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The grass was dry and dead beneath Nia’s toes as she let herself drown in the sun that poured across the front of the scrapyard, and a few feet away, Loch picked at the ground. From where Nia lay, flannel shirt bundled beneath her head, he looked about a thousand feet tall. More like he was ravaging towns and villages and farmland than enjoying a nice lunch with teetering stacks of rusted out cars and chainlink fence in the background. Although then again, the two weren’t exactly mutually exclusive.

In the yard, there was a metallic crash, and Nia winced. She craned her neck to see two men, one, large and sweltering in a stained wife beater, the other slightly younger, late teens at best, the first man’s son, perhaps? Either way, the larger was yelling now, something with a lot of words that started with an ‘F’ or a ‘C’, and even more flying spittle, and even Loch paused his pecking to get an eyeful.

The younger looked upset, or rather, like he was trying really hard not to be, and Nia felt something stir in her gut. Yelling, screaming, humiliation - all had been par for the course on the inside. You were nothing. Any attempt to be not-nothing was met with… well, Nia didn’t like to think about that.

She wasn’t nothing now though.

She sucked on her bottom lip. Her neck was stiff from staring so long, and she reached up to massage it, just as Loch waddled over. He butted her hand with his beak expectantly, and she smiled, scratching softly down the back of his neck.

A loud crack echoed across the yard, and Nia’s gaze snapped back to the two men, Loch withdrawing from her touch almost immediately.

Her eyes widened.

The older man had the younger by the scruff of his sweat-stained grey T-shirt, screaming in his face, now, face like port. Nia didn’t need to think too hard to guess what had happened, not when younger’s cheek was a pink stain on dusty skin and he’d stopped trying not to look upset. Just looked scared. Nia had been scared like that before, a lot of times. And now.

She wasn’t nothing now.

Nia heaved herself to her feet, pausing only to tell Loch to wait there (he didn’t), and marched towards the drama playing out before her.

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_{Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 3:10 PM.
Mentions & Interactions: @MsMorningstar.}

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Bartholomew watched from out the corner of his eye as a tan skinned woman with a rather muscular and fit physique sat down on a stool next to him at the bar and ordered, unsurprisingly in his mind, a glass of water. Calmly shifting his gaze back to the nearly empty glass in his gloved hand and off of the newcomer, Bartholomew took another long draw from his cigar and held it for a bit before releasing it out into the air, letting the unique taste of smooth and bold tobacco mingle together in a complex dance of flavor. Setting his glass down on the polished oak counter, Bartholomew gestured to the bartender for a refill as he propped up his left leg on his right and leaned back slightly. Turning to face the woman as the bartender returned with a refilled glass of whiskey, he decided to try and start up a conversation with her. While his other prospects may have fallen through, this one might not. And even if her powers weren't all that useful to the resistance, she herself still could be.

"So, do you come here often?" He asked, taking the full glass from the bartender with a small nod.

---

Before he spoke, Carmen felt the man's eyes on her. Despite this, she didn't move until the words were out of his mouth. Shifting on the barstool to face him, she took another sweeping glance of his figure. She felt underdressed around him, with his long jacket, leather gloves, and shoes shined to perfection. His face was worn from a life longer than her own, and although he carried himself well, he had the scruff of someone who no longer bothered. She had to look down, but only slightly, to meet his amber eyes. His air was that of someone important, but she had no idea how much of it came from earned respect. The smell of tobacco clouding the air around him was finer than the cigarettes of the other patrons, to the point where it was almost pleasant.

Done with her inspection, she smiled politely. "I s'pose so. Every other time my car breaks down is pretty often." She let out a small chuckle, though the fact that her car was dying was anything but funny. Her parents lived on the opposite end of the compound. "How 'bout you?"

She thought for a moment. How rude of her, not to introduce herself! "I'm Carmen, by the way...er," She wasn't really on the last name basis with this man, but she supposed it wouldn't do any harm. "Carmen Hange."

Location: The Compound

Looking for interactions

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The journey itself was uneventful. It was nothing more than a short walk before he found what he was looking for. A location tucked away in the corner as if to hide itself. Its only defining characteristic being a sign labeled Wit’s End, something which brought a chuckle to him… well it would if Richard had a mouth.

An interesting name, but one that holds many definitions. Is this the place to go when you want to leave your troubles behind? When your wit is at death’s door? Or was there someone with that name who met their end on or near this location? Or perhaps it is a warning of sorts? To leave your sense behind?

Whichever meaning was intended, it mattered little. Richard was looking for something to help break up the dull monotony he has been stuck in recently and he could almost sense something going on within this very location.

Making his way inside, he elected to tuck himself away in the corner and observe the dank den where people come to forget their problems. He was not entirely sure why he came here in the first place. It was not to drink, that’s a given. It was probably just a hope that something interesting would happen. Regardless, he was not one to make the first move, he preferred to react than to be proactive. Certainly, something would happen when one eventually notices him. He is sneaky, but not invisible, even in the poorly lit section. If nothing comes, maybe he’ll have to make the first move. Have to interact. He’s got a feeling something will happen, though it remains to be seen if it is because he acts or merely responds.

_{Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 3:11 PM.
Mentions & Interactions: @MsMorningstar.}

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"Bartholomew. Bartholomew Durant." He said, cracking a small yet friendly smile. While normally not one to give away his name this freely, especially given his status as a fugative and rebel to most governmental institutions, Bartholomew felt that it was a necessary evil in this situation. Trust was earned, not given after all. And like any situation where trust had to be earned, names had to be given first.

"As for me, I frequent this place on occasion. After all, this is the only establishment that sells the brand of whiskey I drink." He said, holding up his glass to examine the dark amber colored liquid swirling within before placing the rim to his lips and taking another swig.

"Well you SEE, my dear," Pickles started with a smile. "I've got a limited window to see the sights, to ENJOY the splendors of freedom. To live MY best life!" Laughter erupted from him as he began to slowly twirl around, his neck cranked back at he looked toward the sky in a cyclone of glee. Then in a sudden, almost mechanical, motion he snapped back and stood straight up, his arms flat against his sides and his smile completely gone. His eyes drooped as he stared at her. "So... my proposal... is that you... join me..." His voice seemed filled with sinister intent despite the fact that the words were innocent enough.

He suddenly about-faced, turning his back on her and jutted his elbow out. He was silently beckoning her forward so that the two could lock arms. "My cute, curvaceously captivating creator of CARNAL chills... my carefully colored CANVAS of carnivorous creatures... my calm and collected colleague, my center of curiosity... could I convince you to caper in CHAOS with a clown?" Though she couldn't see it, Pickles' all too familiar smile had returned as he looked outward toward the rest of the compound. There was fun to be had and he would seize the opportunity and relish it for all it was worth.

---

"Nice to meet ya, Mr. Durant." Carmen's grin came easily, her lips spreading without a hint of practiced perfection. She always tried to be kind around others. Not enough to leave a lasting impression to the point where they'd come to her for help, but enough to be able to go to them for help when she needed it. Perhaps it was cruel of her, but in the compound, she couldn't have others begging her for assistance.

When he held up his drink, Carmen felt the urge to take a sip from her own. She didn't though, deciding to sneak peeks of the patrons in the bar instead. Out of the corner of her gaze, she saw him set his glass down and promptly returned her focus to his withered face. She didn't really know what to talk to him about. Most people in the compounds asked for names first, then abilities second. She tried not to be one of them. Powers were nice and all, but she wasn't one to flaunt her talents. Then again, there wasn't much else to discuss..."So, your powers or your job must be mighty important if you're able to dress like that." She left it open-ended, not wanting to force him to talk.

_{Location: NYC Compound, Wit's End - 3:12 PM.
Mentions & Interactions: @MsMorningstar, @Lurking Shadow, & @Randomness.}

---

"Both my job and my powers are important... in a way." He said, taking another draw from his cigar and exhaling a large cloud of tobacco scented of smoke. "But neither are things I like to discuss out in the open. Especially with people I've just met. Pardon my brashness, but in my line of work, taking risks is looked down upon. Greatly." Bartholomew said, putting out his cigar in a nearby ashtray before chucking it into a bin a couple of feet to his left. Taking another swig of his drink, Bartholomew was about to continue the conversation with Carmen, when a bald man with a brown beard, who was clad in a short blue jacket, jeans, and running shoes, strode into the bar. Standing there for a couple of seconds, and allowing his green colored eyes to roam from patron to patron, the man eventually let out a slight cough as he nonchalantly walked over to Bartholomew, leaned in closer to the left side of the his face, and whispered something into his ear before standing upright. Taking one last look at the patrons currently in the bar, the man calmly turned round towards the entrance and headed back outside, his form slowly disappearing into a large crowd of people at a nearby crossroad.

Bartholomew did his best to conceal his concerned expression as he pressed the glass to his lips one more time and took another swig, completely downing its contents in one go. Placing the glass down on the table with a disappointed sounding sigh, Bartholomew turned back to Carmen. "I do apologize for having to run on you like this, but something work related just came up, and I'm afraid that my presence is required immediately." Getting up, Durant quickly grabbed his cane as he left a twenty on the bar to pay for the drink, and bowed slightly to Carmen before tucking his cane back underneath his arm and striding out the door.

"Oh," he said on a tone usually reserved for small children, "Probably not today." He gave a faux frown of disappointment before continuing. "BUT I'm sure we can find something to keep us entertained." His grin returned and he gave a little hop before beginning his walk forward, guiding his new friend along with him.

What are you planning on doing, asked Jack within his own mind. Pickles didn't care to answer. Listen, Pickles, we need to be switching back, soon. You've been driving for a while now. I still have to find a new job (thanks for that), get my last paycheck, take my meds.... Pickles' smile was still present, but the clown was beginning to have to force it. The thought of being put back into his mental cage while Jack did boring ho hum routines was unnerving. Infuriating, even. Pickles didn't put the thought into words, but a mutiny was in order.

As they walked, Pickles' strained grin was beginning to hurt his cheeks. He had to force himself to move past it, to get his mind off of the inevitable confrontation with Jack. "Have you ever felt like being yourself was a CRIME against humanity? Like you're forced and expected to wear a MASK that isn't you just so other people would be more comfortable?" His eyes scanned the faces of the people they passed. With ash in his eyesockets and browned blood lining his lips, it was unsurprising that he was getting looks. He just looked right back, his crooked teeth on full display. "I've decided I won't be PUTTING my mask of mundanity back on anymore." He could feel Jack's mental wince. Still, the clown couldn't argue with Jack's main concern. Pickles' couldn't see himself getting a job, but getting money... That might prove to be an obstacle more easily traversed.

As he stared down the passersby, he looked at their attire, their faces, their accessories. Those with dirt painted on their skin, torn rags for shirts, clothing that looked like it was older than the person wearing it... Those people were of no use to him. He also made mental note of the patrolling guards, the directions they were walking, the pace of their footsteps. He anticipated where they would be and when with analytical observations. Though he outwardly appeared to be a malfunctioning individual, Pickles' brain was extraordinarily capable, hosting the minds of not one but at least two identities within, each with their own mental strengths.

Finally, he saw his mark. A man wearing glasses, a fresh haircut upon his crown, an analog watch that looked to be quite expensive and a gray fine business suit with pristine shoes that appeared freshly shined. He was not a small man. His build was quite muscular. Pickles made the educated guess that if he stood back to back with this captain of industry, he latter would be taller by at least four inches. He wore what he wore in the compound because he could. He probably never met anyone who would dare take him on. Until today. Today he would meet Pickles.

His neck craned over Tzipporah. He had just promised her they wouldn't hurt anyone. He was going to have to get creative with this next step.