[IC] X-Men: The Lost Riders of the Apocalypse (Vivid Whiskey Productions)

[Whiskey Business]

The cold twilight on my shoulders. The warmth of a burning city under my naked heel. Thousands of voices are screaming in agony. I can taste blood in my mouth, but it’s not mine. The smell of charred flesh fills my nostrils. I can feel what is happening all around me; it’s inescapable. A merciless wrath haunts every crevice, herding defenseless souls like a hound from the underworld. Its thirst for death is unquenchable, and the bleating cries of its victims only intensifies its urges. There are two others with me. They say nothing. Feel nothing. Of the two, one disgusts me more than the other, while the other bares the resemblance of someone very familiar to me. I say something to each of them, but as I do, a giant hand grabs my shoulder as if to supply comfort, but I don’t feel comforted. The fingers dig into me like a powerful beast, far more capable than the monster wreaking havoc on this city. I tremble at the weight of its vice grip.

“You will inherit my legacy, a planet of tombs.”

Ian read the words transcribed from his dream with a furrowed brow. He hunched over the ragged notebook, underlining specific parts like someone very familiar to me and a powerful beast. Circled intensely was the quote, whose unknown voice had infiltrated his mind for the past three nights. Beads of cold sweat cooled the back of his neck, breaking him away from his transfixed state. He leaned back against the cushion of his folding chair and let out a frustrated sigh.

Notes and journal entries, similar to the one he has been working on for the past hour, were scotch-taped, pinned, or glued, along the walls of his studio apartment. They served as remnants of Ian’s shattered memory, unearthed from the hazy recesses of his mind, rarely connecting dots or filling in blanks. He could recall his childhood in Louisiana, how a single mother raised him and his three siblings out of a Volkswagon hatchback before social services came. He remembers, with vivid detail, when he got brutally jumped on his 10th birthday. It was the first time he was called a mutant, and it was also the first time he took a life.

Ian didn’t need a piece of paper for those kinds of memories, but when it came to figuring out where he was a week ago was a whole different story. An expired driver’s license confirmed his name and New York residence. As much as he tried denying it at first, the lease signature to the shithole of an apartment he was living in was undoubtedly his. No car, dog, wife, or family - just a prepaid cellphone in his possession with only two contacts: the number to his warehouse job in Hell’s Kitchen, and Anthony Mosely, his drug pedaling co-worker, who knew about as much as Ian, if not more, when it came to his sudden employment at Armwell Industries. Anthony was the only person he could talk to, the only real connection in this world that made any sense.

"He has to know something, know someone, anything, that can help me piece this all together." Ian grumbled. The dreams were progressively getting worse, and he feared for his mental health.

He checked the time on his phone. It was a quarter past 12 on a Saturday night. Ian thought about drifting back to sleep to try and dream up some more memories, but cringed at the thought of seeing those disturbing images again. You will inherit my legacy… He grabbed his leather jacket off a rickety futon, patting its side pockets for wallet, keys, and cigarettes, then took out his cell phone...

“Hey, Moses!” Ian said with forced enthusiasm. The nickname was a play of words at Anthony’s last name, but mainly served to piss the atheist off more than anything. “Meet me at Swan’s, man. You owe me a scotch.”

[AmazinglyVivid]

Every memory Rowena recovered brought with it far more questions than it answered. For every step that she took towards rediscovering herself, she took another two backwards. The harder she tried to pry into her own history, the foggier it all seemed to get. Just how much was she missing? It seemed easier to list what she did know about herself than what she didn't. Her full name was Rowena Lily Solise. She was twenty-five years old. Judging from her driver's license, she'd lived in Tennessee at some point or another. She currently resided in a one bedroom apartment in the Lower East Side.

Figuring out where she lived was a feat in itself. Most of what she knew that she hadn't been able to figure out from her wallet, she found there. Despite being cramped and in a less-than-ideal space, the apartment was kept meticulously clean. There was an impersonal feel about the place that made Rowena feel even more lost than before, but some snooping in a desk drawer helped her find old paychecks that revealed where she worked; a flower shop in Midtown, and a bar in Hell's Kitchen.

These discoveries had been made a few days before. Through trial and error she figured out which of the dozen or so contacts in her phone were coworkers, and from them she figured out when she was supposed to work and, since then, she'd picked up about where she figured she left off. Coworkers at both jobs seemed suspicious of her somewhat odd behavior, but so far, no one had mentioned it.

Rowena stepped out of the bar and into the chilly winter night. She wore a thick grey coat, but the cold still got to her. She didn't have a high tolerance for lower temperatures, it seemed. Perhaps a sign that she'd grown up in the south? It would make sense, what with her Tennessee license. Those memories, of hazy summer days and laughing and running through wooded pastures with other children would make sense there, wouldn't they? But, what would bring her to New York City?

"Ugh," she groaned under her breath, burrowing her hands deeper into her coat pockets. This was all so frustrating. There were no contacts in her phone with the same last name as her. She had no Facebook. The only memories that she figured could be family were happy ones; so why would she have cut off all contact with them in the first place? The only thing she could remember clearly was the fact that she was a mutant.

Using the plants and soil in her apartment, she tested her abilities. With how unfamiliar most things seemed, they came with a shocking familiarity. Images of herself using her powers flooded in from her memory. It was one of few things that was most definitely, assuredly right in this whole mess. They were why she felt comfortable walking through that area, alone, at such a late hour. Her mind was too absorbed in trying to solve the puzzle that was currently her life for her to really watch where she was going. That was why she accidentally brushed against one of the few other souls on the sidewalk that night.

"Sorry," she went to say over her shoulder. In doing so, she saw the man in earnest, and her eyes widened with a sort of recognition. This man, she definitely knew him. Her brows furrowed. "You," she murmured, more to herself than to him. He was dangerous. Just the sight of him sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her mind raced. In her pockets, her hands curled to fists. She had no idea who he was, but the feeling that she had to stop him from... Whatever it was that he was doing was almost overwhelming.

[Whiskey Business]

Ian exited the subway tunnel and entered Hell's Kitchen, keeping to himself as he paced toward Swann's dive bar. Neither the cold air, nor the sketchy lurkers perusing at this late hour, hindered his purposeful stride. He was on a mission now; focused on his hunt for the truth. His patience had run its course and if Anthony knew something, anything, Ian was going to do whatever he felt was necessary to make him talk. A slither of guilt made Ian conscious of his behavior; forced him to analyze his violent tendencies. From his own mind, the only thing he can recall are childhood memories. Everything after that point, up until four days ago, are blank chapters erased into oblivion.

He was undeniably afraid of what he might discover, but he couldn't choose to simply live in ignorance forever, not with so many questions left unanswered. He sought to fill the gaps in his head with the dream diary now plastered all over his apartment, but some entries were so farfetched, that he didn't know what to believe anymore. His whole concept of reality was in a state of flux, and the line between fact and fiction became more and more obscure. This was further complicated by mutant powers that he barely understood, much less knew how to control. On the first night Ian woke into consciousness, he accidentally shapeshifted into identical pieces of furniture in his apartment. He then watched a boxing match on TV the following day, and perfectly mimicked the champion's KO punch in a bar fight later that night.

Ian reasoned no psychologist or doctor could give him answers that didn't involve crazy pills, or a straitjacket. But it is crazy, ain't it? He thought, feeling uneasy about this sudden realization. If someone finds out about me and sees the writing on my walls, they'll take me for some damn psycho. But what if I am? What if I'm just dreaming all this up in some ward, bouncing around padded walls like a damn loon?

"Sorry,"

Ian shook from his thoughts, completely unaware of his surroundings. He turned, and as he locked eyes with the bystander that bumped into him, a soft face with curly brown hair revealed herself in the dim street light.

"You," She uttered softly, and Ian felt a sense of hostility emanating from her. His eyes widened.

"You know me?!" He yelled more than asked, stomping towards her with an intense expression on his face. "You know who I am?" Ian sounded manic, but this sudden turn of events had opened the floodgates, and he couldn't contain his relief. He nearly convinced himself that he was a delusional psychopath just a minute ago, but now someone knew who he was! Someone real, Ian hoped.

He prayed she wasn't a figment of his imagination, that this wasn't another dream waiting to be added to his scrapbook of possible memories. Ian stepped forward and surveyed her facial features, willing himself to believe that he recognized her, but he didn't. Ian had to touch her, make sure that she was an actual human being and not some illusion. Then, just as he grabbed her by the shoulders, an excruciating beam of pain traveled through his arms, jolting straight through his skull.

"AGHH!!!" He dropped to the ground, cupping his ears in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the sudden attack. A torrent of imagery cascaded into his mind's eye, and through the blitz of scenes that he managed to catch vague glimpses of, Ian realized what he was experiencing. These were dreams, his dreams, but as they projected all around him, they felt realer than ever. He watched his hands wring countless lives into nonexistence. He tasted rich wine in a room full of powerful men in suits. He battled heroes without mercy, and among the capes and masks he dueled with, her face suddenly became familiar. The shrill cry of whinnying horses blared into his ears, and the same hand from his latest dream reached out to grab him. As it did, it grew larger and larger, until it clutched Ian like a helpless doll.

"This isn't real...this isn't real..." He whispered to himself.

"Hey, chica..." A man's voice called out. Ian glanced around, trying to discern reality from the dream canvas consuming him. "This foo botherin' you?" He willfully forced himself to get his bearings straight, allowing a moment's respite from the hallucinogenic episode. Five silhouettes crossed the street and came into view, fanning out until they surrounded both Ian and the woman.

"Yeah, girl," Another voice called out, "That crackhead is tweakin. Come ride with us instead. We'll make it worth your while..." Ian clenched his jaw at the lowlife's suggestive tone, invoking an unpleasant memory about his mother. It was one he wished was erased along with the others, and the mere thought of it had ignited a fierce storm from within. Ian rose from the sidewalk, and as he grabbed hold of a street light pole to catch his balance, its halogen bulb flickered erratically.

The group of thugs hesitated in their advance, but one of them summoned enough courage to lunge forward, knife in hand. "Gut em!" He barked, rallying his posse to follow after him. The knife man went straight for Ian, who was flanked by the biggest member of the gang. The other three went straight for the woman.

[AmazinglyVivid]

"You know me?!"

Rowena flinched from the sheer intensity of his exclaimation. Her aggressive feelings simmered away when she convinced herself that some forgotten memory wasn't reason for picking a fight with some man on the street. The man, though, whoever he was, certainly wasn't helping his case. He stomped towards her, repeating his question. She took a step back, but made no more movements to escape the encounter. It probably would have been smarter to do so. Yet she couldn't bring herself to leave. That surge of feeling had been the same as when she'd entered her apartment for the first time, and when she'd seen her coworkers, after that.

Well, it wasn't exactly the same. Those had been pleasantly familiar. They made her feel happier and more secure. If she felt that way with her friends, then it would stand to reason that, with how she felt before, this guy was the opposite. And now he was reaching out and touching her. Rowena's eyes widdened, but she allowed it; partially because he didn't seem to mean her harm, and partially out of pure curiosity. The moment he touched her, he flinched away and fell to the ground, clenching his head. He winced as if in some terrible pain. A pang of guilt hit her hard. It was seeming more and more like he was mentally ill, clearly battling some mental demons of his own. I'm just paranoid, she decided, and my mind is playing tricks on me. Her features softened.

"Are you okay?" She asked, concerned. He did not answer. Rather, a voice came from some point behind her. She frowned. "No, I-" she started, but a different man interupted and more or less propositioned her. The group came into view; there were about five men, one armed. Ironically, Rowena felt less threatened by them than she had before, of the odd stranger wh was now pulling himself to his feet. The light post he clung to flickered at his touch. How odd. But she didn't have time to worry about that, not with the thugs closing inwards. Where's Spider-Man when you need him? she found herself wondering.

The woman slid into a fighting stance out of instinct -Just who the hell am I?- as her eyes scanned the ground for... There! Poking up through a crack in the sidewalk were a few tiny weeds. They were more than enough for her purposes. "We don't want any trouble," she said earnestly. Fighting was always, in her opinion, the last resort. "Please, just leave us be." Her words did nothing to stop their advance. She sighed, and poured her focus into those little weeds that laid between herself and the three men.

"Wait, what the fuck is that?" One of the men gasped, flinching back from what he saw. The weeds grew and grew, out of the crack and across the sidewalk, braiding together into a thick rope. "I... I think she's one of them mu-"

"Please. Leave," Rowena repeated. Two of the men muttered their apologies to their friend. He stood his ground.

"I ain't afraid of no damn mutants," The remaining thug spat, pulling a blade of his own.

"You should be." With that, she made a broad, sweeping motion with her hand. The plant lurched his legs, wrapping around them and forcing him to the ground before he had time to react. That more or less taken care of, Rowena turned her attention to the stranger and the other two thugs.