Dale Jacobs, Director of the Haborvale branch of Phoenix Security, hung up the phone and activated the station's intercom. "Everyone, get to the break room. We just got a job." He pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick text, then sent a quick e-mail.

He gave them a couple of minutes to gather there, then walked to the break room himself. With the time dilation part of his powers in use it took him a leisurely stroll of less than a second to arrive. "Ok," he said, returning to normal time. "Here's what we know. One hour ago Cyrus Pharmaceuticals was attacked by a former employee, a pyrokinetic who claimed that she was getting revenge "for what he'd done to them", whatever that means. They managed to drive her off, but his office was burned and his security is now watching him 24/7. I even sent Greg to back them up. Oscar's already been briefed. I sent him an email with everything Cyrus sent me, which wasn't much. Oscar?"

---

Chris was in the break room when the announcement went out, crushing ice with his powers as a nervous habit. His last attempt to build a working personal forcefield for use in the field had failed yet again. He simply couldn't find a power source that was small enough. If only the portable fusion reactors Mars Corp was working on were a working technology, but they could be years away from a viable prototype.

At least the bowl full of tiny ice chips would come in handy. He grabbed the different kinds of snow cone syrup from the fridge and started filling up bowls with ice. "Snow cone?" he asked the first person to enter the room.

---

Greg Jacobs was only a block away from Cyrus Pharmaceuticals, buying a hotdog from a stand, when he got a text from his dad telling him to head over there. He paid the man, then flew upwards and over the crowd with his hotdog, scarfing it down before landing in front of Cyrus's main office. He went inside and walked up to the front desk. "Hello, I'm Greg Jacobs, from Phoenix. Mr. Cyrus just hired us."

The receptionist nodded, and walked over to the elevator, opening it with a retinal scan, as it had been bio-metrically locked after the attack. Greg took it up to the 15th floor, the 16th having just been seriously damaged, and was lead by security to a conference room where Jean Cyrus was working on a laptop, his desktop having been destroyed in the attack. He motioned for Greg to come over and take a seat as he finished a phone call, and Greg noticed another, shirtless guard was already there.

@Caecillus@CMDR Melander

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---

Tamsen is a sweet woman; for the week or so that Connor’s been working her case, that much has been made obvious by the proffered plates of cookies and the small army of well-behaved cats that nuzzle his feet whenever he walks through the door. She always takes the time to ask how he’s been, and to enquire after ‘that strange young man’ she spoke to on the phone. Of course, it’s at that point Connor has to enquire which one because, as is implied by their profession and speciality, there’re a lot of ‘strange young men’ at Phoenix Security and Investigations.

Of course, Connor thinks, standing opposite the peeling olive-toned paint of her second story apartment door, even the sweetest people have secrets.

Even the sweetest people tell lies.

He rings the doorbell, and she answers quickly – eyes crinkling in a smile as she greets him warmly and leads him into the kitchen, where he assumes his usual place in the chair facing the door at her small spindly table. She offers him tea, which he accepts graciously even though he hasn’t drunk much of the stuff outside of this apartment since he was eight years old, visiting Scotland on a family vacation.

As Tamsen busies herself with the kettle, Connor allows his gaze to shift, resting just outside the double glazing of the kitchen window. You can’t see much; it’s just a brown brick wall bordering the other side of an alley (which, Connor assumes, must be home to countless shady dealings.), but the first cracks of sunlight are visible. It’s morning, he realises with a strange, heady rush; a new day, despite what the grit beneath his eyelids and the exhaustion resting in his bones are telling him.

He looks up as Tamsen takes the seat opposite him, smiles as she sets down a heavily chipped mug decorated with a picture of a smiling young woman on it – it’s one of those custom ones that kodak stalls in supermarkets do. Cheesy, probably a gift, “Thanks,” Connor says, pulling it closer and breathing in the tweedy scent, “I like the mug – my dad’s got ones like these of me from when I was a kid, he likes this sort of stuff.”

She chuckles softly, “Looks like me and your dad’ve got something in common then – it’s my daughter, Lucy. She’s a good girl, strong head on her shoulders like her pops.” She takes a sip of her drink, then looks him dead in the eye, “alright then, out with it. I know that look – you’ve got something.”
He glances down, down at the tea stained table, down at the crack in the tiles on the floor, down away from those, honest, kind eyes. For a second, he lets it not be real, lets the product of his all-nighter never have been found, lets Tamsen be a kind, elderly woman who’s accepted him into her home and is eager to hear about the results of her case, and nothing more. But then, the second ends, and reality comes crashing down, “Yeah, err, I do, actually,” he pauses, meets her eye once more, “Lucy Townsend.”

For a split-second, she looks stricken, but she schools her expression with ease. Luckily, Connor’s been studying faces long enough to catch it, and her words do little to mitigate its impact, “You mean my daughter?”

“I think we both know who I mean, Miss Townsend.”

She frowns, places her cup a little too hard on the table top, “Are you quite all right dear?” she leans over to try and place a hand on his arm, he jerks away. Any veneer of concern melts. “So, you figured it out, huh?”
“It wasn’t difficult, really,” he stands, moves conspicuously out of arm’s reach, pastes a cocky grin over his face, “well, maybe it was a little difficult. But still, nothing a couple of all-nighters and a hell of a lot of caffeine couldn’t fix. And to think – this was supposed to be an easy case, tracking down a rogue employee for a concerned shop owner. Nothing too invasive, just checking if she was okay.”

He moves closer towards the door, subtle, so she doesn’t notice, too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions brought about by his revelation, “You accounted for everything. Take over your mother’s body using your power, use it to hire a PI to check on your ex, bypassing the restraining order she had against you. It was a good plan, if it weren’t for the mugs.”

She looks up, somewhat surprised, all traces of her earlier demeanour gone, “The mugs?”

He nods, a strange satisfaction blooming. It was a good spot, even he’s willing to admit that much to himself, “The mugs. Or, more specifically, the chips in the mugs. You see, Lucy, you’re not the only one who can lie, and your mom was doing it too, before you effectively body-snatched her that is.”

“I don’t- “

The satisfaction quickly fades though, “I hate to tell you this, really I- “and shit, this is starting to hit close to home. He swallows the emotion though, pushes it away to deal with later, and continues, “your mom’s got Parkinson’s disease, Lucy.”
Her face is blank, eerily still.

“It was early days. Just the shakes, at this point,” he nods to the thick crack in the kitchen floor – a river of white in the dusty rose tiles. “I’m assuming she went to the doctor after that happened. But she dropped things before that. A lot. And… her hands shook. Yours don’t.”
Lucy can barely respond. She looks numb. Connor’s heart aches for her.

“H-how did you-?”

“She had a letter from her doctor, at the bottom of a drawer. After noticing the mugs and the floor, I went digging.”

Silence hangs.

“You know,” Connor says gently, “you’re going to get in trouble for this, right? There’s not really anything anyone can do to protect you at this point. You-you went too far.”

She nods. She doesn’t look at him.

“Why?”

“I love her,” and from her voice, Connor knows she does, “I didn’t… I didn’t think it would- “she swears, loudly, “will I have to go to prison?”

“I don’t know, it depends on what the judge says.”

“Will you call the police?”

He nods. And then, when she lunges towards him, hands stretched out in a last-ditch effort to escape, he does, after escaping through the door and locking it behind him.

He slides to the floor, where he finds that the green carpet is softer than the thoughts in his head so focuses on that instead.

For half an hour Lucy bangs at the wood with weak, frail fists. For half an hour, he ignores her.

And then the police arrive, so Connor leaves, and now the only thought in his head is that Oscar is going to be pissed when he finds out what happened here. So much for an easy case that only really needed one man.

Not much he can do about it now. He pushes it away, he gets back to work.

---

He gets a whole half hour in before something new comes up.

His fingers are clattering over the, somewhat worn, keys of his keyboard as he works on his report, when the familiar crackle of the intercom cuts into the ‘alpha-wave enhancing compilation’ he always puts on in the background whilst he works. His earphones clatter across his, increasingly cluttered, desk as he pulls them out to listen.

The director’s voice is somewhat distorted when it comes through, but the words are no less clear, "Everyone, get to the break room. We just got a job."

Excitement stirs at the back of Connor’s mind, cutting through the dim haze that’s settled thanks to the golden combination of monotonous report writing, sleep deprivation, and severe caffeine withdrawal.

He stands, curiosity piqued, and makes his way to the break room.

---

The sight that greets him is… not quite what he expected.

Snow cones. Bright colours oddly jarring in the brightly lit, but still somehow grey-looking break room that Connor could swear hasn’t changed a jot since his first day, bright eyed and bushy tailed, working part time as what was essentially a clerical assistant.

It takes him a second to register Chris’s presence in the room, and a few more seconds to process his offer of – “Snow Cone?”

He blinks, before plastering a grin on his face – that’s how people react when they’re offered food, right? Chris, who Connor can’t help but sometimes refer to in his head as ‘the tech dude’, has always seemed like all right guy, as much as Connor’s encountered him so far at Phoenix, if a little antsy.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Connor says, grabbing one and taking a seat at the table near Chris, “thanks.” He tilts back onto two legs absently, the back of the chair coming to lean against the wall, “So, you got any idea what this ‘new job’s’ about?”

---

---

Oscar Soames, 9:30 AM (approximately).
Phoenix Security Building - Harborvale.
Break Room.

The day had started slow. At least, when he'd arrived into the building it seemed as slow as a Monday morning afforded to be. He'd gone through his morning routine before that email marked 'URGENT!' had thrown a wrench into everything. After a quick skim, some brief research notes and a scour of local news websites about Jean Cyrus or Cyrus Pharmaceuticals, Oscar felt a little glad seeing no new stories immediately spring to life. If this was contained, then it made the search a lot easier. Having been right there to hear the message direct from Dale, Oscar arrived into the room first, making himself a coffee as he waited for everyone else to arrive. He was almost like a fixture in the ktichen, in the way that he eased against the counter with mug in hand. He was pensive, caught up in thought as he gave brief thoughts about the case - and about how to brief the case.

After everyone arrived, and after being prompted by Dale, Oscar would put down his Phoenix Security coffee mug on the counter of the break room, looking around the room as he addressed them. He stood a little straighter when the attention was on him. "Right now, all we've got to go on is that a Pyrokinetic woman, around five feet tall attacked Jean Cyrus in his office at about twenty past seven this morning, and they've got no idea how she got there. Cyrus didn't get too good of a look at his assailant and the camera's are spotty at best, too much going on to get a clear shot at her, so no luck there. First thing we need to do are run background checks on previous employees, this could be as simple as a fired up pharmacy worker. Excuse the pun." He decidedly picked up the mug again, punctuating his sentence with a gulp of caffeine.

"After we've got employee checks through, it might be worth looking into security logs. Big company like that is bound to have security carded doors or something to that effect. We can see if she got in with a spoofed card or a stolen one." Another drink, as casual as could be as he took a brief pause, looking over them for just a moment, his tone getting a little more serious. "Cyrus is one of the largest in big pharmacy names, he's not going to have a shortage of people who hate him. Could be political, could be business. Could even be him stirring up trouble to eventually hit the newspapers tomorrow. Just remember we're doing a job, and try not to show off your powers too much, people will talk easier if they don't think you're in the same weightclass as our would-be arsonist."

After he'd finished talking, he'd look back to Dale, giving the floor back to him, and leaning back against the counter. It'd be worth noting that he carried his side-arm in an open holster, while not a particularly surprising sight on its own, when it was paired with the blatant bulk of body armour beneath that neat white shirt, it was obvious that Oscar thought trouble was coming.

"Anubis, lend me your voice..," a soft whisper escaped pale lips, each word a silent string as golden eyes came to greet the creature staring into a mirror, "is it a sinner's demise, to wish for your kingdom of the dead?" Though a short pause blanketed the scene, there was no hindrance for the black claw which traced its path across chalk skin. With sanguine blood trickling out of a newly carved wound, bubbles of bloodied droplets danced their way down a slender forearm, each blazing a trail to paint white skin red. "Am I to tread the fields of life for time ever after?" Mere moments, but an instant after the self-inflicted misery found home upon Azhar's frail body, it would heal to a closed state, remaining but a remnant within his mind, a memory. 

Though a blessing, a gift as some would call it, what happens when thoughts of an end so far out of hand comes to linger within your mind? It is often asked, what would you do if the loss of your life was a foreign concept? What risks would you take? However, it is when one asks why he who claims immortality wants to perish, that you delve into deeper purpose. Azhar, a young man born from the scolding deserts of Egypt, had known years to far surpass that of which he could claim to possess in both face and features. Indeed, the frail shape staring back at him in the mirror was that of a youngster, who would greet life with a spring in his step, and excitement upon the horizon.

Rather, this was not case. Tired eyes told of a different story, words dipped in melancholy draping their path over his presence. Six months had passed on this day, six months since he was welcomed into the Phoenix Unit. As a Son of Anubis, Azhar had less than moral methods of dealing with those of ill intent. It is as they say, a monster slays its own kin far better than anyone else. It is what the sons are, outcasts and abominations. Those who believe that they can make a difference from behind the obfuscation of shadows, and cloaks. Death is a not a sight comparable to the scent of roses or the taste of wine, but rather a bitter medicine required to save the world from itself. 

In modern day society, one could almost consider The Sons of Anubis a terrorist organization, one hellbent on rooting out corruption, and slaying that of which is branded as evil, and defiled. Azhar was under no delusion that he was a saint, but rather the opposite. There is a sacrifice in allowing oneself the darkness of Anubis, the intent to destroy with the purpose of creating a better world. "Or have my services not yet, ended?" He proceeded, a calm, harmonic yet melancholy voice making its way past pale lips. "In my hands I hold your blade, in my heart, your will." The Egyptian traced his fingers across a gilded scabbard harboring the ancient sword of Anubis, a blade known to strike fear into the wicked. Though stories of grandeur surrounded this weapon much like a mist, it also clouded the truth. Not even its wielder knew for sure, what was fiction and what spoke of reality. It was said that death by the Claw of Anubis would sever your very soul, ending any chance at a revival through foul means. Another mentioned that wounds inflicted by the blade would never heal, but it has been unclear as to whether this story is a mere tale, or not. None who have faced the blade thus far, have walked away with their lives still gripped tight. Now that, however, is true. 

Drawing the strap across his chest, Azhar sheathed his mythic blade upon the flat of his back, stepping out of the bathroom to join his squad in the break room. They were a colorful bunch, that was for sure. A human in their midst, no less. Indeed, The Sons had never dismissed anyone from their flock, human or mutant, however, Azhar could witness caution emanating from the actions of this Oscar. He was among heralds of doom, was he not? He stood amongst those who could bend reality to their will with means less than natural. "What, I wonder..," Azhar began, a light voice greeting the rest, "is the color of pain, for one whom has known misery at the hands of a scientist?" Gaining the enemy of a pyrokinetic was never a good idea, but this man, their charge, he had managed in that regard. "Maintaining vigilance is key, I am sure," he continued, "for when vengeance is served, there will be blood, lest we seek to hinder this development." 

Chris listened to his co-worker and nodded. "In that case, I'll check their security system, see if there's anything they overlooked. Could be a clue there. If nothing else, I should be able to lift DNA from the office, see who was in there that shouldn't have been."

Azhar's response was a bit unsettling, but it made sense. He seemed to understand the criminal mind more than the rest of them. Maybe that was why he was hired? "You're right. They'll probably attack again, and next time they may succeed."

When the meeting was over, he went to his locker and put on his armor, grabbing his lightning pistol as well. Sure, it may not be needed, but as Azhar said, they could attack again. He also grabbed his forensics kit and tablet, so that he could analyze the security system's data.

Once he was ready he walked to the garage and hopped into his hovercar. He could use it to land on the roof and get to the crime scene faster. "Anyone need a lift?" he called out.

@CMDR Melander@Shard

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@CMDR Melander

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Cyrus pharmaceuticals, huh? The name isn’t unfamiliar to Connor, though he’s more accustomed to seeing it on cheap and cheerful TV ads or the foil packaging of prescription meds than in the context of his job. It’s a big company, and big companies mean lots of money, lots of enemies, and perhaps more pressingly for Connor, lots of employees. And so, when Oscar does the inevitable and brought up employee background checks, his stomach drops. From finances to emails to social media, even cases involving tiny little companies hiring perhaps two or three people come with a comparable mountain of data to sift through, and that meant someone had to do the sifting. It’s one of the least glamorous parts of the work they do at Phoenix, albeit an important one.

Connor listens quietly as Azhar, and then Chris say their piece, the early stages of the case slotting together like a well-oiled machine. This might be one of their bigger cases, but the first steps are always the same, and by now they know them off by heart, even Azhar, who’s only been with them six months, has become an integral (albeit occasionally disquieting) part of how they work, and honestly Connor can’t think how they got on beforehand.

The thought of further violence though… not pleasant. He hopes it doesn’t get too messy, or this could end very badly for everyone involved.

He leans forward, planting his feet back on the floor and taking on a more serious tone, “I’ll get started on the background checks – anything useful I’ll send straight over.” Warily, he eyes the coffee machine in the corner of the kitchenette; chances are he’s going to need it.

“Even if Cyrus didn’t see anyone, there’s a chance that someone else did, if you turn anything up at the scene I can work with them and try and get a sketch,” he says, thinking aloud more than anything else. There’s no way this woman got in without anyone seeing, even if it was just the janitor. Find that one person, and they’re golden.

When the meeting draws to a close, Connor stands, shaking out his legs before heading to the kitchenette and pouring out a coffee into his favourite mug - it's got a snoopy cartoon on, one that never fails to brighten his day, if only a little. He watches as the team going to the scene files out to get ready, before heading to his desk in the bullpin, and sitting down in a chair that creaks beneath his weight. He fires up the the first of the databases Phoenix uses for stuff like this - they're subscribed to several, along with all the employee data Cyrus Pharmaceuticals sent them - and gets to work. This is going to be a long day.

---

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