[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/6zc773j.jpg[/img][/center] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr][center][color=silver]π•Šπ•–π•‘π•₯. 𝟜, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / π•Œπ•Šπ”Έβ„π•€π•ƒβ„• 𝔼𝕒𝕀π•₯ / / π”»π•šπ•£π•–π•”π•₯𝕠𝕣'𝕀 π•†π•—π•—π•šπ•”π•– / / πŸ™πŸ™πŸ˜πŸ˜[/color][/center][hr] Renard--or Benediction, as everyone outside of his fellow Precursors called him these days--tapped a polished, black oxford impatiently against the parquet flooring of the Director's office. The administrative building had looked as modern and clean-cut as the rest of campus from the outside, but the Director's interior decor taste clearly veered towards the traditional. Her office was a circular room jutting out above the building, ringed by a surrounding corridor paneled with large windows. The building segment was both her workplace and an entire floor for herself. And he could see why she needed the space. Sweeping half of the office's inner wall was a curving screen displaying a gridless blueprint of the entire research facility-cum-school, the white lines thin and precise against a smooth, dark surface. On the screen were a myriad of green dots, with several (he counted about 20 or 21 at a cursory glance) dots marked in eye-catching red. Her desk was two separated halves of a hollow circle, one half facing the screen, the other half facing the opposite direction, positioned to look towards two white velvet sofas lined in parallel, facing each other. Both semicircular halves of the desk boasted stacks of paper at varying heights, all neatly annotated with colored Post-It flags. Surprisingly mundane given the scale of what she had access to. The opposite wall had vectorized decals of stylized trees to form a green-hued forest centered around a six-foot image of Hephaestus's dual stag horns signature. He mused at the artistry of the decoration, vaguely surprised the infamous Director Zhang had any notion of muted colors and composition. It seemed out of place in the otherwise pragmatic office. Nearing afternoon, pale September sunlight seeped into the room from large windows, washing down the ivory walls to a clinical white. Tired of standing, Renard slumped into a sofa, his six bodyguards collecting around him. He shouldn't really be somewhere so targetable, but at the mention of Menagerie attacking, there was little choice but to come himself on the off-chance that it actually had been his former teammate. The variety of powers that existed offered the chance that Simeon could still be alive, as much as Renard doubted it. The Director herself was still occupied elsewhere, despite calling him out of the safe room they had set up for him in the basement of the administrative building. Her balding secretary had allowed him through with equal measures of awe and terror and Renard now waited as patiently as he could manage for someone in his position. Most people didn't keep borderline-Jesus waiting. Not that his power was quite so simple. Powerful, certainly, and with a visual effect equivalent to the healing often seen in video games, but simple? No. Not by a long shot. Within a short period of time, it was easier for him to heal up many injuries at once, instead of flicking his power on and off, left and right constantly on every nick and scrape. Vincent had explained to an irate Julia before that constantly healing everything was similar to turning on a computer just to type one letter into a text document and then turning it off. It wasn't an efficient use of Renard's powers, and it would only tire him in the long run. Media outlets had derided his haughty behavior on the battlefield, but of course he'd take care of serious injuries without waiting. The Precursors just rarely took any serious injuries where the media could see. Beyond the rough hour of leeway in cherry picking his heals, the further the time difference between injuries accrued and his healing determined how draining it was for him to fix the person or creature in question. And to defy the permanence of death, his limit was two days. And a week of debilitating exhaustion where his powers soundly failed to work. He had tried pushing it, had tried urging his power to do more and recover faster, but it hadn't budged in that aspect. Where his barriers were once weak, he had made them nearly impervious; where he had once struggled to heal day-old lacerations, he could now heal stage four cancer; where his range was once a paltry 10 meters, he could now repair injuries within several hundred meters, so long as he had visuals on the target. But the one thing that would not change was the resurrection. Youth, stupidity, and arrogance on his part had cost Simeon his life five years ago. In his bid for glory, Renard had dramatically resurrected a government official, recently dead in the wake of hulking monstrosities that had decimated the small island where the man had been vacationing. A truly unfortunate tale whose ending he had agreed to rewrite for the government's interests and for his publicity stunt. The Precursors had never lost a fight. Had never even taken severe damage at that point. And between the amount of suppression and power Vincent, Timmy, and Annie could lay down coupled with Julia's shared invulnerability, there was little to worry about. Or so he had thought. He shouldn't have done it so publicly. The power thief subnatural known only by the code name "Bogeyman" attacked several days later, hunting for Simeon with a puppet form that resembled a headless female torso on a grisly gown of human limbs, eyes, and mouths. An ambush. The sortied team had just fought off another of Dreamcatcher's larger terrors in an isolated section of Northern Canada. Their guards had been down. They had been tired. It was a calculated attack. All the reasons in the world, but not a single one had stopped the monstrosity from tearing through the remnants of Simeon's creations and crushing him underfoot. Vincent didn't have the time to lift something large enough to bury it, and it had still crawled dangerously fast even under Timmy's gravity fields. Annie's attacks had barely fazed it. Julia had moved to pick up Simeon, but she hadn't thought the creature would grab her and, failing to crush her in its hand, shove her into the ground instead, heaping ice and dirt above her with its movements. She couldn't get close enough to Simeon. Couldn't extend her power to save him. Vincent had shorn away as much of the ground around her as he could, even pulling on her clothes to get her closer, but they had been too slow. They hadn't accounted for the durability of the creature. The way it seemed to heal and recover in ways that built up resistances to powers that could hurt it. Simeon's body was barely recognizable as human within seconds. As if that was its only purpose, the monster had disintegrated, leaving them as quickly as it had come. Even then, they could have fixed it. Should have been able to. Renard was the fail-safe, after all. But they hadn't counted on their fail-safe, hundreds of miles away, to have failed as well. And so he had traded Simeon for a few good words in cyberspace. When the word had reached him that "Menagerie" was attacking USARILN East, he had insisted on going there. Either another resurrector existed or Bogeyman had stolen the dead Precursor's power, too. Knowing Simeon, unless mind control was involved, Renard doubted the gentle young man would have attacked a school full of children for any reason. To make matters worse, Bogeyman had been disturbingly quiet for past the few years as well, instead of his usual M.O. of showing up suddenly with puppets wielding the powers of recently deceased subnaturals--usually ones that were powerful enough to warrant Precursor attention in the past--and destroying a particular site or locale. In his wake, the trend appeared to be more X's awakening. If they hadn't caught the tail end of a fight between Cat's Cradle and one of Bogeyman's puppets before, Renard would have assumed the two parties were working in tandem. The Director had mistaken the power for that of Menagerie's, and he supposed with what she knew it was a sensible conclusion. He had come looking for a body to revive and interrogate, if need be, only to find out that she had completely obliterated it with Sem's new weapon. Irritating. And so damn convenient for her case. If her overwhelming (and rather exaggerated, in Renard's opinion) distaste for subnaturals wasn't famous countrywide, he would have suspected her of actually working with Bogeyman. As it is, the entire situation seemed to be a massive misunderstanding. They had been complacent with Bogeyman, taking his lack of action in the years following Simeon's death as some kind of indication that he targeted only the Precursors and that they could simply hide away their more vulnerable members--Sem, in particular. Now, though, they would have to refocus their efforts on hunting him down, among all the other duties the Precursors were required to handle constantly. Then there was the potential matter of public distrust now that news of the attack had leaked from the Death and Taxes forum--something the Director had immediately shut down at the DoD's command. She had enjoyed keeping an eye on the more social aspects of her research subjects, but that, unfortunately, had to end. Of course they had reamed her for the mistake in preemptively and publicly announcing Menagerie as the perpetrator, but when she claimed to have seen the Precursor herself, they had quickly ended the conversation. Now he was here, ready to revive his teammate if even a handful of flesh remained, ready to make up for his mistake five years ago. Only to hear from the Director herself that there was nothing left to bring back. So she had directed him to the hospital on his arrival, urging him to heal her select group of 'promising students.' He doubted her faith in them. They had looked more like promising letdowns, but he had humored her all the same. No need to start arguments with a Director known to shoot first and ask questions later--especially not now that she had Sem's latest weapon. That was another aspect that bothered Renard. How had Sem even managed to-- The door clicked open behind him and the crisp sound of heels tapping against the floor pulled him sharply out of his thoughts. [color=f7976a]"Director Zhang,"[/color] he greeted her, standing up slowly. [color=f7976a]"My apologies for keeping you waiting,"[/color] she took a seat at her desk, motioning for him to sit back down. When she offered no further explanation, Renard glanced to the side in annoyance before taking a seat again. [color=f7976a]"Tell me you didn't call me out here just to heal some minor injuries on a group of students who don't matter in the least,"[/color] he clicked his tongue, leaning back against the soft velvet of the sofa. [color=f7976a]"I hadn't expected you to come in place of a heavy hitter,"[/color] she shuffled through several sheets of paper on her desk, adding colored flags to certain pages. [color=f7976a]"Your rising star seemed to have handled the situation just fine."[/color] [color=f7976a]"He's not in any condition to continue fighting. Wasn't in the first place. Neither is his team."[/color] [color=f7976a]"So ask Sem to make the rest of them equipment as well,"[/color] Renard examined the skin on the back of his hand as he spoke. Dry from the cold. Peeling ever so slightly. If he could fix that with his magic, he would. [color=f7976a]"I intend to, but not for my 'rising star's' team."[/color] She tapped the stack of papers in her hand against the desk, aligning them and putting them aside carefully before pulling three thick sheets of lined stationery paper from a drawer below the desk. [color=f7976a]"And I believe the last set of requests were backlogged while Hephaestus produced more of the containment material."[/color] He grunted in response. [color=f7976a]"He's running short on supply, isn't he?"[/color] Scarlet eyes narrowed in her direction as she said it. [color=f7976a]"What makes you say that?"[/color] [color=f7976a]"Just a guess,"[/color] the Director picked through the pens jutting out diagonally from the rosewood pen stand on her desk, finally selecting a metallic ballpoint pen. [color=f7976a]"Shipments have been steadily decreasing."[/color] [color=f7976a]"...What did you call me here for?"[/color] Renard tilted his head at her, eyes fixed on the rapid movement of her writing hand. [color=f7976a]"I don't suppose you could be convinced to revive one of the two students who died yesterday?"[/color] [color=f7976a]"No."[/color] [color=f7976a]"Not even if I told you my new projects could become stronger than any Precursor?"[/color] [color=f7976a]"Definitely no."[/color] She smiled, pen still moving across the paper. [color=f7976a]"Very well. You can head back to the Pentagon now. Let them know the situation was resolved quite neatly by the new students here."[/color] [color=f7976a]"You mean your crystal manipulator."[/color] [color=f7976a]"Officially? He only provided marginal help from the side. The majority of the battle was handled relatively well by the new students. I would say they're already proving their worth."[/color] [color=f7976a]"...What are you planning? And why are you letting me know?"[/color] [color=f7976a]"Because you're the only one we know who can fix an otherwise permanent mistake. If I call on you again to help them, I'll expect you to respond."[/color] [color=f7976a]"You're resting a lot of hopes on me like I have the time to care about your personal favorites."[/color] [color=f7976a]"You'll make the time, Benediction. I just thought it would be polite to let you know beforehand."[/color] [color=f7976a]"I think you're forgetting that the USARILNs are just glorified prisons and you're just a glorified prison warden. Don't overstep your role, [i]Director[/i],"[/color] he enunciated the last word distinctly before sweeping out of the room in a rush of guards and rapid steps. Director Zhang didn't bother watching him leave, turning back to the three letters she was writing to the families of the deceased subnaturals. The soldiers would get military funerals and other officials would work with volunteers and law enforcement to notify their next of kin, but she couldn't, with respect to her position, devote a team to handling notifications of death for subnaturals. Word would spread. Her reputation would be ruined. So she used more indirect lines, sending them anonymously through trustworthy contacts, all vetted by Fredric. Frequently. And that was the extent of her current authority. It would have to do. She abused the same template frequently--sincerely regret, killed in action, deepest condolences, necessary sacrifices--but at the very least she would see to it personally. As far as she could tell from outside contacts, the consensus was that a subnatural from campus sent the death notifications in secret, defying the Director herself and risking punishment. For the families that appreciated it, it was some paltry amount of much-needed closure. For the families that couldn't be bothered to care, it was just more spam mail. Either way, it helped her cope with the decisions she made. It would have to do. [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr][center][color=silver]π•Šπ•–π•‘π•₯. 𝟜, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / π•Œπ•Šπ”Έβ„π•€π•ƒβ„• 𝔼𝕒𝕀π•₯ / / π”»π•šπ•£π•–π•”π•₯𝕠𝕣'𝕀 π•†π•—π•—π•šπ•”π•– / / πŸšπŸ›πŸ˜πŸ˜[/color][/center][hr] Brent Roless and Emma Halwell. The Director noted the two names, her usually busy procedure paused in contemplation at the latest series of events. She had sent Fedric to take care of the aftermath, but wondered at what Clark had truly wanted to do. How the USARILNs took care of subnatural corpses was generally confidential information, but certain solutions came to mind even without administrative knowledge--subnaturals weren't given graves or burials so it stood to reason that the bodies were either cremated or disposed of with methods to circumvent something like a corpse landfill--or Bogeyman. It just so happened that her method empowered a particular student's pet at the same time. Appalling, perhaps, but at least the bodies went to better use than ashes and maggot fodder. She hadn't thought Clark minded the process so much that he would attempt to expose it--indeed, his impromptu tour of the containment chambers had seemed mostly pointless to her: the students knew the rooms existed, so that wasn't a secret to be revealed. They also knew Hector existed. The only true revelation had been the disposal of the recent corpses. And the disappearance of the marks on the dead bodies, which had certainly persisted. Until a certain point. But even that could be explained away with a number of lies. The body disposal was shocking, but certainly not something worth incurring her wrath over if any student bothered to put thought into the potential ways the USARILNs [i]could[/i] dump the dead. So what had Clark been after? The Stigma-eating subnatural had been showing signs of strain for the longest time, but she had believed him smarter than that. Smarter than the idiot who had shown two new and unsuspecting students a small fragment of the horrors that the Institute kept in check. Now he was allowed to remain in Hector's containment chamber, since the room had already been modified enough to accommodate more regular needs. Soon enough, it would be further adjusted for two occupants, since Clark's body often required more careful upkeep. She wouldn't be allowing Clark out of the underground room for some time, given his behavior. He hadn't taken the news well when Benediction admitted that Clark's condition wasn't one that could be healed--by the Precursor's power at least. [color=f7976a]"It's not actually damage,"[/color] the powerful subnatural had clarified. [color=f7976a]"Not to my power, at least."[/color] And so the boy had watched as his last hope had shrugged and walked away. She had expected self-harm or crippling depression. Had ordered the guards to treat him with utmost care and only to use force if he would hurt himself. How that had backfired. Now the placement with Hector was dual-purposed. Clark's movements would be restricted and if his condition progressed rapidly and without warning, Hector could handle him. It wasn't an ideal situation. Without Clark, she would have to dispose of the 20 X's she kept underground. Their chances of progressing as successfully as Hector had--[i]while remaining sane[/i]--were too low to risk the uncontrollable destruction some of them could cause, especially the ones that wouldn't die to normal means. Hector had lied when he had claimed no memory of the moment he became an Animus, but his otherwise "helpful" behaviors convinced the Director that he was worth keeping around. Having an Animus under her control was something of an achievement, even if she couldn't publicly share it just yet and even if she had to expend far more resources and warm bodies to make sure Hector remained under her control. Kardos had suggested torture, to get the answer out of the boy, but that would only incite him to turn Miranda against the Institute and they'd be forced to kill him before he could be forced to answer. Hephaestus's gun was an option, but one she'd prefer to withhold for now. Its effects needed further testing and she didn't need to accidentally kill one of the rare Animi that could loosely be considered "on their side." An impasse, then. One she would find some way to deal with at a more convenient time, when there weren't transfer students to manage and sheer chaos to keep in check. [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/6zc773j.jpg[/img][/center] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr][center][color=silver]π•Šπ•–π•‘π•₯. 𝟝, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / π•Œπ•Šπ”Έβ„π•€π•ƒβ„• 𝔼𝕒𝕀π•₯ / / π”»π•šπ•£π•–π•”π•₯𝕠𝕣'𝕀 π•†π•—π•—π•šπ•”π•– / / 𝟘𝟑𝟘𝟘[/color][/center][hr] The Director's computer screen drowned in browser tabs displaying the latest headlines from different media outlets, all variations of "Precursor attacks USARILN East" with subtitles in shades of "What does this mean for the future of subnatural and human relations?" She wasn't surprised that the government had run with the story of "Precursor rebellion" rather than admit they had been lying for the past five years--it always came down to petty politics in the end, even if the implications that they couldn't control their main team was, arguably, worse than the confession that they had lost a Precursor five years ago to poor planning. On her current tab: a news report about protests breaking out across college campuses in defense of subnatural civil rights, decrying the summary execution of a Precursor known only to be endearingly kind. A photograph of bright-eyed men and women with Band-Aids across their right temples and cross-shaped tape or adhesives over the base of their throats accompanied a long article about the latest fashion trend in defiance of the law banning any "indistinguishable" attempt to imitate the markings of subnaturals. After [i]Wallace v. United States[/i], a Supreme Court case that had decided the extent to which the law applied as far as "indistinguishable markings" were allowed, the court had ruled in favor of the plaintiff, allowing the young man's pink face paint as "distinguishable enough from established features found on [i]lusus naturae[/i]." That had set the precedent for several ways of circumventing the law, and now it was common knowledge that people couldn't be arrested for silly tape and adhesive gauze. [i]Stare decisis[/i] applied for almost all cases involving the face and throat markings, with only permanent tattoos and careful replication of the markings grounds for punishable offense. And so the world had turned, ever so slightly. The divide was blurred enough that protests were cropping up more and more frequently lately, and with the Precursor team the most obvious source of recent salvation, the initial hatred and distrust of subnaturals had simmered down to suspicious ambivalence. Before the fear-stricken public could demand the genocide of all subnaturals held in the USARILNs in the wake of news about a rebelling Precursor, they needed to see an alternative solution--needed to see more potential "heroes" than just the weary ten. It was a way to dampen the uproar: losing one "good guy" when the world only had ten official ones to spare was worthy of mass hysteria. But what if there were more designated "good guys"? Enough to show the growing public interest in subnatural rights that there was something more to subnaturals than just dangerous monsters to lock up and murder. Something to work with. It was a small turning point, but Zhang had never failed to strike while the iron was hot, especially not now that a group of exceptions had fallen so cleanly into her hands. She would use them until there was nothing left, and if they survived it all, perhaps the world could move past the dead end war it was currently fighting. [color=f7976a]"You're not serious,"[/color] Kleinfelder laughed loudly in her ear, the sound crystal clear and incredibly infuriating through her bluetooth headset. [color=f7976a]"This is quite a proposal, Director Zhang. You might be jumping the gun here."[/color] Scoval, in a rare moment of agreement with Kleinfelder. [color=f7976a]"A Precursor has rebelled. If there was a gun to jump, I'd consider this right on time."[/color] [color=f7976a]"You don't really think I'm going to agree to this, do you?"[/color] Kleinfelder howled with laughter again and it took her every ounce of willpower she had not to cut him off. She had to humor him this time. [color=f7976a]"Relying on just one team of subnaturals has cost us too much over the past few years. Officially sanctioning other teams under USARILN supervision would significantly alleviate the burden on the Precursors,"[/color] she replied smoothly, the rebuttal prepared and practiced. [color=f7976a]"What burden on the Precursors? They've been fine. Haven't failed anything yet. Sparrow just needs to keep them in the air forever and there's no way they'd lose. That screw up with Garrote was a one-time thing,"[/color] the damn man dismissed the issue like he was talking about a minor itch. She should have known. USARILN West faced measly threats and was overloaded with borderline useless subnaturals--the ones who got the shortest straws in Dreamcatcher's lottery. Abilities that couldn't even be put to use for utility purposes outside of some sad comedy routine. [color=f7976a]"Even if Sparrow kept them 'in the air forever,' they can't be in every place that needs help at once, and this past year--"[/color] [color=f7976a]"You're proposing an entire paradigm shift, Director Zhang. If a Precursor would rebel, what's stopping your 'officially sanctioned subnatural team' from doing the same?"[/color] [color=f7976a]"Nothing. But I'm looking towards the future, Director Scoval,"[/color] Zhang's hands slid over her desk towards the top right drawer, where her colored contacts lay in neat rows of circular, plastic packages. She flicked open a new pack, sliding the contacts onto her eyes, [color=f7976a]"And all three of us know this can't continue indefinitely."[/color] [color=f7976a]"Oh? Care to explain your reasoning, Director?"[/color] There was a clinking of glass against glass on Scoval's end, a rustle of clothing, and the heavy creak of a sturdy chair. His voice was a touch louder when he next spoke. [color=f7976a]"If you want our consent to submit the plan to the DOD, you'll need to provide us with harder figures than the loose logic we've been dancing on for the past half hour."[/color] [color=f7976a]"I could have my secretary forward you the number of students we've lost in just this past year compared to previous years. I could bring up the increasingly powerful monsters stirring all around the world and their rising frequency. I could point at the constant threats posed by the several category fours that persistently escape death to recover and resume attacking their respective territories. And this is all without counting casualties from rogue subnaturals. Cat's Cradle. The Senators. Amigos. ...Fracture. ...You wanted harder figures? Look at the number of people we've lost ever since the Slumber. Over two billion dead in the span of ten years. And it's only getting worse. Kleinfelder would deny the Earth is round just to spite me, but even he can't disagree that the monsters have been slowly gaining the advantage. Their sheer numbers have been thinned down over the years, but the remaining creatures are the most tenacious."[/color] [color=f7976a]"And you think officially sanctioning a team of teenagers under your command is going to change any of that?"[/color] Kleinfelder's scoff was a hair away from touching on a nerve. [color=f7976a]"It would help more than holding back and sending out subnaturals only as a last resort. Use them as a first resort. We have the strongest weapons in our hands and the world is too prejudiced to see the logic in completely utilizing them. Don't kid yourself, Kleinfelder. We can't cuff every damn subnatural--and not only because some of them have powers that prevent it. There's a boiling point to everything, even with the relative freedom we give them at the USARILNs."[/color] [color=f7976a]"If I didn't know better, I'd accuse you of planning this entire surprise attack for the express purpose of elevating yourself,"[/color] a chuckle as Kleinfelder ignored her reasoning once again. [color=f7976a]"I'm certainly taking advantage of the ramifications, but any half-wit could figure that out."[/color] Kleinfelder's laugh stopped at that and he continued in a low voice. [color=f7976a]"You want my approval, lady? Then tone down the attitude. You're asking us to use the freaks as...what...first responders? Fucking law enforcement when things go wrong? It's bad enough we have to rely so heavily on the ten original monsters, but you want to start ingratiating them with society, too? Where the hell does it end, then? Kadabra doing construction work with his powers next? Newton terraforming for new residential plots?"[/color] Zhang paused at the thought of the almighty Precursors performing mundane tasks, surprise in the wide-eyed look she directed at the massive tracking screen on her office's wall. She stared at something beyond that, her gaze unfocused. [color=f7976a]"Director Zhang?"[/color] Scoval's gruff voice reminded her that she had some rhetorical questions to deal with. She took a breath. [color=f7976a]"My apologies, Director Kleinfelder. That was out of line."[/color] The stunned silence gave her the chance to try again. [color=f7976a]"I am asking for my fellow Directors' agreement in establishing the USARILNs as more than just prisons for subnaturals. They can be used for more than just wasting resources in indefinite detention with smatterings of use as emergencies declare. The Institutes themselves can [i]be[/i] more, but we have to start somewhere. I am willing to lay my position on the line to test what [i]may be[/i]. If anything goes wrong, full responsibility lies with USARILN East. The recent emergency has only provoked public apprehension and the belief that all subnaturals are not to be trusted, now that a tried-and-true Precursor has turned. If we do not act to counter this while opinions have yet to cement, we lose our only means of effectively combating the creatures. The world will eventually call for their deaths or more permanent restrictions and in the face of mob mentality we [i]will[/i] lose. So far we have staved off a two-front war with both subnaturals and Dreamcatcher's monsters by not pushing the subnaturals to a breaking point. But if the situation escalates to where they have nothing left to lose.... You imply that I'm suggesting a potentially harmful paradigm shift, but the far-reaching consequences of inaction here will prove infinitely more destructive. I know you hate me, Director Kleinfelder, but just this once look past me and listen to what I'm saying. I don't want this world to go to hell any more than you do."[/color] The two of them remained quiet for some time, and she heard the clinking of glass on Scoval's end again. The sound of liquid pouring. Kleinfelder crinkled something that sounded like a foil wrapper. [color=f7976a]"You know, even [i]if[/i] we agree that won't stop the DOD from shutting the idea down if they don't like it,"[/color] Kleinfelder finally spoke after some time, his mouth full. [color=f7976a]"But I guess that's your hard work down the drain, not mine."[/color] Scoval gulped down another mouthful of his drink. [color=f7976a]"We'll send the paperwork over to you, Director Zhang,"[/color] he clarified Kleinfelder's skewed admission of agreement before continuing, [color=f7976a]"I assume you have a group in mind for this already?"[/color] [color=f7976a]"Certainly."[/color] [color=f7976a]"Then good luck."[/color] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/6zc773j.jpg[/img][/center] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr][center][color=silver]π•Šπ•–π•‘π•₯. 𝟞, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / π•Œπ•Šπ”Έβ„π•€π•ƒβ„• 𝔼𝕒𝕀π•₯ / / π”»π•šπ•£π•–π•”π•₯𝕠𝕣'𝕀 π•†π•—π•—π•šπ•”π•– / / 𝟘𝟠𝟘𝟘[/color][/center][hr] A [url=https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B1oRIr8nIEQZTDYxcHJRV3E4eEU/view?usp=sharing]ten-page report[/url] from Kardos sat beside the Director's computer when she arrived in her office that morning, reviewing in brief the powers and capabilities of the 17 students who had been sent to the battlefield on their first day, as well as an addendum on several others. She flipped through the notes and charts, taking them more as snapshots in time for the relevant students. Some took years to develop more adept use and control of their powers and some managed it within weeks. It all varied so heavily on factors as unquantifiable as innate talent and the type of power granted that most of the USARILN researchers had stopped extrapolating too far into the future. There was only so much control they could exert over how the students progressed. That much was abundantly clear in the heavily sedated students belowground. When she placed the set of papers back down, something caught beneath the tenth page, preventing the pages from lying flat against the table. On the other side were several Post-It notes covered in carefully spaced, meticulously even handwriting. Two of them curled forward at the corners--the reason the report had seemed to prop itself upward at the center. She peeled off the notes, reading them in the descending order originally set by Commander Kardos. [quote]"All that being said, Director, if you would be so kind as to take into consideration a more personal note: if Ms. Schur’s ramblings are to be believed, these students would be considered too dangerous to live by the Department of Defense. Ms. Schur has noted marked development of their powers in ways no other recorded subnatural has achieved before, and this from just one successful encounter. Unless different measures are put in place to ensure they do not become targets of nationwide terror, I cannot foresee a lasting future for them, even under USARILN East’s relative protection. My recommendation to form a government-sanctioned team stands if you are at all interested in preserving this group for future use."[/quote] A soft beeping from her phone alerted her to a message from the team in charge of keeping an eye on Death and Taxes. The administrators had moved the forum to a private chatroom instead, weeding out much of the original members and holding on to only a core group, clearly to avoid any further shutdowns from rapidly spreading news. Further, the scope of participants was now limited to USARILN East--a decision in line with the emergency. Small movements, for now. She turned back to the Post-It notes, face unreadable as she stared at the last message. [quote]"Mr. Francisco found something per your orders. Another subnatural was interfering with his ability, but he managed to glean a recurring phrase: 'Unravel the dreams from their vessels. Call down Utopia beyond the sky.' "[/quote] [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr][center][color=silver]π•Šπ•–π•‘π•₯. 𝟞, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘 / / π•Œπ•Šπ”Έβ„π•€π•ƒβ„• 𝔼𝕒𝕀π•₯ / / 𝔸𝕣𝕓𝕠𝕣𝕖π•₯π•¦π•ž / / 𝟚𝟚𝟚𝟝[/color][/center][hr] How was he meant to just go back to his room with everything going on? The September night air stung slightly as Aaron tread through the arboretum. The occasional rustling from the trees spooked him from time to time but he had convinced himself that the local wildlife was just very active at night. His gaming devices had been left back at the suite. Between all the grinding and exploring, there wasn't enough room to just [i]think[/i]. Angel was agitated as of late, despite the cheery dinner she had invited her team to. He'd only known the singer for a few days but he could see that it was a gradual descent. There was more and more anger bubbling under the surface every time they'd meet. Sometimes it came out in minor eruptions, like yesterday. But even if she lashed out at him, she was a friend. A friend he couldn't help but worry about. He kicked a conifer cone away from his feet, trying to brainstorm ways to... He wasn't quite sure what he needed to do. Help Angel feel better? Try to keep his team from falling further apart? Move on from the death of his roommate? A clockwork set of shifting armor plates connected by thin framing at the gaps hovered nearby as he fiddled aimlessly with the control panel floating along with him. Something to combat the fog in his own mind as he sifted through the avalanche of emotions and delayed reactions of the past few days. He had been ruminating on his battlefield mistakes, coming to terms with the necessity of preparation and forethought his power required and testing the limits of his constructs. So far, a set of steampunk armor seemed to be a decent idea prior to a fight, though with the suppression cuffs on he couldn't quite get as many plates of armor up as he would like. One set to put on without needing further control, and it would provide him enough protection to focus on deterring threats with a second clockwork construct. If he could make bigger things, Aaron would have considered a clockwork creation that could double as a roving, miniature bunker for him to command his drones from. He had a plethora of ways to utilize his creatures--he just needed to make sure he could manage the controls all at once, which shone light on the possibility that perhaps someone else could take command of a console. He had never tried the idea, but resolved to test at a later date. His steps grew more agitated the more time he had to his thoughts, and his fiddling with the control panel of the hollow armor suit increased in response, the wires holding the breastplate in place shifting the piece up and down haphazardly and tugging on the entire frame of the torso section. A thin fog rolled at his ankles. The nights at East weren't like his town. They were windier, for one thing, more clouded than anything his town would ever go through. Much foggier now too. And there was none of that constant, infernal rustling. Before he knew it, Aaron could see the distant city lights at the edge of the arboretum. He stared, transfixed by a memory of better times. [color=f7976a]"We could help you go out there...freely,"[/color] a velvety voice crooned. Aaron jumped away, the clockwork creation latching onto his body with a few quick taps on the panel as he spun to meet the source of the voice. His instincts hadn't failed him this time. Within seconds, Aaron's upper body was encased in a golden suit of mechanical armour. His bulky, plated fists were brought up in a rough battle stance. In front of him stood a man in dark, form-fitting body armour, tall and lithe. Dozens of throwing knives were strapped in belts crossing the stranger's chest. In twin holsters on the man's waist were two hatchets, the one on the right considerably larger than its counterpart. But his most striking features were the black and gold checkered mask on his face, and the dark X on his throat. The fog swirled around them, thickening as if responding to the incoming fight. He was definitely an enemy. With a determined shout and a quick depression of one of the control panel buttons, Aaron surged forward, his fists flying forward from a combination of his own action and the rockets attached to the wrists of the armour. He was far from a trained combatant but hopefully the enhancements of the clockwork would provide him with enough speed to nail this guy. Unfortunately not. The enemy was impossibly acrobatic, twisting and tumbling through the air as he dodged Aaron's blows with an effortless grace. And all the while the trickster seemed to be chuckling. Aaron felt rage flare up and he put more zeal into his swings. The one-sided duel continued a few moments more until a sharp pain in his thigh brought the student to the ground. The man had thrown a knife at him, catching flesh in the gaps of the leg plates. As he fell, more knives embedded themselves into his calves and sides, expertly thrown to wedge where armor didn't protect him. Aaron cried out in agony, reaching for the control panel to send the clockwork construct towards the man by itself, even as he realized the thin, wire frame supporting the construct's main body wouldn't yield any solid attacks. Another knife skewered his palm. With no options left, he attempted to crawl away. [color=gold]"Th-there's someone here!"[/color] he coughed feebly, hoping, [i]begging[/i] that whoever managed the suppression cuffs' controls would hear his pleas, [color=gold]"Aaron Erikson! Please help me, I'm in the--"[/color] A different person stepped out from the shadows and blocked his passage. It was a woman in her mid-twenties with thick fog billowing out from underneath her deep red cloak. The black X seemed to be more pronounced in the moonlight that glanced across her pale throat. Her expression was solemn. Before he could say anything to her, Aaron was roughly kicked onto his back with a knife to his throat. [color=f7976a]"Get rid of the machinery, child. Or I push a little harder."[/color] The knife sunk deeper to support the threat, enough to draw a thin line of blood. Aaron didn't dare nod. The golden armour dissipated, drawing a wide smile from his attacker. The man addressed his partner, examining his new catch as he spoke. [color=f7976a]"The boy is far too fresh to get any decent readings. But I believe Linus will be able to wring something out of him. Eventually."[/color] The eyes behind the mask held a menacing glint as they gazed at Aaron's cuff. With his spare hand the stranger fiddled with a small hatchet. He turned to the woman and for the briefest moment Aaron thought he saw a minute [url=http://i.imgur.com/5faco8d.jpg]tattoo[/url] printed on the back of the man's left auricle: a broken circle ringed by disconnected lines from which several arching tendrils spread. The longest of the tendrils hung downward, scooping towards the junction where the bottom of the outer ear cartilage met the thin flesh of the scalp. [color=f7976a]"Hold him down, dear, there's just one more precaution we need to take."[/color] Aaron's screams went unheard in the unnatural fog. The only noise heard by the guards was the screeching of a cuff alarm ten minutes later, the alarm of a suppression cuff attached to a cleanly severed foot. [center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center] [hr] [hider=Intermission: Ground Zero] A large expanse of barren earth with clear marks of destruction left over in the form of craters and large gouges in the ground spanned almost the length of USARILN East. Stranger patches of ground had consolidated into unnatural sludge or glassy-smooth terrain. Amidst all this, the half-ruined buildings and people milling around seemed out of place. [i]Very[/i] out of place. Where a crater should have continued or a mark should have extended, the large chunk of a partial city seemed to overlay itself like a bad cut-and-paste across reality: a fake city that covered almost the entire area designated as the β€œviolent release zone.” Students with permission wandered in at will, the cuffs automatically announcing their temporary deactivation. Due to the unique circumstances surrounding what was Ground Zero, students who wished to regularly visit were required to fill out specfic forms for frequent, unsupervised access. The guards couldn't be arsed to escort a black X everytime their stigma started bothering them. The recreation of the town section replicated a moment in the aftermath of destruction, frozen in a groundhog day loop of time. Blank street signs and unlabeled cars lay scattered and broken across the shattered asphalt while the torn and mangled bodies of people littered the roads of what seemed to be the business section of an unknown metropolis. Survivors stained with blood and dirt shambled in circles, never exceeding the barrier of their unreal existences. In the center of it all was a large tower constructed from impossibilityβ€”it twisted and turned as a rough spiral, winding upwards in fragments of city and people towards a large, circular platform high above the looping city section. A black-haired girl with a prominent X across her throat sat rigidly there, staring into nothingness with wide brown eyes, unblinking. The small and short-lived hype around her had led the media to calling her Template, because a copy of her was found directly below the unreal tower, lower body crushed by a truck that had fallen to its side, the X on her throat the telling sign of what she was. Sparse information had accompanied her captureβ€”if capture was the right word for it. One of USARILN West’s teams had found the strange projection of five or so city blocks and had β€˜apprehended’ the subnatural without issue. When the ghostly body moved, the projection disappeared, leaving behind only the ruined real body preserved in the moment of its death and the apparition beside it. The problem with tracking had quickly become apparent, however. Every reset at 24 hours within the projection, along with resetting all changes, removed the cuff placed on the main bodyβ€”complete disappearance, and the specter form wasn’t tangible. Then people had started leaving personal effects in the field and lost those, too, when the reset occurred around them. It was fortunate, then, that the reset never seemed to harm living things, buildings and humans snapping into corporeality only when nothing living was within the space they occupied on recreation. Compounding the ease of maintenance, the girl’s ghost never moved as long as the main body wasn’t taken beyond the field of effect, but Kleinfelder had decided not to risk any issues at his little piece of subnatural paradise and had sent the possible tracking risk to Zhang, who had quickly found a use for her as a more visceral way for the usual fare of violent students to release their unhealthy frustrations. The initial plan had been to simply kill her, as the tracking issue proved more trouble than she was worth. But killing a ghost was something they were still trying to figure out. Complete obliteration of the main body had done nothing, and it had simply been recreated once the reset ran its course. The ghost body seemingly took damage from nothing, though certain powers had caused it and the surrounding projection to temporarily disappear, only for it to reappear some time later despite what they had considered total annihilation. Somewhere to her, there was a trick to figure out, but Zhang had stopped wasting resources on that when it seemed to placate the more unstable subnaturals. The ghost girl hadn’t moved much in five years, though the occasional accident here and there had forced personnel to move the projection’s center back squarely onto Ground Zero. With her, they had to resort to the old-fashioned ways of tracking something: staring at it in shifts. The guards on that particular duty essentially watched grass grow. Now, Template was more or less a fixture at USARILN East, though her nickname was a bit less known. β€œGround Zero ghost” was the more common moniker among the veteran students. [/hider]