Angelica did her best to not be unsettled by the new girl in the room, breathing a small sigh of relief as Martino seemed overcome by illness. That was an incredibly unsettling power, however; she couldn’t even think of letting her guard down around this new girl. Still, the grateful smile she offered was real enough as they were paraded into the meeting room.
“Something like that,” she murmured back to Kat. Not technically a lie… heronappers, or something. Her eyes flitted around as they walked, taking note of the meticulously guarded exits. No way in, and no way out… This Gugliano man did not screw around.
Glancing around, her eyes locked onto Will a second before Patricia’s did, but she was marginally better at masking her expression, her jaw clenching so hard her teeth squeaked. Her eyes were wide; she lifted her eyebrows and set her lips into a smirk as though she was somewhat impressed, though her heart pounded. She let Patricia take her to a seat, letting out a nervous-masked-as-flirtatious laugh as she made eyes at someone standing across the room while her thoughts raced.
Still blushing at the tough, stupid-looking man she’d singled out, she leaned in in turn. “I – not text, it’s not secure. We’ve got to get her to not blow our cover. Fuck. I’ll – I’ll think of something.” She leaned back, readjusting her shawl around her shoulders and examining her fingernails absently, trying to gather up her thoughts. Brie needed a warning of some sort. A coded text? Privately, she doubted that the other woman would understand even the most obvious of cryptic messages – Brianna was known for her stubbornness, not her wit. “We’ve just got to get to them and warn her before they get in here and see him, is all. That’s what it’ll have to be. We can’t risk a miscommunication.” She bit her lip as she glanced at a different goon, still trying to seem flirtatious and airheaded.
All the tension went out of her shoulders as Starbright brushed off her concerns about legal stuff. Thank god. She tucked her bangs behind her ear, visibly flinching as he likened her violin to a viola. But she pushed the concern aside, flashing a nervous smile at him – it certainly looked like a viola proportionately to the rest of her frame, so it was an obvious mistake to make. He had to know what he was talking about to be as famous as he was, right?
“I – yes, I’m a hero here,” she mumbled, staring at the ground and oblivious to how at ease the star hero was. “Murmur is my field name. Not that you’d have – heard of me. I’m only a C minus, so – I don’t get to do a lot of the fun things.” She giggled nervously, peering at him uncertainly. “Obviously you’re a hero here, too – I mean, yes, obviously! I – why?” She cleared her throat nervously, flickering around the edges as she glanced to Starbright. “I mean, sorry, why’d you – want to know who I am? Don’tgetmewrong it’s hugely – it’s a huge honor! I just – I’m not your usual musician by - by any means. I can’t dance. Or be on stage.”
@DarkRecon I’m almost positive that we’re still accepting! Feel free to hop in the discord and chat it up while you brainstorm. We don’t bite...hard. ^~^
Eliza was definitely not expecting for her practice to be interrupted by the very artist whose music she was working on. As the door burst open, she went completely invisible, clutching her violin to her chest and shrinking into the corner. But it soon became apparent that the star was not going to leave without an answer.
Still standing against the wall, Eliza slowly returned to visibility, her violin first, and her body gradually taking shape behind it. Her hair flopped into her eyes as she peered up at the man uncertainly, half-thinking he was going to yell at her or threaten to sue her over her transcription of his work. “I’m s-sorry,” she mumbled, “I uh – I – I have my license app- application in with – with your publisher, I promise – I’m getting the paperwork done, to c-cover the legal side of things, before – before the fundraiser, I promise!” she stammered, squinting up at Starbright anxiously.
Then she realized that he’d asked who she was. Right. “Oh. And um. My name’s Eliza.” She shuffled in place as she spoke, adjusting her hold on her bow and visually almost seeming to hide behind her violin.
Angelica was a decent actor, surprisingly, at least when veiled by her powers. For a moment she said nothing to the man, sipping her strawberry daiquiri absently while checking him out, pretending to be impressed by what she saw. As he swept Patricia off of her barstool, she rolled her eyes, focusing on her drink as she pretended to consider the offer. “I suppose I’ve nothing better to do with my evening,” she purred, slinking off the barstool to the man’s other side and blanking out her revulsion at the vague smell of unwashed person and alcohol that clung to him. She flashed a look at Patricia, hoping the younger girl was okay.
On the car ride over, Angie focused on settling the knot of tension in her chest, forcing herself to breathe as slowly as she could and relaxing the muscles in her back and shoulders. This time, they had backup. It wasn’t going to go badly at all. She gave her best, most reassuring smile to Patricia (who was not currently being affected by her powers; only Martino was). Everything was going to be fine. "This is exciting," she whispered to her, trying to appear enthusiastic.
As they exited the car, she arranged her face into an expression of suitable awe at the opulent complex ahead. She draped herself elegantly over Martino’s arm, purring something that sounded like agreement with his statement about fun, though she internally cringed at the thought of even letting him touch her. God, she was definitely going to need a shower before she was able to look Blake in the eyes, after this.
Miry glanced to Nenra quickly, and the older bride boosted her up a little bit more roughly than was strictly necessary. As before, Nenra awkwardly situated herself in the saddle behind Zakroti. Poor creature, carrying three – well, two and a half, she thought, glancing to Miry – people up and down these mountains.
She apologized to the beast, or at least thought she did. She placed a hand on its flank and sent it a mental image of flowers and a sunny riverbank with a thought of the future. Talking to animals was always a tricky business, and though she managed it well enough with her family’s horses, she had no idea about this sort of creature.
Miry closed her eyes, swaying lightly in the saddle. She always got roadsick on horseback, and she’d been able to stave it off well enough on the first leg of the journey, but now with food in her stomach… this was going to be interesting. To occupy her mind she listened to the banter of the men-at-arms, when she could understand them, at least – they switched back and forth between a variety of languages, or that was what it seemed to her ear. At some point in time she called a few drops of water from a nearby trickle, swirling it on the pressure points behind her ears to stave off the dizziness.
Nenra was mildly ecstatic to be in a foreign land, without needing to guide her mount. Settling into the saddle and closing her eyes, trusting her own sense of balance, she extended her arms slightly, trailing her power down from her fingertips into the ground beside the road and examining the kinds of flora (and fauna, in the case of a very startled pika-like thing) that edged the path they traveled. She could lose hours doing this.
At a length of time, as the sun was drawing low in the sky, the terrain began to flatten and become grassier. As the sky darkened, a glow of lights became visible. Over the next gentle rise in the land, the party descended upon the Drakken city of Kazark. Middling in population and importance, it guarded the steppes of the Drakkan midlands. It was regarded by many as the last Drakken city of any import before the Spine; similarly, it was rather the end of the line for trading convoys that operated within the kingdom, as few went over the Spine except around the reaping time. The city reflected this “last stop from nowhere” mood, its walls and buildings humbly shaped and standing fairly low to the ground against the wind. Most of the structures were hewn from a rather odd mix of clay and sandstone, befitting the transitional environment it was situated within.
Miry was incredibly grateful as the city gates swam into view. It was considerably more spread out than most Gem cities, if less populated - though she supposed it made sense. They did have a luxury of space here, after all. She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the rather square and blocky architecture; she fiercely missed the refined arches and delicate spires of home, was all, and there was nothing wrong with this… rather underdeveloped, to a first glance, style of building. She craned her head back to look at Zak, trying to determine what the plan was now, and realizing as she did so how sore her back, hips, and shoulders were. She had never really cared for riding at home and, while she vaguely knew how to configure her limbs to sit appropriately ladylike in a saddle, it was certainly never comfortable for her, and she’d never ridden for more than a span or two at the most.
And she had several more days of this to endure, more than likely. Brilliant.
Miry blinked at Zak’s joke about blessings and generals. That’s not the Gemmenite way, and it never has been. Her signs were sharp and precise, her stare fixated at his chin. And it was true, at least in the way these foolish Westerners thought to fight their wars; for their conflicts, resolved in cruel affairs of blade and blood, some sort of cruel marshal prowess might have been necessary, but it was simply not a factor in Gemmenian conflicts.
Nenra shot a glare at Miry, which was swiftly ignored. The older bride internally groaned. Engaging in even more political drivel was just going to make them unable to get back on the road in a timely manner, and the lord had said they’d end up sleeping on the road, which she was decidedly not looking forward to… she rose from her seat, placing the empty stew bowl and water glass on the rock beside the lord’s. With an alarming series of popping noises, she stretched her arms and shoulders and neck, her muscles and joints tense from having been seated for so long. Notably, she was very flexible in her shoulders especially, her linen shirt sleeves falling away and emphasizing the defined muscles of her arms and ribs as she stretched.
As she did, Zakroti mused about the logistics of importing the plants, apparently oblivious to (or else just a very good actor) the linen-wrapped balls of earth that weighed down Nenra’s bags. She hesitated visibly, chewing on a thumbnail as she considered her options. She felt she was betraying her family and her pride to say what she was about to, but it might earn her favor in the lord’s household… Favor. Her lips curled and she lightly shook her head, disgusted with herself. It wasn’t about favor. Like she was some kind of frilly noble, trying to further herself and selling out everything she and her family stood for.
But her fingers itched to be buried in fertile earth again, ached for the peace and authenticity of a garden she’d grown herself. “I have seeds,” she blurted, finally. She glanced up to Zakroti, her eyes wide and expressionless, trying to determine his reaction. She swiftly ignored the bait to the discussion of symbology, and she glared at Miry – who thankfully, or perhaps not thankfully at all, seemed to still be stuck on the implication of insult to the entire Gemmenite mythos. We lost, Miry. Our people lost to the gods and then to the Drakken. Let it go.
She refocused her attention on the seated lord.
“Seedlings for the roses, a few of our local fruits, and handfuls of wildflowers.” Beyond the flowers, which had been a whole assortment of seeds gathered from the meadow on the upriver side of the farm, the fruits she brought were the kinds of plants that took months to even sprout, and years to properly fruit; the delicate mountain plums and pygmy chestnuts were certainly the most notable. She was not about to elaborate that one bundle of the herbs she carried were those of women’s medicine, grown together and made into a tea that was found to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the like, as well as helping with pains and sicknesses related to such functions of the body. That seed ball was sure to be a death sentence if it was found; they’d all heard horror stories of women who were unable to bear a child in a timely enough manner for their lords.
But such was a problem for another time.
Nenra stretched her arms up over her head again, glancing to the sun’s progress across the sky. She very much was eager to get on the road again; she glanced around to their retinue and found that, thankfully, everyone else was done or nearly done eating. Bar any further political or cultural distractions in the next few minutes, such other academic fluff could be discussed on the road again.
It was a few minutes past four in the evening, and Eliza had just arrived at HQ for the evening. Her dad was going to be here late anyway, so she certainly had enough time for violin practice – thankfully, because solo and ensemble was coming up and she was woefully unprepared. She’d spent most of the last few weeks working on material for her Red Instead fundraiser stream, which was supposed to be this weekend… a jar of Manic Panic dye remover and a jar of Rock’n’Roll Red clinked around in her backpack.
Last year she’d had a grand total of 200 dollars in donations for the event, and this year she was hoping for twice that, even though her subscriber count hadn’t really changed… She had half a mind to get Patricia to show up for part of it, though she was sure the other girl had other obligations. Starbright would be sure to bring in the donation money, but he certainly had some sort of gig to go to, or a photoshoot, or something.
Eliza tried not to be too bitter about Starbright’s fame – he just liked to rub it in, you know? Still, it was unbecoming to have that mindset about another performer. She forced positive thoughts into her brain as she greeted her father at the door (He was on front desk duty, again, as he always was.) “Hi dad! I’ll be in the usual spot,” she said, before swiping her ID and hopping in an elevator.
Her “usual spot” was a semi-soundproofed room in the corner of the fifth floor, bare except for two chairs, a table, and now a portable music stand. Along the back wall was a full-length mirror, with a darkroom behind it that could fit two-dozen people in lecture-hall style seating, complete with tiny desks for ease of note taking.
“All the practice facilities that a hero could need” included a practice police interrogation room, it seemed, though it was almost never used. It was a critical skill for new heroes, though, both learning how to get information from uncooperative hostages and how not to surrender sensitive information in a situation where they were hostage. It was also mirrored and semi-soundproofed, as previously mentioned, so it was an ideal practice space for a shy violinist.
She tossed her backpack on the folding table, rummaging for her music folder and producing a binder of her personal work, in addition to the folder with her school solo, orchestra, and quartet music. She was only playing second violin in quartet this year, which she was very upset about, but she was also only an 11th grader and was in the senior quartet, so – she had that going for her, right?
She set up her laptop with her looping pedals, which had been crammed in the outside pocket of her violin case, and grabbed her binder, which at the moment was full of catchy pop and rock tunes scored for two or three violins and a keyboard. They were all easy enough, there were just a lot of them; she tried to put together about a two- or three-hour long stream for this thing. She flipped to a random one, intending to just use these to warm up before she switched to her solo, and proceeded to pull her violin from its case, rosining her bow liberally before beginning to play with some simple long tones, smoothly spilling into the accompaniment of one of the tunes.
As she played, she forced herself to look up from her music at the one-way glass, making eye contact with herself even though it burned in the back of her skull and made her fingertips numb. The bow squawked, and she mumbled a curse as she instinctively rendered all but her instrument invisible. This was how she’d done the stream the last two years, invisible except for her violin – she’d stylized her youtube channel after that, “Inviolisible” (shut up, she was 13 when she picked it) where she practiced and performed in eyecatching locations with nothing more than her violin appearing to float and dance in mid frame. In the last three years she had garnered a grand total of 2,500 subscribers, which was a lot! But didn’t hold a candle to most musicians. Still, after last year’s stream she’d netted about 250 new… hopefully this year’s would be even better.
She painstakingly continued to try to bring herself back to visibility, now playing freely through a heavily ornamented variation of a recent Starbright chart-topper. She barely needed the music at this point, but she always preferred to hide herself in it… she glanced in the mirror and again, her fingers slipped, her heart dropped from her throat, and next thing she knew she was invisible again.
Dammit. She restarted the piece, trying to focus on the flow of the music and not on the taunting image of herself in the mirror.
Since they’d gotten here, Angie had done her best to make sure she, at least, wasn’t conspicuous. She’d gotten a (virgin) strawberry daiquiri and was sitting on a barstool, sipping on it and chattering away with the bartender, flashing glances to other patrons who hovered around and just generally acting like she was there for pleasure, not business.
As soon as Patricia returned, though that façade fell away. She placed her drink down on the counter, leaning in to give her undivided attention, and wincing sympathetically at Patricia’s disgusted expression. There was no way that she was letting an underaged girl do this part of the job alone; she hadn’t been happy about the seduction idea either – why have Patti do it when Angie’s power was literally perfect for it? But the others hadn’t heard her complaints.
At Patricia’s suggestion of masquerading as a hired crew, Angelica shook her head. “These two,” she said, pointing to Brie and Tom in turn, “look like they could be hard enough to be worth their salt as a hired crew. I don’t. I can try to get in with you, though. I know you have your… cover, but I’m sure their big fancy meeting won’t mind another pretty woman. I just don’t want to leave you without backup in a room full of this guy’s lackeys.”
She had changed before meeting the others here, and now wore a sheer lace wrap, black and sequined, over a dark burgundy red minidress and black platform boots. Her makeup was her usual cherry-red lipstick and somewhat oversized false eyelashes with a dramatic smoky eye, her hair piled up in a messy, hairsprayed updo. She hadn’t needed to be told twice that they were going clubbing.
Luca Zorione Perez || “Canary” || Genderfluid || Nineteen (07/22) || A Class Villain || Color Code ffd147
Aliases: In their daily life, they go by Luca or Zorri interchangeably, to go with their fluid self-image. They have three known legal aliases, for which fake documents can be produced at any time - one Lucas Santana, one Zara Sutton, and one Peter Kingsley.
Physique: A slim, androgynous figure standing five feet nine inches tall, Zorri dresses primarily in oversized hoodies and slim-fit jeans, their well-worn belt adorned by a variety of charms and trinkets. She always wears a mask covering her angular nose and thin lips; the mask is always pristine, made out of white cotton and probably lined with a filter of some sort. Her medium brown hair is choppy and slightly overgrown, falling in a piecey bob that covers her ears and skims the back of her neck. Notably, her eyes are a warm amber shade that brightens to a glowing gold when she uses her powers.
Her skin is a fair, light olive tone somewhat leaning towards yellow undertones; whenever she’s using her power it glimmers faintly gold, and when using her battery ability her whole body radiates an orangey-gold glow.
On the right side of her chest, centered just below her collarbone but radiating up over the top and outside of her shoulder, there’s a large scar of about a hand’s span, raised, red, and vaguely, irregularly star-shaped.
Blood Type: B+
Occupation: half-time villain, half-time philanthropist, and part-time online college student, studying chemistry.
Affiliation: The Dogpack
Personality: Luca is a ready performer of their most idealized self, vivacious and flirty when surrounded by those they trust, and earnest and optimistic to those who they don’t. Those who don’t know them imagine them to be a great kid, straight-A honor roll sort of thing. They’re fond of games of deceit and subterfuge, though they’re decidedly bad at them; its all they can do to keep their petty crime ring a few steps in front of the law. Though that’s mostly because of their underlings…
Beyond this, though, they’re fiercely loyal to the gang that raised them, having a close-knit, sibling-like camaraderie among the handful of them that roam Castleburg’s streets. Luca is in a place of being undermined as their leader, however; back in Las Palmas they were somewhat of an underdog, about the fifth or sixth in command up until the split. Their friends view them as a somewhat fragile younger sibling to be protected. As a result of trying to prove themselves, Luca is prone to overcompensating and lashing out with a cruelty (and often a brashness bordering on stupidity) that is very unlike who they aspire to be. They try to stand by a platform of “no bystander casualties”, though as their work becomes more dangerous (and lucrative) it’s harder and harder to make sure that happens.
They’re fiercely protective of those they see as less-fortunate and incredibly bitter towards those in power, especially those they perceive as not doing enough to support those who are even worse-off.
They prefer to style themself as a “roguish freelancer”, not as a villain.
Backstory: The Dogpack of Las Palmas has been Zorri’s family since before she can remember. She cut her eyeteeth on petty pickpocketing in the heart of the city’s rich tourist districts, begging and scrapping for food and places to sleep on the streets. As she grew, she watched the city changing before her eyes.
Her family – and it was a family, even if people who didn’t understand called it a gang – grew in size and in influence, and turned from mere survival to …thriving, in a sense. They grew plants and brewed moonshine and cooked harder drugs, or at least, the older kids did, and scrounged up money for rent in an apartment that was far too nice for the likes of them.
As she grew up, she began to be trusted with more responsibility. Some of the older members left, off to pursue their own doings – some of them went off to jail, and came back different, or didn’t come back at all, and so the power kept shifting, the gang fairly-reliably remaining under 30 years old and around 30 members. Even the constant fleeing from the law was no match for the unity and safety in family the group always found.
The city was changing, though. Fewer and fewer tourists came as packs of cerberkins and similar, canine-adjacent Leftovers, as well as feral dog packs, began to descend on the city. IBERIA tried their best, but the feeble hero organization proved no match for the ever-growing packs of dogs and doglike beasts. All at once, people remembered that the Canary Islands were not, in fact, named after the pretty little songbirds, but rather named for the dogs.
The Dogpack had always remembered, having started from the same scrounging of scraps and begging at rich venues that so many of the canines did, and for a while there was a sort of wary, mutual respect between the ragged teens and ragged creatures. But as the years went on that peace eroded; soon it was a struggle, again, to survive. Without the income from tourists, the beginnings of poverty set in, and crime spiked. New competition, often from superpowered groups, began to erode their territory.
By this point in time, several of the Dogs had developed powers, Zorri among them, but they didn’t have the same sheer destructive skill that the other gangs had, and they quickly lost ground.
Things came to a head when Zorri was sixteen; several of the younger members of the group were mauled by a cerberkin while out on patrol. She was able to stabilize the most severely injured of them, but the damage to the group’s morale was done. They stopped patrolling altogether. Several of the longtime members left, as did many newcomers; they sought more security, more power, and less dog attacks. Zorri begged the others to consider leaving, but they would not hear her. Eventually, she could take it no more, and she gathered up the few allies she had; they bought fake passports and eventually made their way the hell out of Las Palmas. Their destination? Castleburg. A huge city of all sorts of people, a sprawling underground, and minimal MWE encounters…
As soon as they arrived in Castleburg, they realized two things. First of all, Zorri’s asthma, which had been manageable in the much smaller city of Las Palmas, was entirely uncontrollable here. The teen very nearly died from the thick air of city life; it’s rumored that their mask has some sort of specialized filter in it that is the only thing that enables them to continue living and working in the inner city. Second of all, Castleburg was not much better off in regard to heroes, or really any law enforcement, keeping the peace. There was the same hierarchy of gangs and families in the underworld here, too, and more of the damage to the city seemed to be done by heroes than by villains.
Now much smaller in numbers, and in a much bigger place, the remnants of the Dogpack struggled to carve out a niche for themselves. And having nearly died, Zorri struggled to re-earn the respect of what was left of her family. She sought to be the same kind of parent as Javier (the head of the pack when she first joined up) was, but found the youth of Castleburg unwilling to fall in with a group with no real territory or industry to speak of.
It’s been three years of slow, hard work, but it’s paid off. They fell in with the same drugs-and-petty-crime niche they had before; some of the Pack talk about going bigger and really making a name for themselves, but Zorri isn’t so sure. She doesn’t wish to be a villain, even though her gang – which is now getting involved, once again, into hard drugs, grand larceny, rumors of prostitution and (if they take up the lead they’ve recently sniffed out) illegal monster-fighting rings – seem to have that idea. They’ve begun attributing their collective works of mischief and illegality to Zorri’s name; in the public eye they’ve become The Canary’s Dogpack. It’s become an order of theatrics; yellow feathers, or failing that, yellow flowers, left at the scene of the crime in their getaway.
She doesn’t know what to do with them, but they’re bloody successful. An impressive dossier of grand larceny follows them, thousands stolen from the residences of affluent people all across the city. Less-well-documented drug charges follow them as well, and a few counts of possible homicide – Zorri is pissed about those. She’s expelled gang members for reckless endangerment and for homicide before; murder is fine, if it’s someone who needs murdering (and she can think of a few bloated businessmen that she’ll jump at the chance to take a laser to) but the innocent bystander is blameless, in all of this.
They’re supposed to be more on the side of Robin Hoods, not Hannibals. Jeez.
A gang of about eight core, full-time members, and about a dozen more who flit in and out for various purposes. They’re all teens and twenty-somethings, currently renting a home in Watervale that’s much too nice for their likes.
Their current base of operations is a seedy club in Brookside, where most of their growing and science happen in the basement, while the upstairs is a bar and club that caters to the not-yet-legal-to-drink-in-regular-places crowd. The place has several escape systems in place and Luca is on guard themself every night they’re open, ready to net the whole thing in an illusion if law enforcement comes knocking. There’s (forged, but well-forged) paperwork at the ready if they’re asked about a liquor license and so on, and similarly forged health inspection certificates. They do a hopping business; the gang almost doesn’t have to do crime to stay afloat.
As a group they’re known both for their crime and for their frequent donations to soup kitchens and community schools; as long as no one questions where the money is from, money is money, right? It’s theorized that once the gang members are looked after, Luca donates most or all of their surplus to those in need. Hoods, not Hannibals.
In addition to Luca, three of the others have powers, and as a result are kind of the “face” of the gang. Their information is briefly detailed below.
Elias “L” Ferreira, aka “Torero”: He’s about 22, big and brawny and kind of stupid, being brutally honest. Probably a B- tier by now, his abilities are superhuman strength and reflexes. He’s trained since before he could walk with a handgun. At the moment he serves as Luca’s muscle and brawn; incidentally, their right-hand person who’s been with them since the early days in Las Palmas.
Aya Martinez, aka “Flamenco”: 21, tiny, clever, and very pretty, she’s incredibly popular as an entertainer at the club. A C- tier, her ability is limited clairvoyance about the history of an object, based on touch. Useful in a variety of niche circumstances. Beyond that, she’s the closest thing Luca has to a friend and advisor. She has a great head on her shoulders but
Nicolas “Nico” Valverde, aka “Conquistador”: 19, handsome in a roguish, kind of scrawny way. He’s probably a B- in power level; he’s gifted with super speed and “Blur” as he calls it, which creates a brief illusion of him still in the place he started from – it gives him the appearance of teleportation, even though he doesn’t actually teleport. He’s been using blades and informally training a variety of martial arts since he was a child; he prefers blades to firearms, finding them a far more intimate way to kill. Probably the most terrifying and amoral of all the OG Packmates.
Power: An incredibly powerful variant on photokinesis, Luca’s power was named “Luc’s Luster” and then eventually shortened to “Lucluster” (A play on “lackluster”) by an affectionate gangmate. It’s far from lackluster, however…
While on the surface it’s simple light manipulation, which enables widespread visual illusioning by simply bending light rays around objects he wishes to hide or alteration of the rays reflecting off of an object, Luca’s abilities go far beyond these usages of petty illusion. He is very good at this level of power manipulation, however; he could illusion the width of a city street and length of a city block with reasonable focus, and maintain it for several hours as long as he didn’t need to change the scene much. Animated scenes obviously take more energy than stagnant ones. He finds this use to be very boring, but it does have its advantages.
More offensively, he is capable of reflecting and refocusing light from most parts of his body. A common use of this is gathering light with one hand and using the other to lens it into a thin, highly-focused beam. At the moment, this is dependent on willpower and focus and currently renders a thumbtack-sized beam, but he can use external lensing (he always carries a variety of conical and domed pyrex and other high-temperature-glass, stolen from other totally legitimate applications, for specifically this purpose) to focus this light further down to about the size of a pin’s pointy end. The effects of these beams are dependent on the light he has accessible; with full-spectrum light like sunlight, he can dip into the effects of infrared or ultraviolet lasers, for example. His max power output is similarly dependent on his light source, though his maximum limit is established by his body’s conductance as well; he can’t very well divert the entire energy of the sun. He can divert streetlights and similar constructions entirely, but has no tangible effect on the sun even when pulling as much power as he can. Sunlight can be focused to melt or at least soften steel; with a few hours of direct sunlight, planning, and focus, he could bring a building down with strategically placed weak points. Not that he would, but he could. These lasers are highly effective at rendering electronics ineffective; they can melt indiscriminately through plastic and softer metals, and with a bit of time to sit can melt glass and even steel. When focused down as thin as possible, they have a blasting effect and can etch or, given enough time, bore through non-flammable or meltable materials.
He can store the energy from light sources in his body, rather like a battery; in direct sunlight he can charge his “battery” to full in fifteen minutes if he focuses on it, but it’s exponentially longer time from artificial light or if his attention wanders – a bright streetlight might charge him in two hours of constant absorption, a lamp in a house four, a nightlight might take a whole day. As he’s charging his eyes begin to glow, then his skin, and finally (and most visually conspicuously) large, ray-like wings of light, spanning several meters, fan out from his shoulder blades. These wings are entirely intangible; people can walk through them with no ill effect save a warm or slightly tingling feeling. He has to be focusing in some capacity for his battery to charge with any efficiency at all, though he does passively charge a very small amount as he spends time in the sun.
As an interesting side effect to all of this, he doesn’t get sunburned, even though he’s fairly pale.
From this battery, he has a few powerful effects he can manifest, a testament to the diversity of his power. The first is a powerful, short-burst regenerative effect. It’s easiest to do on others if he’s in physical contact with them, but he can also do it on himself, though he lacks the focus to do it neatly. The stored energy, applied to damaged tissue, can forcibly regenerate it in a rather short time. It has been used to heal wounds that would have been shortly fatal (notably a chest gunshot that barely missed the heart but punctured lungs) though it would not be something successful on brain or neurological injuries. It also takes incredible precision to use neatly – it’s easy to cause disfiguring scarring. The scar on his chest is a result of this. Its important to note that this does not debride the wounds as it heals – Luca still has lead rattling around in his ribcage.
The second effect he can manifest is a sort of barely controlled hyper-agility, including short bursts of flight. By channeling the energy into his muscles and bones, he can override his body’s psychological limitations and hit harder, run faster, and jump higher than a normal human, though not beyond the physical capabilities of his musculature. He doesn’t have increased resilience to match; it’s not uncommon for him to have stress-related injuries as a result of using these abilities. Related, though distinct, is the use of the stored energy to lift his body several meters into the air; he can hover for a short time or propel himself through the sky in traditional superhero style flight, though at the moment it takes about five minutes to deplete his energy from full. It’s important to note that he hasn’t learned how to land yet if he completely depletes his power.
Third, and most destructively, he is capable of emitting stored light from his hands into beams resembling his usual spectrum of lasers, even without a light source to divert, though these stores are quickly depleted.
Other Notes: They’re genderfluid and often refer to themself with different pronouns and terminology on different days, as is reflected in the sheet, even if they don’t really change their appearance.
They have terrible asthma and probably another respiratory condition that they've never had diagnosed. It’s rumored that their mask has some sort of specialized filter in it that is the only thing that enables them to continue living and working in the inner city.
A few hours found Angelica at home, freshly showered and doing paperwork on her dual computer monitors. A small window in the corner of one monitor, which a keen observer would recognize as the life simulation game Ooze Farmer, periodically distracted her attention, though for the most part she was able to attend to her work.
Her apartment was a small, studio setup, though it was breezy and well-lit with natural light thanks to a big window in the center of the space, one without curtains but surrounded by dozens of plants in pots and hanging baskets. The kitchen, half in an alcove beside the door, was small but spotlessly clean, no trace of dust or crumbs on any surface; two black barstools were pulled up to the other side of the counter to double as an eating space.
The rest of the apartment, with fake-wood floors polished almost unnaturally bright, was similarly spotless and devoid of clutter. A tasteful (if barely scented) basket of blue-toned potpourri served as the centerpiece of a dark-colored, modern coffee table, surrounded by two beige loveseats and a cream-colored oversized ottoman. A dark, minimalist bookshelf spanned the far wall, with a television and DVD player mounted to it. The sleeping space was partitioned off by the wardrobe and a curtain, and the remaining corner of the room was dominated by Angelica’s work desk, black with silver accents to match the rest of the furnishings. At the moment it had a single three ring binder, a pen organizer with four writing utensils, and her keyboard and mouse on the top, beyond the two large monitors and the computer tower that stood in the corner.
Angelica looked up from her ooze farming busy work as her phone vibrated in her pocket.
A party. She glowered. Why was her apartment nominated, of all of them? She’d just finished cleaning.
Still, she knew better than to try to argue with a group text. People were certainly on their way already.
Cool, see you all soon. I’m at home right now so just come on up. Apartment 305. It’s on the fifth floor, because my landlord enjoys confusing people. Or something.
She saved her work and closed out of Ooze Farmer – that one would be embarrassing to explain – and wandered to the kitchen, retrieving sandwich fixings from the refrigerator. She assembled a variety of healthy sandwiches (tomato, turkey, cheese, lettuce, and so on) and cut them precisely into triangular quarters, stabbing each quarter sandwich through with a toothpick for a bit of flare. These were prettily arrayed on a plate and placed in the center of the counter, along with a variety of 0 calorie flavored sparkling water and glasses to pour the drinks into.
She was nothing, if not a gracious host, though she wasn’t even entirely sure how many people she was to be hosting. She tried to see that, thumbing through her phone to look at the recipients list, but found nothing.
All at once, there was a knock on the door. Quite a flurry of knocking, to be honest. Angelica hurried over to the door, pressing a bland smile onto her face as she listened to the speaker. She’d seen Patricia in and out of various events at HERO, often ones that had ended spectacularly badly. At least she was trying to finish high school, unlike most of the heroes in the organization…
“Of course, come on in,” she said. “Truth be told, I have no idea what Brianna is on about. Parties?” She rolled her eyes, standing aside to let Patricia into her apartment. “I made sandwiches, and there’s some soda, I just set it all out so it should be nice and cold. I didn’t have time to get down to the store, sorry.”
Time: 5:30ish, Monday. Location: Campus Commons Interacting: Naomi @canaryrose and Aaliyah @Aurora Primrose, tangentially with Adam, mentions Mia @VampireOracle, any observers.
Echo awkwardly patted the back of Naomi’s hands with their free one, smiling at their friend and trying to play off the blush that slowly rose up in their cheeks. Oh, god, stop being a dumbass for five seconds, Echo. “Alice, yeah. I think we’re thinking of the same new kid. Is there really only one in our year?”
As the alarms went off, Naomi stiffened, digging her fingers into Echo’s forearm (though the gloves kept it from being uncomfortably warm) and hiding her face in Echo’s shirt. At first, they thought she was crying, but they realized it was a panicked, frenzied laughter after a brief moment. Cursing the awkward buzz that suddenly filled their arms and the heat flaming in their cheeks, they wrapped their free arm around Naomi’s shoulder, mumbling indistinct reassurances and doing what they could to shush their friend before even more people looked over. At least the laughter was spreading; if no one noticed earlier, they might think she was just… overcome with the hilarity of seeing Phoenix faltering and flailing onstage. Briefly, a person – looking to be around their age, but maybe a bit younger - materialized over Naomi’s shoulder. After a moment Echo finally placed who he was – Adam…Edwards? Maybe? He was a grade below them and had been here for at least a couple years; they’d seen him around campus, though they’d never overlapped in classes.
He absently asked what was funny, and Echo hissed “Bad timing, dude,” but he was gone again the next time they looked, run off to join the search headed by – Mia, yes, one of the cheerleaders; typical outgoing cheerleader thing to start. Still, if they were searching, it was only a matter of time before one of the clocks was found.
They glanced to Naomi again, lightly petting their friend’s hair in an effort to soothe the laughter. “What do you think about getting out of here?” they whispered. “We can go watch like…from the library or something, maybe, or…”
Their words trailed off as a shadow fell over them once again. Echo tilted their face up to see a responsible-looking college student. Aaliyah, their brain helpfully supplied. Followed by several expletives; she certainly looked the part of a responsible, snitching-to-professors sort. The newcomer focused intensely on Naomi, only giving Echo a cursory looking-over.
“I’m Echo,” they said helpfully, knowing that if Naomi tried to speak everything would be made worse. “And I uh – I think we have a situation here, is all. You know, I was just likening my brother up there to a traffic cone.” They pointed to the podium, miming Phoenix’s over-pompous compensating for himself, using the moment to take a second to think. “A fancy-dress traffic cone. And apparently the visual from that was just too funny. That’s all.” They smiled earnestly up at Aaliyah.
A third alarm started going off somewhere, relatively close by. Echo resisted the anxious tells that might give away their lie, clinging onto Naomi just as much as she clung to them and focusing their attention on the search that was now underway by several of the cheerleaders and other students.
ClocktowerEchos
Hitman
Blizz
shylarah
