The fire inside Pickles would not subside until something or someone paid for the sin of frustration. The feeling of rage and embarrassment demanded all of Pickles' attention, sending the rest of the world into a blurry fog. Out of sight, out of mind. Nothing existed but the feeling and... what was that? In the distance there was something that wasn't hazy, wasn't blurred. In fact, it was crystal clear in his vision, despite its distorted surroundings. It was an infant in a high chair.

Through bloodshot eyes, Pickles took in the image of the tiny spawn. His anger went from a sporadic series of explosions to a laser guided rifle, zeroing in on the back of the baby's head. The clown began to salivate as it moved closer to the infant. If it had parents, he couldn't clearly see them. He couldn't clearly see anything else. Currently, his world consisted of him, the high chair and the poor fool sitting atop it.

Pickles' breathing sounded as if it had become labored, coming out in a wheeze the closer he got. An empty chair stood in Pickles' path toward the infant. As the clown approached the blurry obstacle, he lifted his foot extraordinarily high and brought it down with a crash upon the chair, shattering it into splintered pieces without so much as a blink or a strain. It might as well have been made of paper. Once Pickles had an objective, it was nigh impossible to stop him by any conventional means. It wasn't long at all before he found himself towering over the little thing. The child looked at him and instantly started to cry, adding fuel to the already raging fire within.

Pickles hands curled into fists, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles went white as he raised them high into the air, intending to bring them back down with the full force of his internal hatred.

What are you doing? That voice. He loved and loathed it.

"NEVER you mind!" Pickes shouted in a thunderous, low roll.

No, really. What are you doing? You look like you're about to crush the countertop. We're going to get fired. Pickles froze. He looked down upon the top of the infant's head, looking at it with high definition, seeing each individual strand. He turned his head uncomfortably slow toward the bar. It was blurry, but he could see its form.

"Are you insane, Jackie boy? I just want to PLAY with my new little friend HERE. Such a cute baby!" He turned his sights back on the infant, his grimace softening as he readied his fists once more, the price for his embarrassment nearly paid.

You're at the bar about to smash in the counter top, the voice insisted. What are you talking about? Baby? They don't let babies in bars, Pickles.

Pickles suddenly hesitated. He knew the voice was right, but this must've been an exception. Afterall, his new pale friend looked like he was underage and made it into the pub alright. Jack was wrong this time. The clown opened his mouth, ready to delight in the pleasure and releif this would surely bring, and slammed his fists down upon the baby's skull. He felt the cracking upon the skin of his hands. He closed his eyes, anticipating the splash of blood. It was glorious. It was orgasmic. It was... wrong.

The blood splatter never came. Though he felt the skull cracking, surrendering to the force he had brought down upon it, it didn't feel right. Pickles opened his eyes to discover his hands cratered into the bar's countertop. He was in the wrong place. He should have been over th-

The clown looked to the booth that had the baby in the highchair. The world was clear again. He could see everything. Everything except the baby. The highchair was gone, too. Pickles' mouth remained agape as he tried to process what just happened. Before he could form a conclusive thought, he heard the voice of the old bartender.

"Get your shit and get out," he said. Pickles turned his head to the man and found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

Edmond had walked out of the meeting room, a little annoyed, but otherwise maintained a professional demeanor. He adjusted his watch as he took a look at the time. He had finished a presentation for a new system that would help with compound security. The executives he spoke with didn't let on one way or the other on their interest in the project. While it was not an outright refusal to purchase it, their indecisive nature vexed Edmond. They could only move forward after approval, otherwise Heidis would lose money on prospects that might not even pan out.

Edmond walked into the elevator, waiting for it to reach one of the upper floors. A majority of the Heidis building was a manufacturing development space where engineers and the like would design, build, and test their equipment before finalizing their designs to be mass produced in one of their factories. This was also the building where Heidis would build singular large specified pieces of equipment that other companies required, but not need mass produced such as analyzers and focused mechanisms. The upper few floors were offices with Edmond's being the top floor. The building was not especially tall, but was large enough to stand menacingly among the neighboring buildings that stood outside the city.

"Ah, Mr. Grandure. How was the meeting?" spoke a young woman sitting behind a desk just off to the side of two large double doors. She stood up just behind the desk as Edmond had exited the elevator. The phone was starting to ring, but she quickly silenced it while also pushing a button which made one of the doors open automatically.

"The meeting was almost a waste of time." replied Edmond walking through the small room towards his office, "please hold any calls that may be directed for me, Carolyn." he paused and stopped walking for a second, "Unless it's from Onyx." Edmond continued into his office. As the door shut behind him Carolyn sat back down and answered the phone she had just put on hold.

"Thank you for holding, I'm afraid Mr. Grandure is not available..." the noise cut off as the door shut completely. Edmond's office was bright, with several windows lining the walls. A few of them had blinds drawn. His large desk was near the far wall off center from the doors, but faced that wall. The rest of the room was mostly empty save for a couple book cases and black leather chairs used by guests. Hanging on the walls at either side of the door were the various certificates Heidis had earned, one especially important congratulating Heidis's involvement with the development of the microengine, smaller compact engines that gave tremendous power output at a smaller scale compared to the standard engines used before. The technology was a wonder when it came to developing drones and exosuits.

Edmond sat in his chair. Had he known the Peacekeepers would have been indecisive, he would have avoided the meeting and continued his lunch with Ms. Oxley. He opened his computer and read a couple emails before resting his chin on the backs of his hands to glance down at his cellphone resting just a little to the side. It wasn't so much as he was expecting her to call, but he thought back to their conversation. Ms. Oxley had an understandably strong stance against him and his position. The benefits he offered didn't outweigh position he was attempting to sell for her to work with him. Even if she was not willing to aid him, he figured she would call eventually just to find out what happened.

Ms. Oxley was not a dumb character even without having access to the majority of technical skills her ability stored for her. By now, she would have figured out what was wrong with her and perhaps be trying to figure out why or how. Edmond knew she would suspect him, and she would be right. As far as she knew, everything was the same up until she had met him. She might have even figured out that she started to forget the moment they shook hands. She probably has questions. Unfortunately, if she wanted answers to those questions, she would have to speak with Edmond again, something she probably doesn't want to do. She would probably do some research on her own through Heidis's website, news, blogs, reviews, libraries, and wherever else she might think to look. It didn't matter where, Edmond knew she was not going to find anything. Edmond took particular care to keep his own business outside of Heidis; outside of everything. The most she would find would be conspiracy theories lacking any evidence to prove them. The answers she probably wanted to know would only be available through Edmond. She could either try to forget once her powers return, or call him. It was her choice.

"I'm sorry Mr. Grandure, but there is a Mr. Jacobson here to see you. He is being very insistent." spoke Carolyn through the speaker on Edmond's landline that sat next to his computer monitor. Edmond reached over and held down a button.

"You can let him in. We have business to discuss."

Stepping out of Wit's End, Willow flinched somewhat at the light which had begun beating down on him. Though he was wearing a mask, with shaded lenses, as well as gloves to cover the exposed flesh of his hands, the shift in lighting was enough to cause discomfort. "Your aversion to the light fucking sucks, Willow," Shade muttered as he leaned closer to the boy, and slapped his arm.

"Shut up," the young mutant protested, "I have like a million attack points, I need to be balanced, somehow," he commented, returning the favour as he slapped the creature's shape, in turn. "Besides, you're the one who acts all emo, all the time."

"Dude, without me, you'd literally be emo! I'm the one who makes us edgy!" Shade retorted, crossing his arms with a huff, "and what would you be without a devil on your shoulder, huh?"

"Stable," Willow returned, without a moment's pause. He proceeded to walk down the plaza, Bob closely following as the boy casually worked on the image in his sketchbook. It was a mask, measurements and several smaller details written out alongside the appropriate section.

"Hey," Shade snapped back to attention, after Willow had raised his eyes towards the crowd surrounding them, "isn't that our favorite little shit?" The creature pointed forward, at a smaller child in the distance.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

This young boy was Micah Barns, a child who had gone through much in the world of the Deviants, just as many others had been forced to endure. As his younger life had been filled with turmoil and loss, Micah had taken it upon himself to escape as much of the negativity as he could. Eventually running from the same orphanage Willow had been a part of, Micah found himself trapped in the Deviant compound.

No way out, and a slight aversion to the idea of joining the DRM, Micah lived out everyday in a similar manner. He would wake up, search for his next meal, depending on if he was able to find something to last him more than one day. Keeping his sleeping place a secret to everyone, even to Willow, it gave the young boy a sense of security, and somewhere he knew he could go should things go awry.

Every day seemed to hold an expectation to Micah. Wake up, find a meal, avoid the sun, and avoid those that liked to pick on and bully the poor boy.
Today he hadn’t been so lucky. There weren’t many that picked on him in the way of adults, but the small number of Deviant children that found a home in the compound, found that throwing Micah around and causing him strife was a fun way to pass time. It was true that those children were probably picked on as well, but Micah was alone. The one person he called a friend was Willow, who he purposely avoided every few days, usually after he had endured beatings from the other children.

Micah couldn’t fight back. Even if he could, the boy wasn’t sure he would. With his Deviant Gene being night based, the boy had his powers only under the light of the moon and the stars. And with the inhibitor chip, this made it so that he hardly had any powers at all.
Sitting on a run-down bench, ignoring passersby and the dirty looks some gave, he held a wet piece of cloth in both hands. It was clear to anyone that he was cleaning his face, but look closer, and he was cleaning a blackened eye, and a few other cuts and bruises that adorned his skin. He didn’t notice Willow at first, as most of his attention was on the rag and his bruises.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Holy shit, boy," Shade hissed, "doesn't that just make you so mad, you want to stab a pregnant bitch in the stomach with a fork, and just twist that shit!?" The creature cried out, turning to Willow as he began shaking the mutant boy.

"...you need help," Willow offered with a sigh, "but also, yes," he agreed, seeing Micah on the bench. It was frustrating, in a way, when the smaller child kept the beatings he had endured a secret. The boy was too kind for his own good, and knew full well what Willow would do to those who, in Shade's words, 'fucked with Willow's bitches'. "Micah," came a soft voice as the pale skinned mutant approached the younger teenager, a gloved hand resting at Willow's hip. "Did you walk into a really aggressivly swinging door?" Came a joke from the mutant, his head tilted. With large, obsidian eyes hidden behind the obscurity of his shaded lenses, one could not note his visage beyond Willow's mask, but considering his voice, a smirk was likely what remained plastered on his features. "And does that door want be turned into a puddle, stuffed in an envelope and mailed to their mom?"

"Fuck yes! I love that, let's do it! Yes!" Shade shouted dramatically, "let's fucking do that.., I don't even care if he actually walked into a door. Let's melt someone!"

"Don't let people walk over you," Willow continued, sitting next to Micah on the bench, an arm gently wrapping itself around the smaller boy's shoulder.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hearing Willow's voice, Micah felt a sense of relief wash over him. Willow, albeit a somewhat odd friend, was one of Micah's closest friends, and really one of his only friends.
"It's not uh- Yea! It was just a door. I didn't see it closing and I walked right into it." the boy explained, an obvious lie, but a cover-up nonetheless.

"Last week I fell, but this time I promise it was just a door." Despite the boy's best efforts, the bruises and scratches on his face and arms could definitely not be caused by a simple door.
"I, I'm not letting anyone walk on me." Micah was partially telling the truth this time, he was never physically walked on, not by anyone. Suppressed and beaten, that was another story.

Micah had his fair share of secrets, and the identities of the children who always picked on him was one of those secrets. He never once wished harm upon them, despite what they would do to him almost every day. Everyone in the compound struggled, and Micah figured these other kids had their fair share of struggles. Micah didn't want to have anyone solve his problems for him.
"I'm alright Willow, it's fine." he continued as he leaned into Willow while holding the rag over his blackened eye. "
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_{Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 2:58 P.M.
Mentions & Interactions: Anyone nearby.}

---

Bartholomew let out a sigh as he slowly rotated his head, causing his vertebrae to pop as they were subtly readjusted. Leaning on his cane more heavily than he had been earlier, Bart did his best to shield himself from the sun's harsh rays as he made his way towards the only reputable bar in the immediate vicinity, Wit's End. Turning onto a narrow side street, Bartholomew paused momentarily and leaned against the wall of a nearby building as a man clad in blood red robes, a strange ornate mask, seemingly of Venetian make, and an ancient yet well kept suit of metal armor beneath it all.

The mysterious man folded his arms and nonchalantly leaned against the opposite wall, regarding Bartholomew with his slightly glowing, yet inhumanly cold amber eyes.

"You look like shit." The man says, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Bartholomew lets out a scoff. "Anyone would after spending several hours out in the hot sun trying to recruit two Deviants to the cause without making them suspicious of the motives behind your actions."

"So they didn't decide to join the resistance then?" The man says, tilting his head to the right slightly.

"Not exactly." He said, running a gloved hand through his hair. "The immortal, Jenny, said she'd think it over and left. I gave her instructions on how to contact me again should she wish to join my branch of the organization. As for the shapeshifter, Cameron, she joined Damon's branch of the D.R.M and has left my sphere of influence within the group."

"Eh, don't worry about it. Deviants like her will come around to our way of seeing things soon enough." The man says, pacing back and forth a bit. "Anyway, I just felt like checking in on you. See how the task I gave you was coming along." The man says, walking back into the shadowed portion of the street.

"Well I appreciate that mas-sir." Bartholomew says, bowing slightly.

"Think nothing of it Bartholomew. Anyway, do you need any healing before I go?" He asked, looking back at Bart from over his shoulder.

Bartholomew shakes his head, "No, I'm alright."

The man nods and steps into the shadows, disappearing from sight. Pushing himself off of the wall, Bartholomew continues on his way to the bar, his cane making small tapping noises that echoes off the surrounding buildings as he goes.

Tzipporah thought, sitting up, as an aching pain traveled up from her sciatic nerve all the way up into the back of her neck. She flinched and Osiris nuzzled her hand in a comforting gesture. As she sat up, she noticed the bar nearby was suddenly filling up. There had been next to no one in there just a short while ago. 'So 3pm is when all the drinkers come out here, eh? Good to know.' People watching was one of Tzipporah's favorite things to do; she loved knowing why people did they things they did, and how other's minds worked. Because she had always been so different, she enjoyed getting inside someone else's head instead of her own every once in a while. Motioning for Osiris to follow her, she decided to get a little closer to the action; or at least within sight and earshot.

The shotgun hesitantly lowered. The bartender regarded the woman and must've had two thoughts running through his mind. A paying customer and maybe she can babysit this freak, then. With one last look of disapproval at the red mouthed, smokey eyed human timebomb, the bartender said, "I'll give ya five minutes. After that, this stick is going to go boom, ya hear?" He then reluctantly went about his business. All the while Pickles grinned profusely, his eyes following the man until his interest feigned. Eventually they rolled around to the dark haired woman who had addressed him.

"You DON'T bite, you say? How disappointing." The rolling pitch of his voice continued to fluctuate between extremes as he continued. "A pretty lady with PRETTY paint on her pretty skin. Stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again. What do they CALL you, miss? Besides a glutton for PUNISHMENT, I mean." Pickles pulled out the nearest barstool and leapfrogged onto it in dramatic fashion before resting his elbows on his propped up knees, cradling his face in his hands adorably as if he were taking a yearbook photo. His interest appeared to be borderline facetious, but this was simply the way of Pickles.

She looks nice, imparted Jack. Be nice to her. Pickles swatted into the air, as if trying to rid himself of a pesky fly that no one else could see. In fact, that's exactly what he was doing.

---

Dion sighed and made his way through the main square. There was a lot going on but it was slowly dying down. He watched the crowd a bit before heading to the bar using a side street. Always something to do there. It was only on his way there that something seemed off to him. Whether it was his power trying to reach out to him, something made his skin crawl. His hand moved instinctively to where he would usually have his sword on him, grasping at empty air. He scanned the area, noting that nothing was out of place as far as he could see. Unable to use his powers to their full extent, he drew upon Perth's silence as he relied on his training, turning down a side street and flattening himself against the wall when he heard the voices. Both were male, and he caught something that made him swallow harshly, inching back away from them. The DRM. Dion didn't need his power to know something was up. They were recruiting. Just like Edmond Grandure.

Dion listened more carefully, barely breathing as he heard them stop talking, he waited a bit before peeking and seeing them gone he relaxed a bit. That was close... Making his way to Wit's End, taking the main streets there. He was able to pick up on the sounds of the tapping cane as he got close. He would soon see one of the two mysterious voices he heard in the alleyway. Dion sighed and calmed himself. He wasn't without his own defenses.

_{Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 3:01 P.M.
Mentions & Interactions: @GrizzTheMauler - Dion.}

---

Bartholomew exhaled as he slowly rolled his neck, causing it to make a loud popping sound. He grimaced a bit at the noise. His joints were getting stiffer with each day that went by. Just one of the many things old age brought with it. Normally, if he were allowed out in the city "proper" with the non Devo's, he would have just gone to a chiropractor to get it fixed, but seeing as how he wasn't able to go near one of the Peacekeeper checkpoints without raising some kind of suspicion due to his state of dress and the manner with which he carried himself, he supposed it was a blessing that joint pain was the worst of his troubles right now. Returning his attention back to the dusty and rather badly paved road that he was currently walking down, Bartholomew gave a slight nod to a copper skinned man with a short black beard and hair who was clad in a long sleeved black jacket, black running pants-both of which had blue rings wrapped around their ankle and wrist sections-and a pair of light blue sneakers with white highlights and laces, as he passed by.

Tucking his cane up under his arm, Bartholomew quickened his pace slightly. His throat was getting dry from all the dust stray breezes managed to kick up and the heat was really starting to get to him as well, so the sooner he got to the shade and liquid relief the bar provided, the better.

Pickles' eyes narrowed, a look of intrigue and study. While Pickles found himself understandably fantastic, he hardly ever received the same shared feelings from others. He was always met with looks of horror or cries of agony. This woman. She looked danger in the face and beckoned it closer. She's interesting.

"Noooooo shit," came Pickles' audible response as he took a bit of pleasure in watching her walk away. Pickles took a moment to rub together the tips of his middle finger and thumbs as he parched up on his barstool. She had drinks, she wanted company. For whatever reason, Pickles found himself hesitant. He only let himself ponder upon it for but a moment before launching off the stool and landing hard upon his feet, slamming his shoes upon the ground as hard as he could, demanding a reaction from the gathered patrons. He wasn't even sure what reaction he wanted. Any. Just any. Any attention at all. It was intoxicating. He wasn't invisible. He wasn't overlooked. He was regarded. Fear, curiosity, admiration... It didn't matter which flavor he got as long as he was getting it. Ol' Jack. You could ask any patron here if they had seen that sad sap and, despite spending hours here compared to Pickles' minutes, you wouldn't find more than 2 that recognized the former. After today, those same patrons might find that they remember Pickles for the rest of their lives.

The clown obediently followed Tzipporah, led by his own hunger to know this woman. As he made his way out of the front doorway, he found himself staring at a man on approach, welding a cane and an heir of importance. Pickles couldn't hold back a chuckle, small at first but eventually erupting into a roar of delight. These types of people - the ones who put on expensive costumes for the public's viewing pleasure and did a different sort of song and dance for the crowd - those were the most hilarious types of clowns. Pickles' gave the man a finger gun and a click out of the corner of his mouth. "You! You slay me with that getup. I swear YOU'RE a god of comedy!"

He made his way back to the friendly woman who was now sat up upon some boxes, their liquid party still within her grasp. How about 'Rah? Jack seemed to be trying to come up with the prophesied nickname.

"No. You're stupid. STOP talking," he said aloud as he reached for his cider, waiting for her to oblige.

Tzip? Pickles hid his frustration, which took every fiber of his being. Jack had no imagination. After all these years, after continuing this epic partnership, Jack was still just a potato in a field of strawberries. Pickles tried to subtly, but physically shake the voice loose, to resettle the contents of his brain so that the part that Jack controls might get trampled and buried under the rest of the crazy bullshit that embodied his mind.

"You're stupENDOUS!" he said, louder than before, trying to glaze over his previous comment. He sized her up, scanning her from her feet to her charming hazel eyes. The gold bracelet on her wrist caught his attention more than once. "So what is it? You can tell me. What makes you... Here?" Her eyes captivated his without even trying. For a moment, but just a moment, Jack and Pickles forgot who was in control.

---

Dion saw the man and he knew he was one from the alley. He let the older man pass him as he entered the bar. He observed the man. He definitely was glad he wouldn't have to deal with the one the man seemed to call "Master". It led him right to the conclusion that one of the main DRM leaders was in town. Of which sector, he was unsure of. The man seemed to be an English Gentleman, and he carried himself well, despite relying on the cane. He had no doubt he could use it in a fight too. The question remained as to his power. As he was definitely DRM he wouldn't have an inhibitor, like Dion. Maintaining a relatively neutral expression, he made his way to the bar. There was always an amusement in peoplewatching here. One that Dion liked. Seeing people just existing was something he often found himself doing. It aided his rather extensive training with his grandfather, much less the lifelong commitment to Iaidō.

Flagging the bartender's attention, he got himself a nice glass of imported sake. While a bit pricey here, he was fond of the drink. While he wished he was back at his grandfather's estate, sitting on the patio. He much preferred the smell. The cool sake helped him with the heat from outside. It was with this drink and his previous dan training, that he unlocked the rune Laguz for himself. He was coming along nicely. He was certain he'd have Ansuz next, seeing as it was something he'd been slightly using during his Iaidō.

_{Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 3:05 PM.
Mentions & Interactions: @RedVII & @savannahssu.}

---

Bartholomew cast a brief glance at a heavily tattooed woman that strode out of the bars entrance as he approached and quickly processed and stored her face deep within his memory should he end up running into her later on, be it purposefully or by accident. Shifting his attention back to the entryway of the bar, Bartholomew's eyes narrowed into slits as he saw a familiar figure with ash smeared eyes and blood painted lips walk out a few seconds later. It was the mad clown, Pickles. And the insane way with which he remarked on his overall appearance as he passed by only helped to solidify that fact within Bartholomew's mind. Pickles, also known as Jack Perkins when his "other" personality wasn't in control, was someone certain members of his branch of the DRM had come into contact with several times over recent months and in various locations throughout the Compound before he suddenly dropped off the map.

When his subordinates finally did encounter the man again he was working at a local bar, seemingly in his right mind, and using the alias Jack Perkins. Upon further research into some old barely touched medical records, it was brought to Bartholomew's attention that the man apparently had Dissociative Identity Disorder which explained why his behavior was so erratic and strange. And while Bartholomew had never personally met the either of the man's identities himself, he had heard more than enough about Pickles to be able to recognize him. Letting out a barely audible sigh, Bartholomew pushed his thoughts about Jack and his other personality to the back of his mind as he stepped into the bar and strode over to a stool in front of the main counter. As long as the crazy bastard didn't interfere with his plans, then he couldn't care less about what he did.

Sitting down and propping his cane against the smooth oak counter, Bartholomew ordered a glass of Mar Rohk Firebrand Whiskey as he pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and lit it. Letting his gaze wander around the room aimlessly as he alternated between taking long slow tokes from his cigar and small sips of whiskey, Bartholomew idly observed the remaining patrons.

"A show, MY dear? Let me be clear, while I have you sitting here: Entertain me, MY sweet, anytime you'd like. Anytime THE mood so happens to strike." Pickles' head cocked to the side as he looked at his new delightful companion. "Hurry, I bet it's fantastic, and I HOPE it doesn't seem too drastic, but I tend to get a LITTLE SPASTIC! I do believe this is the greatest day, for now I've found TWO people that like to play! But YOU are far prettier, if I may say..." His eyes studied hers, as if trying to learn something from her body language.

"You've become my NEW fixation, so please end my anticipation. You show me your TRICK and I will show you ELATION!" Pickles then took the can of cider, popped it open and brought the metal rim to his blooded lips. As the drink began to trickle into his mouth, he crushed the can in his hands, forcing the liquid to shotgun out of the mouthpiece and down his throat. The eruption was poorly contained as much of the liquid rolled down his chin and neck. Once satisfied, he threw the can over his right shoulder, dismissing its existance and looking back to his new friend, awaiting the show.

The hooded figure looked down at the smartphone in its hand as it placed the last packet of C4 it was carrying on the final concrete pillar that helped support the facility above. Pressing some buttons on the softly glowing screen, the figure held the phone up to its ear and waited. After a few minutes of tense silence that was only broken by the occasional vibration the device emitted, a feminine voice on the other end answered.

"Yes?" The voice asked innocently, even though the hooded figure knew that the woman on the other end was anything but innocent.

"It's done." The figure replied as it quickly began to walk towards a flight of stairs that would take it out of this dry, dusty, basement and back out into the sunlit world outside.

"I see. I shall prepare to execute my part of the plan."

"Good. I assume our meeting place is the same as last time?" The figure asked as it pulled open the metal door, stepped through, and made its through the busy building, the people who worked there not taking notice of it. Its lips curled into an amused grin as it watched the buildings employees pass by, completely unaware of its presence among them. The figure let out a small chuckle. Looks like the telepathic abilities it wielded, weak as they were, were actually good for something after all. Even if it was just manipulating the perceptions of others.

"You assume correctly." The woman said cheerily.

The figure nodded as it stepped through the automatic glass doors of the facility and out onto the sidewalk beyond. "Alright. I'll meet you there in a couple of hours so we can... "compare" notes".

"I look forward to it. She said, hanging up a few seconds later.

The figure nodded, more to itself than her, as it deactivated the phone's screen and slid it back into its pocket while walking down the street.

So far things were going exactly as planned.

"This is the place? Are you sure? It doesn't seem like the kind of place he'd hang out."

"That is where my associate says he saw him last." spoke Edmond over a small ear piece, "That street is pretty isolated upon looking at the map. It leads from one main street to the plaza, an area known for its taverns."

"I mean, I'm not saying your guy is wrong, but for a guy you described as an uppity British who walks pompously with a cane, a back ally street seems kind of out of character." replied Andrew. He was sitting on top an odd selection of crates crudely piled on the corner that led from the main street. He was dressed in dark jeans, a black windbreaker, and a black t-shirt. Hopping off he took a quick look down the length of the street. There were enough people there to populate it, but was mostly empty. He leaned up back against the crates as he continued his conversation.

"I guess if I don't find him, I can get something to drink."

"Try to find him if at all possible. It was little more than a stroke of luck my associate spotted him. he was observed speaking with our other prospects in that plaza earlier."

"Are we sure he is even real? Are you sure you're not being strung along? We can trust the guy, right?"

"He was not wrong. I made absolutely sure that his information was reliable. With only fragmented knowledge we have of his existence, this is worth the investigation. Now we are wasting time, find him or clues to his whereabouts."

"Right, sorry sorry. Still seems kind of a long shot." Andrew started to make his way down the street. There were still more people populating the bars than one might expect at this time. It was barely mid afternoon, and already people were getting drunk. As he walked, he read the signs over the bars. Many of them lacked windows, and the few that did were just clear enough to see that the person he was looking for wasn't a patron. He poked his head in a few of the windowless ones ultimately finding no one in any of them. He walked the majority of the street, kicking ruble along the way. He glanced towards a stack of crates where a couple people were talking.

"Some of the people in this place are weird." Andrew spoke to himself. As he got closer, he was able to see the conversing couple more clearly. There was a woman upon the crates as well as a man with a poorly done clown getup. The two seemed pretty out of the ordinary even for the compound, and Andrew quickly passed by to not draw their attention.

Finally at the other end of the street, there was only one bar that remained. Wit's End was getting the most traffic from what Andrew could see. He tried to take a peak inside, but the the layout made it annoying. Shrugging, Andrew entered the bar completely and stepped out of the way of the door and scanned the room like he had done the previous bars. There along the counter sat who Andrew suspected was who they were looking for. The figure had a cane, and was dressed in a high collared coat, smoking a cigar, all the things Andrew would classify as the guy he was looking for. Taking a seat in a nearby empty table. Andrew kept an eye on him while not trying to make it obvious. He grabbed a menu to see what selections they might have.

---

Strong hands softly turned the battered steering wheel, guiding the slow-moving hunk of metal she lovingly called 'babs' down the streets of her hometown. A melodic piece was hummed and mumbled sporadically under her breath. Familiar passersby nodded in greeting, receiving a polite wave or a small smile in return. There were denizens of all different types, some with powers visible to the naked eye, and others more...ordinary, though she knew that wasn't the right word. Either way, all was good. It was like she was in her own little world, bordering on blissful. She nearly believed that nothing would come and ruin it.

Moments after she restarted humming the tune that was stuck in her head, she realized she was utterly wrong for being so positive. The worn engine sputtered. With each rotation of balding tires, something beneath the hood jumped. Finally, with a pitiful, artificial wheeze, the car cut out altogether. This was nothing new. The routine was getting so repetitive that Carmen had begun driving a route that she knew was close to her favorite dives. That way, she could at least stop and visit a friend or grab a drink rather than being stranded by herself. Stepping out of the vehicle, she ran a palm over the slightly warm frame of the red lemon, a wry smile on her lips. She knew it was only a matter of when the car would finally give, not if.

A click of her keys and the automobile was locked. Taking in her surroundings, she realized she was closer to Wit's End than any other location. While she wasn't necessarily in the mood for a drink, she didn't mind the bartender's casual attempts at conversation. After shoving her keys back into the pocket of her grey sweatpants -and patting the other pocket to make sure her fork was on her person- she began making her way towards the bar.

As she rounded the corner, she felt a subtle crunch beneath her right foot. Lifting up her sneaker, she peered down at it, seeing the flattened body of a tarantula. Grimacing, she wiped her shoe on the ground and carried on.

Until she heard the scuttling. Turning her head to the side, she laid eyes upon a giant group of tarantulas. They stared back at her, hundreds, if not thousands of eyes all focused on her. Taking this as a cue to leave, she fled. Someone had let their power get out of control, and she wasn't going to stick around and face it. Turning, she yelled over her shoulder, "Sorry about the spider!"

Closing the door of the bar behind her, she heaved a sigh. She wasn't sure if the arachnids had followed, but she was certain they couldn't get through a solid door. Taking a seat at the bar beside a middle aged man, she placed one hand in her pocket, feeling for her taser. Luckily, it was still there. She fished it out and placed it on the counter beside her. "I'll have some tap water, please." She eventually called to the bartender. Taking a glance at the man beside her, she noticed his fancy cigar and his glass of whiskey that had almost been drained. She wasn't sure who he was, but perhaps staring wasn't the best idea. Looking away, she found herself facing a glass of water. She took a long sip, and started to relax a bit.

Pickles looked on in wonderment as he witnessed art turning into life. Imagination taking form and dimension. It inspired awe. As the arachnids crawled out, Pickles' fascinated gaze slowly ascended up Tzipporah's body. He looked upon her with a desire to understand, a need to know how she worked. While the question would always be there, he would wait upon the answer. For now he was satisfied with the spectacle alone.

His nearly ever-present grin pulled even wider. "How... magnificent," he said in a loud whisper. "You are a MIRACULOUS work of art." A small, rhythmic chuckle escaped his lips. It was born of extraordinary satisfaction. "Your ink is almost as amazing as your canvas. Tell me, sweet masterpiece, HOW would you like to-"

Just then a strange woman ran by in a flash yelling something Pickle's didn't quite catch. He stared off in her direction for a moment longer before returning his attention to Tzipporah. "Some people refuse to take the TIME to appreciate beauty."