Festive
mickilennial
Half Pint
Qia
Melissa
webboysurf
Supermaxx
Nemaisare
Aeolianoops
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8 mos ago
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Ribbit.
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Bio
Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
On the upside, I wrote with some people I hadn’t before and quickly grew to love working with, and Luce is probably one of my best-written characters, and now sits as joint-favourite of characters I’ve ever played.
can one of the races have a quirk where children aren't born without their own active decision to come into existence? Maybe the Vizairi, being made partially of magic, dip into the essence of Galdur to create children, but in doing so said essence has an active choice in being created, so there are no Vizairi children that didn't actively choose to be born.
Okay......
So I wouldn't be coming back with Vincent, at least not as a PC - I'm happy to have cameos or references to him - as the original plan was Vincent would discover his powers came from his nature as a hybrid of Human and a 4th-Dimensional race that granted him such mastery over the standard 3 dimensions (similar to Mr. Mxyzptlk's nature as a 5th-dimensional being, and all the craziness he can get up to as a result), and end up leaving this plane in search of more of his kind and hopefully his mother and biological, 4th-dimensional father. A 2 year gap is a very feasible period for this to have happened in. RIP the Vincent/Eilidh romance.
Hopefully this is OK - I have seen that Wraith has app'd a new character, and I'll be looking to do the same, but I'd like a week to think about sheets and come up with something I'm excited about.
I'd also appreciate if we could get an organized run-down of which characters remain (if we know)? So far, it sounds like Eilidh, Red, Kali, Varo, and potentially Connor are returning, while the rest are gone or having replacements being applied for?
So I wouldn't be coming back with Vincent, at least not as a PC - I'm happy to have cameos or references to him - as the original plan was Vincent would discover his powers came from his nature as a hybrid of Human and a 4th-Dimensional race that granted him such mastery over the standard 3 dimensions (similar to Mr. Mxyzptlk's nature as a 5th-dimensional being, and all the craziness he can get up to as a result), and end up leaving this plane in search of more of his kind and hopefully his mother and biological, 4th-dimensional father. A 2 year gap is a very feasible period for this to have happened in. RIP the Vincent/Eilidh romance.
Hopefully this is OK - I have seen that Wraith has app'd a new character, and I'll be looking to do the same, but I'd like a week to think about sheets and come up with something I'm excited about.
I'd also appreciate if we could get an organized run-down of which characters remain (if we know)? So far, it sounds like Eilidh, Red, Kali, Varo, and potentially Connor are returning, while the rest are gone or having replacements being applied for?
How much leeway do we have for making actions in-character without using our once-per-turn Special Action?
For example, eating, drinking, looking at the map that's already been Examined by another character - assume this is all fine to do within a post without using my Special Action, but then if I wanted the Labourer to pocket another beer for the road - this is a Collect action? Can I pick up the boltcutters, snip the top of a food can, and tear it open to eat what's inside within a post without using a Special Action, or are all of these a Special Action combined, or even separately (i.e. Collect for boltcutter, Attack to use boltcutters on can, Examine to check and eat the food)?
I don't want to step on toes by taking multiple actions within one post when they should be separate uses of Special Actions across several turns - but also, using a Special Action is a tricky and strategic choice as-is, especially as more Special Actions get introduced, so if I have to be even more careful around what the Labourer is doing each post then it might slow me down.
For example, eating, drinking, looking at the map that's already been Examined by another character - assume this is all fine to do within a post without using my Special Action, but then if I wanted the Labourer to pocket another beer for the road - this is a Collect action? Can I pick up the boltcutters, snip the top of a food can, and tear it open to eat what's inside within a post without using a Special Action, or are all of these a Special Action combined, or even separately (i.e. Collect for boltcutter, Attack to use boltcutters on can, Examine to check and eat the food)?
I don't want to step on toes by taking multiple actions within one post when they should be separate uses of Special Actions across several turns - but also, using a Special Action is a tricky and strategic choice as-is, especially as more Special Actions get introduced, so if I have to be even more careful around what the Labourer is doing each post then it might slow me down.
The Labourer kept a firm grip on the length of chain as he climbed back up out of their initial cell, the weight and sturdiness of them a comforting anchor in these otherwise disturbing circumstances. As he climbs back up, he hears glass breaking above him, and he flies back into the bunker-room.
On the cot, the old man, once so filled with fervour as to rip his own chains off the wall, now weeps quietly, engaged in a quiet dialogue with himself and the shattered glass of a dropped bottle scattered about beneath him. The Labourer isn't sure whether to pity the man or scorn him, but in either case he's distracted by the fragance of the stale lager and the sight of five remaining bottles.
"Speak for yourself." He mutters back, grabbing a bottle for himself and pilfering the bottle opener out of the old man's hands, taking a deep pull and feeling a nasty satisfaction blossom in the back of his brain. A guilty, black gremlin, that says I know I shouldn't, but I know I have to. Half the bottle gone in one go, he pulls his lips away from the neck with some reluctance, instead opting to examine the map with the woman.
It reveals lots and very little, simultaneously. They're on an island - in an island? - and there are, apparently, several key points of interest, or at least that's as much as he can deduce by the various dots scattered about the map. The yellow one - at the north-west tip - is either the most important of all or, guessing from what little context is available, potentially a lighthouse and nothing more. Despite having a map, he felt somehow even more confused about their whereabouts.
Another idea struck him. Was the yellow them? He considered everything so far; the cell below - the key, hidden but poorly-enough to be found quickly - the pull-cord disguised in the lightbulb, leading them up here to some kind of supply room. Supplies for what? For the journey ahead of him. If the yellow was their current location, then they were at the furthest point of the island from the bridge, which seemed to be the only way off and back to civilisation. It almost made sense - like this was some kind of sick game, and they were being tested. You made it this far, let's see how much further you can manage.
He felt that spark of angered survival instinct again. He flexed his grip around the chains in his hand. He looked again around the room at the supplies, before his gaze finally settled on the door.
"Alright." He said, finishing the beer. "If anything's safe to eat, then let's eat. Then, let's see what's behind this door."
>Explore (try and open the door)
On the cot, the old man, once so filled with fervour as to rip his own chains off the wall, now weeps quietly, engaged in a quiet dialogue with himself and the shattered glass of a dropped bottle scattered about beneath him. The Labourer isn't sure whether to pity the man or scorn him, but in either case he's distracted by the fragance of the stale lager and the sight of five remaining bottles.
"Speak for yourself." He mutters back, grabbing a bottle for himself and pilfering the bottle opener out of the old man's hands, taking a deep pull and feeling a nasty satisfaction blossom in the back of his brain. A guilty, black gremlin, that says I know I shouldn't, but I know I have to. Half the bottle gone in one go, he pulls his lips away from the neck with some reluctance, instead opting to examine the map with the woman.
It reveals lots and very little, simultaneously. They're on an island - in an island? - and there are, apparently, several key points of interest, or at least that's as much as he can deduce by the various dots scattered about the map. The yellow one - at the north-west tip - is either the most important of all or, guessing from what little context is available, potentially a lighthouse and nothing more. Despite having a map, he felt somehow even more confused about their whereabouts.
Another idea struck him. Was the yellow them? He considered everything so far; the cell below - the key, hidden but poorly-enough to be found quickly - the pull-cord disguised in the lightbulb, leading them up here to some kind of supply room. Supplies for what? For the journey ahead of him. If the yellow was their current location, then they were at the furthest point of the island from the bridge, which seemed to be the only way off and back to civilisation. It almost made sense - like this was some kind of sick game, and they were being tested. You made it this far, let's see how much further you can manage.
He felt that spark of angered survival instinct again. He flexed his grip around the chains in his hand. He looked again around the room at the supplies, before his gaze finally settled on the door.
"Alright." He said, finishing the beer. "If anything's safe to eat, then let's eat. Then, let's see what's behind this door."
>Explore (try and open the door)
Humans:
Humans in the Argent Nexus are as your humans anywhere else; varied, survivable, and fast-populating. Created by the demi-god children of Allt-far from his own divine remains, humans were the earliest mortal inhabitants of the Argent Nexus, and spread themselves across the continent in their search for suitable places to call their new homes. Their capital is the grand city of Hawkminster, where the King and his royal family - descended from Allt-far's children themselves - reign and guide Mankind, alongside the trust council of the King's advisors.
Humans average five to seven feet in height, weigh from sixty to one-hundred kilograms, and live roughly eighty to ninety years. Their skin tones, eyes, and hair colours span the standard range of human colouration, and they have no distinctive physical characteristics beyond those normal for humans.
Humans can be found everywhere across the continent, and have no singular region or city of origin beyond their capital of Hawkminster; however, several cities and town were principally settled by humans, including Blackborough, Pinefall, and Westharbour.
Mankind has a special relationship with Allt-far, as their celestial progenitor, but still revere the Veiled, respectful of Allt-far's prior place in their divine cabal.
Mennesk:
Mennesk are a subrace of Humanity, created long ago by a buried and forgotten magical rite that was intended to elevate Mankind, but ultimately created a distinct offshoot of Human that quickly established themselves as an independent people.
Fittingly for their origins, Mennesk could reasonably pass as Human - were it not for being practically demi-giants, blessed with tremendous height (ten to twelve feet), broad builds (one-hundred-ten to one-hundred-sixty kilograms), long lives (one-hundred to one-hundred-twenty year), incredible physical strength, and physical adaptations that their bodies take on from adolescence as they acclimate to their surroundings. However, whatever magics were used in their creation also severed them from its weave, and Mennesk have a unique ineptitude for spellcasting - taking many years of intense study to grasp mere basics that other races master in months.
Due to their innate adaptive capabilities, and their innate impotence with magic, Mennesk developed a nomadic, traveling society, and emphasised the values of education and craftsmanship within their culture. As a result, since their conception Mennesk have become a race of well-traveled, well-learned caravaneer nomads, known for their strength, scholastic prowess, and the quality of their craft in paths both practical and artistic. Mennesk caravans typically keep equal footing among all members - men, women, and children alike - but particularly-skilled and talented individuals are regarded as Sages for their specific craft, and are revered and well-respects across caravans for their mastery. Caravans additionally have a designated Elder, who leads the convoy and is responsible for maintaining peace and security within the caravan.
Onnea is the patron God of the Mennesk, and honoured accordingly, but they also pay frequent tribute to Tvorba as craftsmen, and heed the rest of the Veiled as appropriate along their travels.
Naturally for a nomadic people, there is no singular fixed Mennesk settlement, and their people are in constant movement across the land; but caravan routes cross paths with some regularity, and several hubs have developed as common meeting-points and respites for caravans along their separate journeys, where it is known you can reliably find Mennesk for trade or commission - though there's no guarantee you'll find the specific individual you might be looking for. These hubs include Wolf's Snag, Riverpass, Tuskbarrow, Thorn's Rest, Oak Hollow, Emberhold, and Halfwall.
Vizairi:
The Vizairi are an enigmatic, ethereal people, crafted by the Veiled from the very essences of Galdur and the elemental teachings of Air - born to carry the legacy of magic through the Argent Nexus, and through their heritage master spellcasting unlike any other.
Vizairi are graceful and uncanny in equal measure, owing to the nature of their creation. Tall (seven to nine feet) and slender (forty to seventy kilograms), their limbs are proportionally longer than those of other races, with long and delicate fingers. Vizairi skin - always pale blue-to-purple tones - shimmers across its surface occasionally; their eyes are piercing and vibrant gem-like shades of purple, green, and yellow, and their hair ranges from white-silver tones, to faintly-yellow blondes, to ebony-black. Vizairi exude grace across their every movement, and they are the very picture of poise.
Vizairi are innate masters of spellcasting, displaying raw natural talent unseen anywhere else in the land, and magic is weaved into their people's everyday lives as simply as breathing. Beyond the tutelage and practice of magic though, their culture values privacy and stoicism to extreme measures often regarded rude or off-putting by other, more sociable races - but in truth, while polite, Vizairi are simply intensely private and reluctant to display emotion. Vizairi even decline to share their names; out in the world, they go by their race name, their occupation, or appellations assigned to them based on their physical appearance, and their wedding ceremonies are attended only by the spouses and their immediate families, consisting of brief vows and an exchanging of names rather than rings. Other races are not welcome within the walls of Vizairi cities - to be permitted inside is a great honour, and even then the guest will be escorted - and to be invited into a Vizairi's home is considered the single deepest expression of respect and admiration once can be offered; more often than not, such an invitation is tantamount to a solemn romantic bid.
The Vizairi can be found across the land, but the majority of their people reside mostly within the Tír Ceilite Forest - where their capital city Inithalair and sister city Yiluné can be found - or the Wintered Canyon, where the city of Ithserine is sheltered. From Inithalair, the Vizairi Emperor reigns, though due to their private culture the Emperor in truth has little influence on their day-to-day lives of their people; instead, Emperor is closer to an honourary title bestowed upon the foremost scholar of magic among the Vizairi, and their successor a chosen acolyte who has long-studied spellcasting under their tutelage. The legacy of the Emperor is that of the most powerful and learned wielders of magic to ever grace the realm.
Galdur, God of Magic, is the patron deity of the Vizairi - his divine essence woven in their very beings - but they revere the Veiled as a whole, paying tribute to all Gods.
Clodaar:
To be completed
Al-Tah'neen:
To be completed
Humans in the Argent Nexus are as your humans anywhere else; varied, survivable, and fast-populating. Created by the demi-god children of Allt-far from his own divine remains, humans were the earliest mortal inhabitants of the Argent Nexus, and spread themselves across the continent in their search for suitable places to call their new homes. Their capital is the grand city of Hawkminster, where the King and his royal family - descended from Allt-far's children themselves - reign and guide Mankind, alongside the trust council of the King's advisors.
Humans average five to seven feet in height, weigh from sixty to one-hundred kilograms, and live roughly eighty to ninety years. Their skin tones, eyes, and hair colours span the standard range of human colouration, and they have no distinctive physical characteristics beyond those normal for humans.
Humans can be found everywhere across the continent, and have no singular region or city of origin beyond their capital of Hawkminster; however, several cities and town were principally settled by humans, including Blackborough, Pinefall, and Westharbour.
Mankind has a special relationship with Allt-far, as their celestial progenitor, but still revere the Veiled, respectful of Allt-far's prior place in their divine cabal.
Mennesk:
Mennesk are a subrace of Humanity, created long ago by a buried and forgotten magical rite that was intended to elevate Mankind, but ultimately created a distinct offshoot of Human that quickly established themselves as an independent people.
Fittingly for their origins, Mennesk could reasonably pass as Human - were it not for being practically demi-giants, blessed with tremendous height (ten to twelve feet), broad builds (one-hundred-ten to one-hundred-sixty kilograms), long lives (one-hundred to one-hundred-twenty year), incredible physical strength, and physical adaptations that their bodies take on from adolescence as they acclimate to their surroundings. However, whatever magics were used in their creation also severed them from its weave, and Mennesk have a unique ineptitude for spellcasting - taking many years of intense study to grasp mere basics that other races master in months.
Due to their innate adaptive capabilities, and their innate impotence with magic, Mennesk developed a nomadic, traveling society, and emphasised the values of education and craftsmanship within their culture. As a result, since their conception Mennesk have become a race of well-traveled, well-learned caravaneer nomads, known for their strength, scholastic prowess, and the quality of their craft in paths both practical and artistic. Mennesk caravans typically keep equal footing among all members - men, women, and children alike - but particularly-skilled and talented individuals are regarded as Sages for their specific craft, and are revered and well-respects across caravans for their mastery. Caravans additionally have a designated Elder, who leads the convoy and is responsible for maintaining peace and security within the caravan.
Onnea is the patron God of the Mennesk, and honoured accordingly, but they also pay frequent tribute to Tvorba as craftsmen, and heed the rest of the Veiled as appropriate along their travels.
Naturally for a nomadic people, there is no singular fixed Mennesk settlement, and their people are in constant movement across the land; but caravan routes cross paths with some regularity, and several hubs have developed as common meeting-points and respites for caravans along their separate journeys, where it is known you can reliably find Mennesk for trade or commission - though there's no guarantee you'll find the specific individual you might be looking for. These hubs include Wolf's Snag, Riverpass, Tuskbarrow, Thorn's Rest, Oak Hollow, Emberhold, and Halfwall.
Vizairi:
The Vizairi are an enigmatic, ethereal people, crafted by the Veiled from the very essences of Galdur and the elemental teachings of Air - born to carry the legacy of magic through the Argent Nexus, and through their heritage master spellcasting unlike any other.
Vizairi are graceful and uncanny in equal measure, owing to the nature of their creation. Tall (seven to nine feet) and slender (forty to seventy kilograms), their limbs are proportionally longer than those of other races, with long and delicate fingers. Vizairi skin - always pale blue-to-purple tones - shimmers across its surface occasionally; their eyes are piercing and vibrant gem-like shades of purple, green, and yellow, and their hair ranges from white-silver tones, to faintly-yellow blondes, to ebony-black. Vizairi exude grace across their every movement, and they are the very picture of poise.
Vizairi are innate masters of spellcasting, displaying raw natural talent unseen anywhere else in the land, and magic is weaved into their people's everyday lives as simply as breathing. Beyond the tutelage and practice of magic though, their culture values privacy and stoicism to extreme measures often regarded rude or off-putting by other, more sociable races - but in truth, while polite, Vizairi are simply intensely private and reluctant to display emotion. Vizairi even decline to share their names; out in the world, they go by their race name, their occupation, or appellations assigned to them based on their physical appearance, and their wedding ceremonies are attended only by the spouses and their immediate families, consisting of brief vows and an exchanging of names rather than rings. Other races are not welcome within the walls of Vizairi cities - to be permitted inside is a great honour, and even then the guest will be escorted - and to be invited into a Vizairi's home is considered the single deepest expression of respect and admiration once can be offered; more often than not, such an invitation is tantamount to a solemn romantic bid.
The Vizairi can be found across the land, but the majority of their people reside mostly within the Tír Ceilite Forest - where their capital city Inithalair and sister city Yiluné can be found - or the Wintered Canyon, where the city of Ithserine is sheltered. From Inithalair, the Vizairi Emperor reigns, though due to their private culture the Emperor in truth has little influence on their day-to-day lives of their people; instead, Emperor is closer to an honourary title bestowed upon the foremost scholar of magic among the Vizairi, and their successor a chosen acolyte who has long-studied spellcasting under their tutelage. The legacy of the Emperor is that of the most powerful and learned wielders of magic to ever grace the realm.
Galdur, God of Magic, is the patron deity of the Vizairi - his divine essence woven in their very beings - but they revere the Veiled as a whole, paying tribute to all Gods.
Clodaar:
To be completed
Al-Tah'neen:
To be completed
"What the fuck..." The Laborer whispered to himself as the ceiling pulled itself away and a ladder opened the way out of their dingy, would-be cell. He thought of an attic, somewhere in the murky past, of ascending into musty darkness in search of something, or to hide something away forever.
Thoughts and hazy memories ceased when he witnessed the sheer bounty available in this room, though. Rations, water, medical supplies; more than enough for the three of them to gorge themselves. There were two things that caught his eye though - the boltcutters, resting innocently against the singular cot, and the first-aid kit on the wall. The boltcutters would be perfect to loose those sturdy chains from their cell beneath, in preparation for a circumstance somehow even more dire than their present one; the first aid kit he sought for the bandages and gauze safeguarded within, able to definitively stymie the wound on his head that still persistently drip-dripped blood across his brow.
He looked at his co-convicts, registering at once that the three of them were neither safe nor in immediate danger; this room seemed to be a purposeful respite, a preparation area for them to steel themselves against whatever awaited them through that door. The laborer was assured in his own mind now that this was some elaborate punishment, but to what end, in recompense for what crime? In his belly he felt a spark of something both frighteningly alien and comfortingly familiar; feral, desperate indignation at his present condition, and in that feeling was the decision to seek his own punishment against whoever had put him here.
First things first, though. He moved to the first aid kit, cracking it open in search of something to patch his head with. Then it was boltcutters and retrieving the chains from the cell below. He was already thinking of various ways they could apply misery unto his mysterious captor.
>Collect
Thoughts and hazy memories ceased when he witnessed the sheer bounty available in this room, though. Rations, water, medical supplies; more than enough for the three of them to gorge themselves. There were two things that caught his eye though - the boltcutters, resting innocently against the singular cot, and the first-aid kit on the wall. The boltcutters would be perfect to loose those sturdy chains from their cell beneath, in preparation for a circumstance somehow even more dire than their present one; the first aid kit he sought for the bandages and gauze safeguarded within, able to definitively stymie the wound on his head that still persistently drip-dripped blood across his brow.
He looked at his co-convicts, registering at once that the three of them were neither safe nor in immediate danger; this room seemed to be a purposeful respite, a preparation area for them to steel themselves against whatever awaited them through that door. The laborer was assured in his own mind now that this was some elaborate punishment, but to what end, in recompense for what crime? In his belly he felt a spark of something both frighteningly alien and comfortingly familiar; feral, desperate indignation at his present condition, and in that feeling was the decision to seek his own punishment against whoever had put him here.
First things first, though. He moved to the first aid kit, cracking it open in search of something to patch his head with. Then it was boltcutters and retrieving the chains from the cell below. He was already thinking of various ways they could apply misery unto his mysterious captor.
>Collect
Fritz watched the others he'd arrived with trickle out, while he remained against the wall, the heavy paw of one of the larger-set guards resting on his shoulder; empty of malice, but full of firm authority. Rowell, for his part, nodded to the guard and made a small gesture with his hand toward a different exit, before turning on his heel and leaving the hall himself. Rowell was headed to his office; Fritz, as he soon found out - guided firmly but not roughly by the same heavy-set guard with the same spade-like mitt on his shoulder - to a secure, holding-cell type area. The place looked like a waiting room, benches flanking the doors at either end, while the walls were lined with cubicles. The front wall to each cell was some kind of sliding-door arrangement, well-polished glass and digital touch-pads to the side; within they were clearly sized for one person each, with a single cot, a secured-to-the-floor chair, a desk that jutted out from the wall like a chunky shelf, and a nondescript toilet, tastefully hidden behind a screen into its own kind of personal stall. These were clearly processing cells from Alcatraz' younger days, just modernized and, from the look of them, either sparsely-used, or frequently-cleaned.
The guard swiped a pass over the pad next to one of the cells, and the glass front slid across with a soft hiss. Fritz got a short-lived glimpse at someone standing, watching, in the neighboring cell, before the guard politely gestured forward, encouraging Fritz to step inside in a way that Fritz thought underplayed the choices that were actually available to him at this juncture. Fritz walked in and turned around, the glass wall already sliding shut - clicking when it was finished - as the guard pocketed his pass and stepped out of the far end of the room into some kind of checking-office, with a window that looked into the waiting room. Fritz peered at the best angle he could find through the glass front of his cell, watching the guard as he sat and thumbed through a magazine.
Fritz sat down on the edge of the cot. Despite experiencing actual regret (though no remorse - he felt the distinction significant) for his behaviour, he still scanned everything in his environment for access or defense. They'd clearly thought ahead; on the opposite wall he could see small sheafs of paper on the desks in each cell, along with a pencil. No such stationary existed in his. He sighed, and tipped himself backwards, resolving to stare at the ceiling until such a time the guard returned and ferried him on to wherever he was supposed to be next.
A light knock came from the wall next to his head.
"New here, kid?" Came a voice, drifting through the front of the cell. Fritz got up, leaning on the wall at the front of his cell - angled out-of-view of the guard's windows - and listening carefully.
"I saw the ferry come in across the bay. Not even half an hour yet and you're in holding."
Fritz didn't say anything. Whoever it was probably wouldn't respond well to him pointing out that they were in holding too.
"Thinking 'well you're in here too'?"" His neighbor continued. "Understand something. Theft. Assault. Criminal elements. AEGIS have their ideas about punishment for wrong-doing. I have mine. We don't see eye-to-eye."
Fritz rolled his eyes.
"You causing trouble already?"
Fritz sighed.
"I pulled a feather out of some bird." He paused. "Girl." He corrected, pausing again. "Bird-girl." That would have to do.
"Charming. Word of advice. Out there - keep your hands to yourself. You'll have enough enemies in this place. Don't make me one of them."
Fritz opened his mouth to reply, but heard the door at the end of the hall open, and the weighty footfall of the guard returning. Fritz stepped away from the wall, back toward the middle of the cell. The guard appeared and waved his pass over the touch-pad again, the glass wall sliding open once more.
"Director Rowell will see you now. Come with me."
And go with him Fritz did, stealing another glance at his neighbor as they passed by; tall. Well-built. Crossed arms rippling with well-maintained muscle. His dark eyes stared out from beneath a dark brow, not a shred of emotion across his face.
Grand, Fritz thought. The street-justice assholes are in here, as well.
Fritz sat in an opulent but uncomfortable chair - some combination of rich, dark wood and quality leather that looked expensive and tasteful but felt like all hell to actually sit in - in front of Director Rowell's desk. The guard who remained his erstwhile escort stood quietly at the back of the room, and Fritz could feel his eyes boring through the back of his skull; he fidgeted, unable to comfortably relax his arms where his wrists remained zip-tied. His eyes darted around the office, that instinctual lizard in the back of his mind still writhing, anxious and unnerved to be without a weapon. Fritz imagined it would be some time before the survival instinct settled and his hands stopped twitching.
Director Rowell stared at him from across the desk, taking a quiet moment to absorb the full scrawny figure of Frederick 'Fritz' Jackson. He was a sore sight, as painful as it was to admit; the child, still a minor at only 17, had not fared well on his self-imposed exile to the streets. Rowell suffered to think what Fritz may have experienced that the streets seemed the better option to him. He gestured to the zip-ties with one hand while beckoning the guard with the other.
"Can we remove those, please? I think Mr. Jackson here will behave from now on."
The guard hesitated, but at the arching of Rowell's eyebrow moved forwards, carefully snipping off the zip-tie and allowing Fritz to rub his chafed wrists and stretch his arms. He felt his shoulders click as he rolled the joints carefully.
"Thank you. Far more civilized, eh Frederick?" Rowell said, delivering a warm smile as he did so.
"Fritz." Fritz corrected, and Rowell simply nodded in return.
"Noted. 'Fritz' it is."
There was a pause; neither the man nor the boy spoke. Instead, each got the distinct impression that the other was eyeing them up.
"What I said earlier. Does any of it need repeating? Do you require further context? This place is your last chance. I understand your own unique... 'need' for a weapon, as an extension of yourself. But unfortunately, a trust issue has formed here. Given enough time to accrue goodwill, and social capital, you'll actually be given weapons as part of your own training process - and in the interest of understanding your own powers. But at the moment, such a thing is impossible."
"Without demonstrating a suitable level of rehabilitation on your part, you can't be trusted with the things which come later in the process. It's that simple. Without the existence of this program - of AEGIS - you would be in a cell. As you've seen, even within this program we have our own cells, which would be more than suitable for any... hiccups... in your own personal growth. But if we feel progress is impossible, it's still entirely possible to have you 'failed' - at which point, your sentence would be altered through your own actions, and you'd serve out your due term apportioned to you by the full extent of the law. Which, I can assure you, would be less empathetic than we here have been."
You could almost hear the cartoon-like 'gulp' that ran across Fritz' mind. He had little desire to let the courts decide his fate; despite his years on the streets he was well aware - perhaps even more finely-attuned to - the growing sentiment the public held against Metahumans. There was little doubt a derelict like him would make the perfect example in the eyes of politicians for their new 'hard on metas' stance that would surely win them enough votes for their preferred seats.
"At this point the question is, how big a leap of faith are you willing to take on other people, when it comes to your last chance? Because you're looking at being thrown in a deep dark hole, and never seeing the light of day again."
Rowell stared across his desk at Fritz' furrowed expression, his own face betraying no hint of emotion. He was a stone wall, in this moment a disciplinarian through-and-through. Fritz nodded.
"People, not so much. But I'll toe the AEGIS line." Fritz looked back at the guard who was watching him with a raised eyebrow from beside the door, and then turned to meet Rowell's gaze. "I don't want to hurt people. I just don't want to be hurt."
Rowell raised an eyebrow in an expression that might have resembled compassionate amusement, had Fritz the capacity to recognize compassion.
"Well, that's a good start. Just make sure you hold up your end of that bargain."
Rowell held a hand up and beckoned the guard forward with two fingers.
"Jones here will escort you directly to the residential wing. You'll be on curfew tonight. Time to ruminate over your purpose in being here. And a chance for your peers to forget about this afternoon's...festivities."
Jones put that meaty paw back on Fritz' shoulder, and he looked up at the gargantuan man. Jones looked back down. Fritz got up, and left Rowell at his desk, watching the two of them leave over castled fingers.
The guard swiped a pass over the pad next to one of the cells, and the glass front slid across with a soft hiss. Fritz got a short-lived glimpse at someone standing, watching, in the neighboring cell, before the guard politely gestured forward, encouraging Fritz to step inside in a way that Fritz thought underplayed the choices that were actually available to him at this juncture. Fritz walked in and turned around, the glass wall already sliding shut - clicking when it was finished - as the guard pocketed his pass and stepped out of the far end of the room into some kind of checking-office, with a window that looked into the waiting room. Fritz peered at the best angle he could find through the glass front of his cell, watching the guard as he sat and thumbed through a magazine.
Fritz sat down on the edge of the cot. Despite experiencing actual regret (though no remorse - he felt the distinction significant) for his behaviour, he still scanned everything in his environment for access or defense. They'd clearly thought ahead; on the opposite wall he could see small sheafs of paper on the desks in each cell, along with a pencil. No such stationary existed in his. He sighed, and tipped himself backwards, resolving to stare at the ceiling until such a time the guard returned and ferried him on to wherever he was supposed to be next.
A light knock came from the wall next to his head.
"New here, kid?" Came a voice, drifting through the front of the cell. Fritz got up, leaning on the wall at the front of his cell - angled out-of-view of the guard's windows - and listening carefully.
"I saw the ferry come in across the bay. Not even half an hour yet and you're in holding."
Fritz didn't say anything. Whoever it was probably wouldn't respond well to him pointing out that they were in holding too.
"Thinking 'well you're in here too'?"" His neighbor continued. "Understand something. Theft. Assault. Criminal elements. AEGIS have their ideas about punishment for wrong-doing. I have mine. We don't see eye-to-eye."
Fritz rolled his eyes.
"You causing trouble already?"
Fritz sighed.
"I pulled a feather out of some bird." He paused. "Girl." He corrected, pausing again. "Bird-girl." That would have to do.
"Charming. Word of advice. Out there - keep your hands to yourself. You'll have enough enemies in this place. Don't make me one of them."
Fritz opened his mouth to reply, but heard the door at the end of the hall open, and the weighty footfall of the guard returning. Fritz stepped away from the wall, back toward the middle of the cell. The guard appeared and waved his pass over the touch-pad again, the glass wall sliding open once more.
"Director Rowell will see you now. Come with me."
And go with him Fritz did, stealing another glance at his neighbor as they passed by; tall. Well-built. Crossed arms rippling with well-maintained muscle. His dark eyes stared out from beneath a dark brow, not a shred of emotion across his face.
Grand, Fritz thought. The street-justice assholes are in here, as well.
Fritz sat in an opulent but uncomfortable chair - some combination of rich, dark wood and quality leather that looked expensive and tasteful but felt like all hell to actually sit in - in front of Director Rowell's desk. The guard who remained his erstwhile escort stood quietly at the back of the room, and Fritz could feel his eyes boring through the back of his skull; he fidgeted, unable to comfortably relax his arms where his wrists remained zip-tied. His eyes darted around the office, that instinctual lizard in the back of his mind still writhing, anxious and unnerved to be without a weapon. Fritz imagined it would be some time before the survival instinct settled and his hands stopped twitching.
Director Rowell stared at him from across the desk, taking a quiet moment to absorb the full scrawny figure of Frederick 'Fritz' Jackson. He was a sore sight, as painful as it was to admit; the child, still a minor at only 17, had not fared well on his self-imposed exile to the streets. Rowell suffered to think what Fritz may have experienced that the streets seemed the better option to him. He gestured to the zip-ties with one hand while beckoning the guard with the other.
"Can we remove those, please? I think Mr. Jackson here will behave from now on."
The guard hesitated, but at the arching of Rowell's eyebrow moved forwards, carefully snipping off the zip-tie and allowing Fritz to rub his chafed wrists and stretch his arms. He felt his shoulders click as he rolled the joints carefully.
"Thank you. Far more civilized, eh Frederick?" Rowell said, delivering a warm smile as he did so.
"Fritz." Fritz corrected, and Rowell simply nodded in return.
"Noted. 'Fritz' it is."
There was a pause; neither the man nor the boy spoke. Instead, each got the distinct impression that the other was eyeing them up.
"What I said earlier. Does any of it need repeating? Do you require further context? This place is your last chance. I understand your own unique... 'need' for a weapon, as an extension of yourself. But unfortunately, a trust issue has formed here. Given enough time to accrue goodwill, and social capital, you'll actually be given weapons as part of your own training process - and in the interest of understanding your own powers. But at the moment, such a thing is impossible."
"Without demonstrating a suitable level of rehabilitation on your part, you can't be trusted with the things which come later in the process. It's that simple. Without the existence of this program - of AEGIS - you would be in a cell. As you've seen, even within this program we have our own cells, which would be more than suitable for any... hiccups... in your own personal growth. But if we feel progress is impossible, it's still entirely possible to have you 'failed' - at which point, your sentence would be altered through your own actions, and you'd serve out your due term apportioned to you by the full extent of the law. Which, I can assure you, would be less empathetic than we here have been."
You could almost hear the cartoon-like 'gulp' that ran across Fritz' mind. He had little desire to let the courts decide his fate; despite his years on the streets he was well aware - perhaps even more finely-attuned to - the growing sentiment the public held against Metahumans. There was little doubt a derelict like him would make the perfect example in the eyes of politicians for their new 'hard on metas' stance that would surely win them enough votes for their preferred seats.
"At this point the question is, how big a leap of faith are you willing to take on other people, when it comes to your last chance? Because you're looking at being thrown in a deep dark hole, and never seeing the light of day again."
Rowell stared across his desk at Fritz' furrowed expression, his own face betraying no hint of emotion. He was a stone wall, in this moment a disciplinarian through-and-through. Fritz nodded.
"People, not so much. But I'll toe the AEGIS line." Fritz looked back at the guard who was watching him with a raised eyebrow from beside the door, and then turned to meet Rowell's gaze. "I don't want to hurt people. I just don't want to be hurt."
Rowell raised an eyebrow in an expression that might have resembled compassionate amusement, had Fritz the capacity to recognize compassion.
"Well, that's a good start. Just make sure you hold up your end of that bargain."
Rowell held a hand up and beckoned the guard forward with two fingers.
"Jones here will escort you directly to the residential wing. You'll be on curfew tonight. Time to ruminate over your purpose in being here. And a chance for your peers to forget about this afternoon's...festivities."
Jones put that meaty paw back on Fritz' shoulder, and he looked up at the gargantuan man. Jones looked back down. Fritz got up, and left Rowell at his desk, watching the two of them leave over castled fingers.
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