our New York office where you will be briefed and given the full details of the investigation."
"Tickets? Like on a plane? Forget it I don't fly."
"You do tomorrow Mr Marviel, your flight leaves at 9 am. Have a good night, Detective."
The phone disconnected and he looked at it for a moment before sliding back over to the bar,
"Sam.. Your my good luck charm.. " he says kicking back his drink and dropping a few dollars on the bar before he closes his coat, and starts to the door
"I fucking hate flying."
He says to himself as he pushes the door open and escapes into the night, the thud of the door his farewell to the night.

After a quick ride down the street and onto his dark street, he takes a thin alley to a little walk up door. He moves up it and into a little studio, the door reading "Investigations Inc." he unlocks the door and slides it open, hearing a soft bell ring. He doesn't bother with the lights... He preferred the dark anyway.. There was a welcoming element to it for him. He went right to the back and popped the top on a cheep bottle of scotch as he set an alarm, nursing the bottle the hole time, from his entrance to his short, cold shower.

His bed was a one person cot set up in what most people would consider a walk in closet. He laid down his head and drifted into an uneasy sleep.. 5 am was going to come quick, and 9 am was going to be even quicker.. Airports.. He hated airports..

[Akuma No Musuko]

New York City - Midtown

5:05 P.M.

'Another day, another dollar,' Damien thought as he stepped out of the Gamestop. His uniform shirt was hidden under the black hoodie he wore. The hood remained down, though; he never wore his hood up, even during the cold winter months. He felt that he had more than enough hair to keep his head warm. Damien shook his head free of the thoughts. He must have been more bored than he had thought. Of course, standing behind the cash register arguing with teenagers about a five dollar rebate for a twenty dollar game got a little lethargic after a while. Working at a video game retailer wasn't always fun and games--no pun intended--so it wasn't uncommon to get a little bored during work.

Of course, in spite of himself, he always managed to find some contentment during his break. He wasn't sure about other Gamestop locations, but the employee break room where he worked was stocked with a decent sized TV and an Xbox 360 and PS3. Damien never really played the games that much--he was fine with watching his coworkers play and fail at Black Ops Multiplayer. Today was somewhat different, however; a friend of his had brought his laptop in and decided to show Damien a few Youtube videos of kids performing what was known as either 'freerunning' or 'parkour.'

Damien watched the videos with interest; he had never been so brazen as to climb up onto the roof of his apartment when he was younger, and these kids were practically jumping from rooftop to rooftop, taking shortcuts that no sane person would dare try. There was even one where someone was leaping up the rails of the fire escape as he tried to, from Damien's perspective, win a race against another freerunner. Managing to borrow his friend's laptop, he spent the rest of his break watching videos on parkour, and the rest of his shift thinking about how crazy he would have to be to consider freerunning.

As Damien continued down the sidewalk, he felt a prickly feeling in his limbs, almost like they had fallen asleep and woken up again. It wasn't uncomfortable, but they just throbbed and prickled dully, almost as though they begged for some fun. Damien couldn't tell for sure, but for some reason, he wanted to run. He walked faster and faster, now moving at a light jog as he ducked and weaved amongst fellow pedestrians. His legs called for more, and Damien complied, moving faster to a near sprint.

Running without thinking, he dove into a nearby alleyway and leaped up onto a dumpster, jumping from there to grab onto the fire escape. His arms moved almost of their own accord, pulling him up level after level. The muscles in his arms began to burn as they strained against his weight, but Damien paid it little if any mind as he ascended. In almost no time at all, he made it to the roof, his legs still propelling him forward...toward the edge of the building. A wide, almost psychopathic grin crawled onto Damien's face as he kept sprinting. Once he reached the edge, he leaped off, soaring over the narrow alleyway and down onto the lower roof of the next skyscraper.

He landed with a roll as he came to a complete stop, panting as the adrenaline pumping through his veins began to calm. His heavy breathing lightened, and Damien blinked his eyes, looking around at his surroundings. Instead of a cheerful whoop that would escape from anyone else's mouth, only two words escaped his lips.

"What the...?"

Damien walked over towards the edge. He looked down and quickly moved back, a feeling of vertigo washing over him. He began to panic, wondering what the hell possessed him to do that. He had never even attempted freerunning before, and now, here he was, standing on a--

Wait...freerunning? Damien had never even heard of freerunning before in his life until a few hours ago, and even he believed he wasn't that crazy.

But if that was the case, then why was he standing almost seven stories off the ground?

[ShotgunJones]

James Wilson a.k.a "The Incredible" Jack Action - Madison Square Garden, NYC


He walks slowly down the metal ramp leading to the ring. Even over the concert hall speakers blasting out his theme tune, the noise coming from the crowd is almost deafening. And he grins. That lantern jawed grin of his. The garden loves him tonight. Chants are already starting. And he's seen his shirts on maybe 30-40% of the crowd. Not bad for a relative newcomer. Not bad at all. Give him a year and they'll be giving him the main belt. The crowd gets louder as he climbs the ring steps. And then he stares angrily at the man in front of him. The man is his opponent this evening, and his sworn enemy, and his close friend and his traveling buddy. The man is Stephen Turrell, or Anarchy when he’s on the job.

Anarchy snarls back at him. His music cuts out. The referee does his thing. And the bell rings to start the match.

He blocks a right hand, then another, throws his opponent into the ropes and then takes the clothesline he knows is coming. He gets up fast. His opponent grabs him as he does. He knows twenty three different ways to reverse the hold. But the crowd loves the elbows to the stomach and his opponent jumps back after each one. He can hear the chant getting louder as it does. And now there is space. He could do significant damage with the karate chop he throws next. But it turns into an open handed slap that simply reddens the chest of his opponent. The crowd is cheering. He repeats the move. Again and again. He pushes his opponent back into the corner. And he holds him for a second as the referee whispers the next spot to them. He throws his opponent across the ring into the opposite corner. Then he charges for a flying knee strike.

And all the while a crowd of over 18,000 is cheering louder and louder.

“Get some Action”

[SomeoneSomewere]

New York City, midtown.

Life in New York was hell. He didn't extremely like it here, it was too busy. Too many people. All the angry people around. He had recently just left a gym that he could afford to go to with his low salary. He was a bit on the sweaty side, not having to dry off completely, a shine to naturally tan skin. He was wearing a white top that gave only a slight hint of a strong body underneath it. Black basketball shorts hung down slightly past his knees. Nikes hid is feet, barely making a sound as they brushed against a grey ground. Why the color grey? The color grey was so depressing.

He still had to ride on his bike back to his apartment. Walking over to the rack, he unlocked it, shoving the chain into his backpack. It was so... Loud. Honking, people yelling, the sounds of cars. One reason he hated it here. With a sigh he pulled out his black bike, hopping onto it. He pushed off, riding on the broad sidewalk. He loved to feeling of wind against his face, it made him feel free... Like he wasn't trapped down by skyscrapers. He could almost imagine riding through his hometown, fresh air in his face...

Bam. Face full of exhaust. He coughed, turning his head to the side, eyes closed before he looked in front of him again. That just smashed any thoughts of wide open spaces and away from this place. His next thought was ah crap. It was crowded. Again. He sighed before hopping off of the bike, weaving through the crowd. He paused slightly at a prickling feeling in the back of his mind, shaking his head.

It started as a whisper, and a mixture of voices that slowly got louder. He let out a cry, feeling like his head was ready to explode. Different voices kept bouncing around his mind. He caught snip its of words in his mind. "What the hell is-" "Get out of the way-!" "Why is it so bu-" He stumbled out of the way, before falling to his knees and grabbing his head. A few people glanced at him but kept walking. "What's wrong with him-?" "such an-"

He stared at the ground, shaking his head roughly, sight blurring, only seeing grey and the odd flash of color. His bike was on the ground beside him, out of the way of anyone walking. It was so loud! He couldn't think. He couldn't move. All he heard were thousands of thoughts slamming through his mind, each demanding his absolute attention immeadiately. His shoulders shook, fingers pushed into very dark, slightly damp hair. His body was tensed, fighting to shelter his mind from the onslaught of thoughts. He started to sweat again, his breathing coming heavily. Classic New Yorkers, even if he was struggling, ignore him. He didn't matter. Their own self was more important then others.

The rush of thoughts lessened before disappearing as most of the crowd moved off. He let out a groan, slowly opening his eyes from their closed position. What the hell happened..? What was that? Why were all those voices in my mind? He shook his head, slowly rising to his feet, his body shaking. He was sweaty, the shine off of his body brighter from light reflecting off of sweat. He brought his bike to a standing position, knowing he had to get home. This wasn't normal. A normal person didn't hear a thousand, or more, thoughts from other people at the same time.

[Eleda]

Clara ran her fingers through her long locks of golden hair and closed her eyes as a bright flash of light hit her lids. Fluidly, she moved her other hand into her hair and peeked her eyes open seductively at the lens pointed at her. Another flash of light. For another twenty minutes, she continued this routine, allowing her mind to wander to her class from that afternoon. As her body went through the motions for each snapshot guided by the voice of her photographer, her mind was back in the classroom, trimming the wig upon the dummy head into a perfect bob cut. She smirked as she recalled the praise she'd received from Jen, a bright flash catching her off guard and causing her to stumble.

"Oh my goodness. That was a perfect expression! I think that's it. You should have a wonderful portfolio now and if not, I quit!" the man behind the lens exclaimed running up to her to show her the display screen on his expensive camera. His name was Jean-Paul, a flamboyantly gay French photographer who wasn't entirely French. He wore a beret and black clothing from head to foot, a brightly colored ascot knotted off to the side. His French was weak at best and was completely an act. But Clara knew that and he'd long since stopped trying to maintain it around her. "Oh wow. That really is a beautiful picture." Clara whispered as she leaned towards the camera. Jean-Paul may not have been French but he was indeed a wonderful photographer. The portfolio will be done and printed by tomorrow morning, yes?" He simply nodded, his beret nearly flying off of his head as he quickly strode over to his computer, connecting some cords from his camera and clicking the mouse vigorously. "I'll be back at noon for it tomorrow then?" Another nod. He was so into his work right now. "Jean-Paul!" Clara shouted, snapping her fingers and rolling her eyes. He finally looked up at her, a hint of annoyance in his expression. "How much do I owe you for the pictures?" She reached for her peacoat that was draped over the stool next to him and shrugged it on as she reached for her purse. She didn't bother closing the jacket as the weather hadn't been too bad the past few days. "I'll take another order of your delicious devils food cupcakes. I have a showing coming up and the clientele really enjoyed them last time. But, no money. You know I've got your back girl." It was true. He really did.

Quickly he hugged her then shooed her out the door as it was beginning to get dark outside. Clara hummed softly to herself as she strode down the empty sidewalk, stopping beside her silver Mitsubishi Galant. It wasn't new, it wasn't extravagant but she ran well and had been dependable for Clara. "Oh shoot.." she mumbled to herself, placing her purse on the hood and rummaging through the junk in search of her keys. "I really need to get into the habit of digging these out beforehand..." but the self reprimand was short lived as a hand made its way around her mouth and a hard object was pressed against her ribs. "If you make one sound, I'm gonna skull fuck your corpse... Understood?" a voice behind her said. It was slurred and raspy, and it made her heart jump into her throat. He thrust the object in her side harder into her ribs causing her to wince and slightly curve her body to the side. Terrified, she nodded and she could feel him smile into her hair.

God. He smelled horribly of beer and lack of soap. Clara did her best not to audibly gag as his scent filled her nostrils. Her legs were locked and yet, when he began to drag her backwards away from her car, they moved. Probably upon instinct. In an attempt to not risk her life. "Please Jean-Paul. Please look out your window. Someone.. Anyone.. Why the hell isn't there anyone out right now?!" Clara internally screamed, panic taking over her and causing her breathing to escalate. Thankfully, he withdrew his filthy hand from her mouth as he shoved her into the brick wall of the alleyway. "Ain't you a pretty little thing..?" he drawled, running his grubby fingers on her face. It took everything in Clara to not vomit on the spot. He wasn't wearing a mask, like she'd expected her assailant to be and she quickly observed his features and cast them to memory. If she got out of this alive, she'd make sure this guy ended up behind bars.

He was repulsive. Signs of age and distress hidden beneath layers of dirt, soot and God knows what else. She swallowed hard, turning her head away from his hand. The entrance to the alleyway wasn't too far from where they stood and she could hit him and run for it. Clara's eyes flicked down to his hand. He wasn't bluffing. This deranged man had a gun, pressed into her side and if she ran, he would shoot. Clara could feel the adrenaline in her veins, pulsating as her heart palpitated in her chest faster and faster. He pressed his body against her, another object pressing into her, lower. Repulsion waved over her as she realized what it was just in time to see his filthy fucking smirk. "I'm going to have my way with you and you're gon' like it ya whore." he told her angrily, clearing having had some issues with women... and a vendetta against toothpaste.

But, he'd gone too far. The adrenaline was taking over and she was no longer thinking of her own well being. On complete instinct she looked into his eyes, spat in his face and hissed at him. "Drop dead motherfucker." He reached up to wipe his face off and gave her a grimaced look. Clara could feel him tightening his grip on the gun, but his expression changed quickly and his weight against her lightened. She watched in horror as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell straight backwards onto the hard concrete ground.

She was frozen, unsure of what had just happened, her hands instantly covering her mouth. Her legs were weak beneath her, no doubt from the adrenaline now wearing off. Off to the side, she could hear someone but, she did not look. She could not look away from the lifeless body at her feet. A gasp and a scuttle of footsteps were heard as none other than Jean-Paul stood about 10 feet from her, no doubt also staring at the body. "Clara! Are you okay?" he asked her from where he stood, unsure of what to do as well. All she could manage was a nod, much less enthusiastic than the ones she received from him not twenty minutes ago. "...Call the police" was all she could manage. She braced herself against the wall and closed her eyes. Her temples were throbbing and she felt simultaneously light headed. "What the hell just happened?"

[RedDusk]

Garrett loved his job. He truly did. But when it involved his employer and one of her infamous parties, he just wished he had taken his father’s offer to work in one of his companies.

“Look, Jane…I already said no. I just can’t come, okay? ”-He frowned, but still managed to make his tone as smooth as possible. Anger was not a feeling he familiar with, so letting it get out of control was probably not a wise thing to do. Especially at his employer.-“Remember what happened last time you threw one at my place? Took me three freaking days to get the stains off.” The female in front him winced slightly at the memory he brought up, but showing no sign of giving up. Couldn’t say he was surprise, since this was Jane, after all

“C’mon G…I just really really want you there. It has been two years since I opened this, and well, you were the only one who had been around for so long.”- She started again, her blue eyes locked with his, pleading. Garrett felt his frown deepened, but he remained silent. Or rather, he couldn’t come up with anything to response. It was true. Jane was one of the very few people he actually enjoyed talking with, and they had been friends since college. When she came up with this interest idea of opening a bar, he did help out a bit, and eventually, she hired him as bartender. So naturally, he should attend the annual anniversary of the bar. The only problem was that he didn’t want to. He liked parties, that was true, though not the ones hosted by Janes. She tended to…go over the top.

“Still no… Besides, I have a date with Charlotte.”- He said, took a small slip from the drink Jane had poured for him. So she thought alcohol would lighten his mood? How thoughtful. He watched as a smile cracked across her face.-“You’re lying. She broke up with you last week, G. Stop trying to use that as an excuse”- He hid his surprise well with a subtle rise of his brows, but they quickly creased in another frown-“How did yo…Jane, you should stop reading my messages. It was kinda, ya know, private.”-Before Jane could come up with another retort, he cut her off-“Fine. I will go to your stupid party if you want me there so bad. But just for 30 minutes, okay?"

The following morning.
NYC, 5:00 AM

That 30 minutes turned into five hours. However, Garrett did have fun. Hell, he really had the time of his life, but there was no way he was going to admit that to Jane. Not in this lifetime. She had really outdone herself this time, though. He definitely had to ask her where she got that weed later…

But the fun did come with a price. A quite heavy one. Garrett woke up on the cold floor of his kitchen, with no memory of how he got there. He groaned, blinking his eyes as he pulled himself up. Feeling a little disoriented, he leant against the counter, tried to recall the last night’s events. There wasn’t much he could remember though, just a few memories of how he got into a drinking contest and the way Jane looked when she tried to give that statue a blowjob. Heh…Now that was funny. Garrett chuckled softly to himself, before straightened himself up. Besides the monstrous headache, he was fine. His clothes was still intact and he didn’t get arrested, which was rather fine, considered what usually happened after Jane’s party. Now he would just have a cool glass of water and head to find a proper bed. Reaching for a glass from the counter, he filled it with water from the tap, then brought it up to his lips. It would be nice to have something cooler though, but there was probably no ice left in his fridge. He hadn’t been here for roughly a week. The thought just flashed through his mind, and that was all it took. When he tried to drink from his glass, it came to him that there was no water left in there. Or rather, not anymore. He muttered a curse, then reached for the switch to turn on the light. Was he still drunk? No…That was possible. He felt sober. But once he saw the glass, he had wished he wasn’t. The water had been frozen solid, even though he had just put it in there a few seconds ago.

[RutulianJoe]

It all started a couple days before she was fired. She'd got back from her last job, driving a cargo of electronics right across the country, from the West coast all the way to Dallas. She'd been driving most of the week, sleeping and eating takeout in the cab; listening to the radio when she could bear it, and driving silently when she couldn't. Like when for 90 miles the local station had alternated between a list of three different girls singing (if you could call it that) to a canned backing track, and endless political adverts spouting nonsense about the local Democrat: un-American ideas about working together to 'rebuild America'; veiled socialism, she called it.

Anyway; she'd got home yesterday, made herself a bit of supper, and gone to bed. Ordinary. Normal. Only this morning, she'd knocked a plate onto the floor, and as she tried to grab it, it just, just hung there- floating in the air, for about a second, then as she started, it dropped to the floor with a crash. Of course, she'd jumped about a foot in the air, and started to think about ghosts or that some sort of elaborate trick being played on her: then she started remembering how the alarm had turned off, even though she'd missed the button with a drowsy arm; how earlier the coffee had been closer than she thought... Maybe... maybe it had been her? For a second she stood absolutely still in the tiny kitchen, her mind blown by a shattered reality.

Then she laughed at herself, really enjoying the moment.

"Jeesus, I'm getting old! Thinkin' I can do some kinda magic, Hah!"

She finished the dishes, and brushed up the pieces of plate. She should call Claire, tell her about it for a bit of a laugh. Maybe after the next trip- after all, this one was only short; just two days driving a flatpack furniture container. She reached for her purse, then stopped. After all; it wouldn't hurt... noone was watching, all she'd do is maybe feel a little stupid.

She reached out her hand, summoning the cheap faux-leather bag- it jumped across the room into her palm.

She staggered, letting the bag drop, and leaning on the table. She could scarcely breath- What the hell? What the fucking hell? She was MAGIC now?

"Shit, shit SHIT! What the... Oh CHRIST!"

Her voice shook slightly, in wonder and fear. How on earth was she gonna pretend everything was normal to her boss? 'Oh sure, I'm totally fine, don't worry about the nervous shaking, or the fact that I can move things without touching them...' No, she'd call in sick. After all, she probably was sick- jesus, maybe she was going mad? Tentatively, she raised her hand again, and repeated her experiment with the bag. Not mad.

She sat down, and took a deep breath. First, off, she needed more coffee. Then she'd call in sick (screw the boss's scheduling), and take the day off, to... play around a little. She sat there in the little room, beaming like a little kid.

[Aries]

New York Airport, New York City
December 20th, 2013 - 11:09 P.M.
Arkadi stepped off his plane and took in the surroundings. New York city. It was what it was made out to be. A metropolis- no, the metropolis. It was perhaps the most infamous city on the globe, and it was where Arkadi planned to make his home. At least, for the time being. Walking down the steps, he took a fresh breath of air in. Here, it was not as cold as it was in Russia. He expected it to be too hot, but it was a nice temperature- bearable, for someone from such a climate.

After picking up his luggage; which consisted of a small backpack, a rucksack and a rather large suitcase, he left the airport in to the city itself. Towering buildings surrounded him in every directions, bigger than any other buildings in the world. He ushered over a taxi and clambered in. "Can you take me to the outskirts-" Arkadi said in a clearly Russian voice, but in perfect English. He had studied the language since his early youth, therefor speaking it as well as any American, albeit with the slight impediment of a strong accent. "Hmm?" The cabbie mumbled, as if to ask for more details. "The nearest Motel."

After a five minuet car journey, he arrived at a small and musty motel in the outskirts of the city. He sided out the car, leaving the cabbies money in place. He peered up to the sign which showcased the Motel's name in neon writing, some of the letters faded and one or two completley out. He entered quietly and approached the owner. "Do you have any rooms?" he asked politely. He needed someplace to stay before he could buy an apartment, though that might be a while, as his current wages- nothing- didn't have the sort of cash he needed.

He entered his room. It was cramped and small with a single bed that looked like it hadn't been changed over the last few visitors. There was a bathroom- if you could call it that. A sink that was badly implemented to hang over the toilet, and the toilet- it's lid was cracked. There was also a shower, but Arkadi had doubts about it's quality. He sighed. This was a little stressful. Though he did expect it. After he had unpacked, he felt like he should take a walk around his new hometown to release the pressure.

After taking a stroll in to the deep inner city, he found himself in Central Park. It was a pleasant place, considering it's Urban boundaries. He sat on a bench and just thought for a moment. It was getting pretty late- the sun had gone down many hours ago and he was getting tired, so he felt like he should head back. He had took the long way down the main street, and he needed to get back pretty soon, so he cut through the alleyways.

He was nearing the suburbs of New York when he spotted a man in the alleyway ahead of him. In fact- there were three. He saw no reason to disturb the men, and moved on. As he passed them, an arm grasped his. He glanced back at them. "What do you want?" he asked, as calmly as he could. "Ya' purse, ya' French fuck!" Arkadi shrugged him off and turned around. "You made a mistake in jumping me in the first place." He peered in to the first man's eyes. "But you really pissed me off when you called me French."

The man laughed. "What are you gonna' do, Frenchy?" Arkadi turned to the second man, who had said this. "I'm Russian, you fuckwit." And with that, Arkadi's closed fist swung in to his lower Jaw, knocking him out cold. The first man went to hit him, but Arkadi took his legs out with a swift kick in the shin, ending his fight by kneeing him in the nose. He turned to face the third man. "You want to try anything funny?"

The man looked at him in fear and took a small gun out of his jacket. "Hey now-" Arkadi approached him with his hands out, but the man obviously took this as an aggressive action and pulled the trigger. The bullet flew in to Arkadi's chest and he fell to the floor. The man fled, leaving without taking Arkadi's money. Arkadi gasped, blood flowing out of him. Un-fucking-believable... so this is how I die? Mugged on my first day in a new city. Last day. He thought to himself, grasping his chest, feeling himself fade away.

But then- something incredible happened. He felt his eyes come back in to focus. He felt his strength return. He felt the intense burning pain recede. Is this what death feels like? He felt a little pop in his chest, and reached down to feel a bullet had came out. He opened the buttons on his shirt and looked at his blood-stained chest. The wound was beginning to close- very surely and slowly, but nevertheless- it was closing. He just sat there for a moment, bemused.

He stood up and did up his once-white now-red shirt. He walked back towards the Motel and pondered what the hell had just happened. Well.. he did have an Idea... something similar had happened back in a boxing match in Russia...

Boxing Arena, Kazan
November 3rd, 2013 - 7:50 P.M.
This match had been going on for a while now. The opponent that Arkadi faced was perhaps the most challenging he had ever faced. He had maintained a ten match win streak, and that is a record he did not wish to end today. He delivered a punch to his opponent who blocked well, before instantly hitting back twice. He had this in his grasp, he knew it. He hit his opponent across the brow, knocking him back. He was determined to win this, there was no choice between win or lose. It was win, or win.

His opponent was no man to sit down in a fight, and after Arkadi's strong punch he replied with and even stronger lunge with battered Arkadi in the chin. Arkadi paused and waited for the right moment, going for a risky hit, which his opponent blocked and rebounded with another strong punch. Arkadi was losing, and not happy about it, he hit out again, which was responded with a block. He flinched, the opponent swung his fist in to Arkadi's face, busting his nose. Arkadi tumbled to the ground, grasping his face.

The opponent was crowned the victor, and Arkadi was sent off to the bathroom to clean up his nose. The oddity of the matter was that when he arrived, his nose wasn't bleeding. Even stranger- it didn't even hurt. Seconds ago, blood was pouring from it, now, he was none the wiser that it had even happened, in fact, he would be happy to carry on with the fight. He marked this down as a one-time occurrence, and moved on.If it were to happen again, he would have to think about it. But it probably wouldn't.

Arkadi's Motel, New York City
December 21st, 2013 - 2:24 P.M.
Could he have a gift? The ability to heal my own wounds? Arkadi returned to the Motel, thinking about his theory. After a startled look from the Motel owned, he smiled. "Oh I-" He stalled, trying to think of a reason he was splattered with blood. "Got hit by a car." He grinned. "Not used to the big roads- don't worry I am fine." The Motel owner remained utterly starstruck when Arkadi entered the room. He had just realized it was a shit excuse, but what the hell was the hotel owner going to do?

He lay on his bed and drifted off to a slumber. It had been quite a night.

[Shinsib]

Gene listed to the blaring of his alarm and rolled over. The lights on it flashed as he clenched his eyes feeling the burn from it. He rolled over and pulled himself off the cot and stood up. He was clad only in a pair of boxers and some heavy socks as he looked in the mirror. He had a few scars down his chest, one on his abdomen, and the other on his left shoulder.

He stretched and did a few warm up swings of his arms and legs before doing his moring work out. It was pretty basic, 100 squats, 100 push ups, 200 sit ups, and 20 minutes of line runs, going from one side of the room, touching the base board, and then to the other, also on the base board.

Once he finished he took his shower and tossed a few clothing in a carry on back. He pulled his .45 out of his dressing and loaded it into a carrying case, with out the amo, and slid it into a UPS approved box. He put the address of the New Your FBI office care of himself. He slide his sunglasses on, grabbed a cup of coffee and went out the door of his studio, locking it behind him.

His feet echoed off the pavement when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned in time to see an older man, homeless and dressed in rags. The man had a long bear and stern look in his eyes as he moved up to him. Gene stopped and faced him, and offered him the cup of coffee he had picked up on the way out the door, with a smile,

"Perry.. Whats to good word?"

He says tucking his hands in his pockets while Perry took a long drink out of his coffee and gave him a mostly toothless smile back,

"Nothing to report Mr. Gene. Just the usual little punk thinking the own the place and other trying to get over on them younger."

Gene nodded and handed the man his key,

"Take care of the phones for me will ya.. And P.. Don't use all the bathroom tissue this time."

Gene drops the package off at a UPS drop box on the end of the block and flagged a cab to get to the airport. The ride was uneventful, long and full of 10 minute traffic jams. Once he reached the airport he unloaded and made a bee line for the terminal. The check in lines and security were a breeze. He hated taking off his shoes and got eyes for his jacket, but with the weather in the 50's he was not alone in the bundled up crowd.

He walked down the concourse, looking over little food shops on his way to the long seat lined waiting areas where he took a seat in one of the little chairs, his eyes looking over the people coming and going, making up little stories in his head about them based upon the little observations he made about their attire and luggage.

It was silly, and he knew it ,but it was a much more interesting pass time waiting for his flight then spending the entire thing in one of those seedy airport courtesy bars. Besides that, they wanted too much for their watered down budget brands. Feeling a bit of releaf as he watched the pilot and stewardess's start to walk onto the loading dock, he knew it wouldn't be long now. He hated flying.. The crammed seats, the inconsiderate people and worst of all, the pressure that always made his ears feel like they were going to pop, but didn't.

He watched them for a moment as the pilot seemed to enjoy flirting with one stewardess in particular while they waited for the plane to get finished unloading from the incoming flight. Seeing the interaction, even with no audio, he could tell the advances were unwanted, and the other staff around them seemed to just look away at the situation. He guessed from the looks of the other three stewardesses and the copilot, that this was not a one time thing. From the lack of a press on his uniform, he could surmise that the man was most likely single, or had a girlfriend that didn't live with him. He also guessed from the stubble that he most likely didn't care much for his job or performance.

Gene scratched his cheek thinking of his own stubble now, wishing that he would have gotten a better shave that morning as he was unable to bring his straight razor with him on the flight. His eyes and mind just continued to wander as he waited for the plane.