Roman

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus}

Dance Monkey #4.053: If You Are What You Say You Are

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_{Interaction(s): N/A}

The suit still fit.

He wasn't sure why he was surprised - it wasn't like he'd let himself go in the years between now and the last time he'd wore it - but nonetheless he stood in front of the mirror in mild disbelief, the purple jacket and pants conforming nicely to his figure and pairing with the lavender shirt he wore beneath. The bow-tie, a semi-casual and slightly-floppy silk mauve number, was the aperitif to a suit that looked far more joyful than Gil felt; he was well-aware of the theme he had cooked up with the now-absent Calliope for the formal, and at the time of conception, returning one of his actual red carpet looks had felt like the perfect compliment to the motif of the evening. Now, though, he stood across from his reflection wearing a reminder of a life he'd discarded this very afternoon, preparing to revisit a version of him he was very consciously trying to leave behind, if only as a lighthearted facsimile.

The beers and the shooters burned in his belly and he swayed slightly on his feet. Food would be needed in short order, but for now he just tippled from a flask secreted in his inside pocket, swishing the warmth around his mouth in an effort to stop grinding his teeth. He was nervous, he realized, but couldn't quite pinpoint why; he'd done plenty of functions like this before, galas with far more pomp and circumstance to them than a simple school dance. Even casting aside public events from his pre-academy history, he'd surmounted far more troubling calamities in the last fortnight than tonight's ball. And yet there was a part of him that almost longed for the raining of hard-light blows upon his body over the social navigation that would be required of him this evening.

Well, expected of him, at least. Perhaps that was what vexed him in this moment; the weight of expectation. The gulf between what the student body anticipated, and what he was prepared to deliver.

He shook his head, scattering the thoughts to the wind as best he could. No time for it now; Lorcán and Rory had already headed out, urged on by his own faltering words assuring them he'd be right behind. They'd hesitated, and for that Gil was appreciative, both boys aware this was out of character for the Gil they knew, that he should be leading the charge, not floundering in the dorm, desperately trying to conjure the wherewithal to step outside and face the dance. But that was the Gil they knew, past tense. What of this Gil? This nervous, agitated Gil, who would just as soon wrap himself in a plush duvet nestled in the corner of his bedroom, with naught but the gifted bottle and his phone for company, as he would stride out into the night with swagger in his hips and a smile across his face?

Do it quick, like ripping off a band-aid. Just reach for the door, pull it open, and cross the threshold; once you're out, you're out, and there's no going back in. One foot in front of the other, and you won't even realize you've made the decision before you're there.

It took some more convincing, and another pull from the flask, but Gil did eventually make the leap.

---

The theme had come together spectacularly; in a way, Gil's crushing and sincere regret at the choice of concept was its own glowing recognition of its success. Everywhere he looked, the ARC was adorned in an extravaganza of Hollywood glitz and glam. The red carpet had been a particularly rocky entrance to an event Gil was already struggling with, far too eerily similar in its recreation to the paparazzi assault he'd faced many a time over his career, but even that was a backhanded compliment to how completely everything had come together. Would that Calliope were here to appreciate her hard work, because Gil certainly wasn't able to.

All about him was commotion; those lingering or taking a breather outside as he'd arrived had recognized him, of course they had, as equal parts student peer and campus celebrity. Some had pointed, some had the dignity to only dart their eyes back and forth, but the whispers had circulated nonetheless, about evening visitors, about nights in the infirmary. Jokes had been made that this must all seem very banal compared to Gil's career before PRCU, jokes that were met first with wan smiles and then withering stares. Banal was not the adjective in play: Gil preferred 'disconcertingly surreal'.

Bar. That was Gil's first thought, although food followed closely behind. Canapes littered the hall, again dressed up in keeping with the LA glitterati that pervaded (by resented design) the evening, and Gil mineswept trays and plates as he weaved through the thronging crowd toward the wall of booze on the other side of the arena. Fistfuls of cooked dough and seafood were mashed into his mouth, morsels admittedly delicious but barely chewed, less appetizers for the buffet and more belly-fodder for soaking up booze. Gil was in no way a lightweight; from a young age he'd been a prodigious drinker, especially for his otherwise-average stature, and that was under no threat this evening. He just needed to pad out his stats, so to speak. Tonight, he was going to get breathtakingly drunk.

He was attended to quickly, perhaps the first element of the night he was genuinely pleased about without any bittersweet complications, and he took a pause to consider what he actually wanted. A soda water, first of all, something to clear the pallet and maybe top-up from the flask if needs must - certainly no more beer, as the cans he'd polished off with Rory's help still sat gassy and bloating in his stomach. No, he needed something cleaner, smoother, something he could nurse while he got his bearings and ate some proper food before diving deeper into his self-imposed debauchery. The cocktail of the evening was, of course, the martini, and a menu on the bar listed several needless variations on them, but Gil would be damned if he was going to lean into the theme any more than he already had, inadvertently or otherwise. No, in times like these, he returned to his mother's favorite, brought in tumblers to the beach on sunny days, a mix undoubtedly quaint and bordering on tame, but nostalgic, a drink that tasted unequivocally of home, at least when a good cup of tea was out of reach, as it often was this side of the Atlantic.

One Elderflower Collins later, Gil was armed with a plate, sampling the buffet, scanning the crowd for his teammates.

Roman's Scrapbin

The messenger arrives, when he does, in the early hours of the afternoon astride a great white steed with mudded legs.

To undertake the solemn task the court had thrust upon him, the messenger - rotund, boastful, magisterial - had demanded from the royal stables nothing less than the finest animal, and had gotten it; the steed was a kingly stallion, strong and healthy and when he galloped his hooves were a thunderous chorus outpacing anything else among the palace’s nobles. But the beast is too powerful and too prideful to respect the pompous man sat upon its back, and the stable-hand who has escorted them has done well thusfar to soothe and ply his charge with vegetables and sugar; still, the horse tosses his head and huffs as they canter, disgruntled but so-far tolerant.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

---

It was early evening outside, and while the sun was setting it was still bright enough to bathe everything in a warm orange blaze, dappled twilight filtering through the treetops. An evening like this, Jasper would have very much enjoyed a slow stroll with a coffee in one hand and his jacket clutched in the other, substituting the coffee for a beer when he reached the bar, and then substituting the beer for a glass of whiskey when he strolled, slightly wonkier for his time spent, back home again. As it was right now, though, the dusk sun didn't quite reach the depths of the research lab he currently occupied, and he was illuminated not by autumnal half-light, but by the harsh white glow of the computer monitor in front of him.

He leaned back in his chair, pushing the balls of his palms into his eyes. He was too old to stare at computer screens like this anymore; he could feel the slow-fry in his corneas, the words of the article on-screen burnt into his vision, little fading scribbles behinds his eyelids. He blinked hard a couple times, and then leaned forward to switch the monitor off, resolving that if he couldn't have his beer and whiskey, he could at least still have his damn coffee. He stood, swooping up the empty mug next to the keyboard with one hand and beginning to pull on his jacket from where it had hung over the back of his chair with the other. It was a few short strides to the door, and then the canteen was just down the corridor. Maybe he'd get lucky, and HR or the IT boys had left some donuts out.

He didn't get lucky. No donuts; only a few oat-raisin cookies that he turned his nose up at, the crumbs of superior biscuits scattering the box a shredded taunt on what could have been. As it was he took his coffee and left, intending to return to his reading - he'd been poring over the archived research into the X-Gene serum left behind by his father and grandfather, and while some of the more intensely-academic science went over his head, even he knew that everything he'd read so far failed to line up with Jubilee's unique case. Halfway down the hallway though, he could feel his eyes trying to leap out of his skull at the prospect of more straining against the blue-light of the computer screen. He rubbed them again, coaxing them to stay in their sockets, and ultimately resolved to divert himself; a quick pivot on his heel and he was further off down the corridor, marching summarily towards the ward that currently housed his new patient.

The door was ajar when Jasper arrived and he poked his head through carefully; it was well-kept but empty. Jubilee's satchel-bag hung from the end of the bed, and tossed over the chair in the corner was her distinct yellow coat. The girl herself appeared absent entirely.
"Miss Lee?" He asked, raising his voice slightly, as if he expected her to just be hidden underneath the bed or crouched behind the chair.
"Just in the bathroom - come on in." Came the muffled reply. Jasper stepped into the room proper, and carefully moved the girl's coat to take a seat. There was the sound of a lock unlocking from the bathroom door in the corner, and Jubilee stepped through.
"I'll admit, Agent Sitwell, you guys have some pretty good digs here. You can't extend this kind of interior decorating to your clinics?"
"It's really not my department." Jasper answered off-handedly, dismissing the thought. He neither knew nor cared what kind of budget was allotted to the treatment centres.
"No?" She said, her tone quizzical but with an edge; the follow-up was obvious: "What exactly is your department?"

Jasper leaned back; it was a fair question, and in truth, one he wasn't even sure he knew the answer to. He mulled it over, rocking the question back and forth in his head, before ultimately settling on remaining vague.
"Officially, interrogation." He said, quickly continuing as Jubilee's nose immediately wrinkled and her mouth contorted into a distrustful grimace, "but in actuality, I mostly consult. I've got enough tenure to avoid the small stuff, and close enough to retirement to not get assigned big-ticket items that'd take a couple years. So I get requests across my desk, and I pick up the ones that sound interesting. It's been years since I've lead anything properly myself - interrogation or otherwise."
"So I should feel honoured to be deemed 'interesting' enough to warrant your obviously very special attention?"
"You're a distinctly unique case, I have to say. And Marty's a friend. But I'll admit - I've something of a vested interest in the serum we use in those clinics."
Jubilee raised an eyebrow, prompting further explanation without needing to ask directly. Jasper considered evasion, but he needed to ingratiate himself with the girl if he wanted her cooperation.
"My father and grandfather developed the serum. 'Family recipe', you might say. I wasn't involved in its formulation, and I'm not involved in its production or administration - but it'll inevitably fall back on me if what you've experienced starts happening to others. So, ideally, we figure out what's going on with you before then."

Jubilee sat cross-legged on the bed, eyeing Jasper with a sceptical gaze for a few long seconds, before eventually shrugging and pulling her phone out of her pocket, burying herself in the screen.
"Fair enough." She said. "Your father and grandfather are nasty old bastards for developing probably the single biggest tool of minority oppression in the modern era - but as long as you can cover your ass, I guess."
Jasper sighed. The serum was controversial in the public eye, and he should have expected pushback on his family history from a mutant; at the very least, he hoped his honesty was less damaging than lying and being potentially discovered later on. Instead, he stood up, taking a few steps towards the bed. Jubilee flashed her eyes up momentarily, before returning her gaze to her phone.
"You'd be surprised how many people out there agree with you," he said, "even within S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. It's partly why I never worked on the formula."
"Partly?" Jubilee said, her tone significantly terser.
"I never had the brain for it, either." He admitted. He stood in silence, his attempt at lightening the mood sinking like the Titanic.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, the air becoming distinctly awkward.
"Anyway - I just wanted to see how you were settling in."
"Peachy keen, Avril Lavigne." She replied, laden with disinterest. "Hungry, though. When does room service dish up?"
"I'll get a menu sent up." Jasper snipped, before softening again and saying, "but seriously, the canteen does hot dinners - something'll be brought in for you shortly."
"Something meaty and undercooked, if you can manage it." She replied.
"I'll specifically ask for our worst chef to prepare it..." Jasper muttered, bemused by the request. He watched Jubilee absently scratching at her arm, and noticed the skin there was shockingly pink, flaking away slightly beneath her nails.

Sunburn, he suddenly realised.

"When did that happen?" He asked, pointing to where she was itching, realising her other arm was the same salmon shade, as well as the skin around her neck and collarbones. "Surely not just from today?"
Jubilee shrugged, pulling her t-shirt up to try and hide her chest while consciously stopping herself from scratching any further.
"Wasn't there this morning. Must have caught the sun on the transfer."
"I'll say..." Jasper muttered, moving to a cabinet on the far side of the room and rustling around within. He returned to the bedside with a small hand-held strip light. "Hold still for a second."

Gently, he took Jubilee's arm in his hand and turned it over, holding the black-light lamp over her skin and hovering his finger above the switch.
"This might sting a bit." He warned, and Jubilee barely got time to ask what might sting before he flipped the switch and her arm was suddenly basking in UV.

There was a hiss, and for a second Jasper thought it was coming from her skin, before he realised Jubilee had made the sound the same time as she'd wrenched her arm away reflexively; she cradled it close to her chest, glaring up at Jasper with frightening intensity.
"What the hell was that?!" She demanded, and Jasper switched the lamp off before holding it up.
"Black-light. Good for veins and stains...and apparently bad for your skin." He answered, pointing at her arm that was already turning pink. "I think we can add 'UV sensitivity' to your symptoms."

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by Master Bruce>

That's too long.

There's a reason my total posts is so high.

@Sep

Sep firmly on the other side of 'Quality Over Quantity'

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

---

The humvee rolled to a slow stop in front of the barrier; Marty rolled down the driver side window, and waited patiently for the guard in the booth to stand from his cushy chair and attend to them. Sitwell tapped his fingernail on the glass of the passenger-side window as they waited, still carefully watching Jubilee in the reflection of the side-mirror. She was slightly hazy; he figured the glass was in need of a wipe. It was a humid day, after all.

The guard arrived at the window and Marty greeted him warmly, pulling his wallet from his inside jacket pocket to flash his ID. There was some low muttering between them that Jasper didn't pay attention to, and then Marty leaned over to fish around in the glove compartment.
"He needs your ID." Marty said in a low voice from somewhere uncomfortable close to Jasper's lap.
"Excuse me?"
Marty pulled back and sat upright again, thrusting a fistful of papers - Jubilee's transfer paperwork - toward the guard.
"He needs your ID too. Security's tightened up. What with the world going a bit...crazy lately."

Jasper tutted.
"The world's always been crazy." He said, but fished out his ID anyway, passing it to Marty to pass to the guard, who inspected it thoroughly before returning it back down the chain, along with handing back the paperwork. The guard returned to the booth, Jasper returned to gazing languorously out the window, and Marty rolled his back up as the barrier rose and the humvee rumbled to life and pushed on toward the base proper.

"So you're not W.H.O. after all." Chirped a voice from the back, a peculiar mix of spritely and sullen.
"Hm?" Jasper said, only half paying attention as Jubilee leaned forward, pointing that accusatory finger of hers again toward him.
"You're not W.H.O. You lied."
"W.H.O?"
"You. You're S.H.I.E.L.D."
Jasper smiled a small smile only to himself, still looking out the window.
"How d'you figure?"

Jubilee sat back, pouting and folding her arms over themselves. Jasper had a talent for being irritating, but he also enjoyed knowing he was being irritating, and she tried hard not to give him the satisfaction.
"Marty's S.H.I.E.L.D, and there's more of a mentor-mentee thing going on than colleagues-from-different-organisations vibe."
"That's just my innate and hard-earned seniority."
"This is a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, too, and they're awful cagey about outside personnel - which is why Marty had to give the guard my transfer papers."
"I've won them over with my natural charm and charisma. They let me in for the good of staff morale."
"Plus, when you handed over your ID, it was a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge."

Jasper's smile dropped, and he tilted his head to meet Jubilee's gaze in the rear-view mirror.
"And how did you spot that?"
"Saw it in the passenger side mirror when you pulled it out, and the driver side mirror when Marty handed it to the guard, and the booth window reflection when he checked it."
Jasper raised his well-practiced eyebrow.
"That's a good eye you've got. Your friends call you Columbo, too?"
"The explorer?"

Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, Jubilee smiled, pleased to be biting back.
"No, the- the detective. On TV. Great at solving mysteries. Non-chalant."
"Oh! Like Benoit Blanc?"
"Who?"
"Blanc. From those thrillers. Daniel Craig?"
"I don't go in for British film too much. And I never liked spy movies."
"No, not Bond, Bla- wait, you don't like spy movies?"
"Can't say I've ever cared for them."
"But you work for S.H.I.E.L.D! You're a spy!"
"Exactly. The movies get it all wrong - car chases, shoot-outs, bad cocktails. It's actually just lots of paperwork."
"You still lied about who you work for."
"Ah, well. That's the one thing the movies get right. Lots and lots of lying."

Agents of H.E.L.P - A Hyperverse Roleplay [Invite Only]

D R . S O L O M O N ' S A L L Y ' W I N T E R S
D R . S O L O M O N ' S A L L Y ' W I N T E R S

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^{_{"This is the shape and the point of the tooth: nothing has ever lived that will not die."}}

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P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N P R O F I L E I N F O R M A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ NAME: | Dr. Solomon Isaac Winters _______________________________________________________________________ STATUS: | Active _______________________________________________________________________ INDEX DATE: | TBD _______________________________________________________________________ DATE OF BIRTH: | 1973/10/11 _______________________________________________________________________ ALIAS(ES): | The Occultist _______________________________________________________________________ RESIDENCE: | Damascus, Virginia _______________________________________________________________________ CITIZENSHIP: | American, Canadian _______________________________________________________________________ CLEARANCE LEVEL: | Special Agent B A C K G R O U N D B A C K G R O U N D ________________________________________________________________________________________ Solomon was born an only child to his mother and father after several years of misfortune in their attempts; he was a pale and sickly child, but well-loved, his parents each grateful for his presence. Raised in a mining and logging town deep within the Appalachians, he was no stranger to spooky stories told around bonfires nestled in the trees, quickly familiar with folktales and rumours and the myriad monsters that supposedly made their homes among the mountains. Alongside local myths, however, were far more mundane fears; the industry of the town came with its due share of injury and accident, sometimes monthly, weekly, or even daily incidents. Solomon's father, a lumberjack himself, was witness to much, and was careful to instil Solomon with caution, not willing to risk his only son against the same tragedies that befell many of his neighbours. All in all, Solomon grew up a pallid, morbid, but ultimately happy child. It was only when Solomon started speaking truth to long-circulating town rumours, divulging secrets none had told him, and reciting final words he had no explainable reason to know, that his parents - and the town residents at large - became concerned with his behaviour, and eventually his psychology. The town doctor was ill-prepared to handle a case like Solomon's. While well-equipped to handle the physical trauma and respiratory issues that plagued the town's logging and mining workers, there was little literature, training, or even precedent available to manage the mental difficulties that visited upon the young Winters child. Solomon withdrew socially, shunned by his peers for his odd behaviour and his conversations with invisible partners, and talked about in hushed whispers by the adults of the town. The medication prescribed by the doctor floundering for a treatment plan only served to flatten his emotions and numb his perception of, and participation in, the world around him, only pushing himself further beyond the social fringes. When Solomon was discovered one winter break in the woods, kneeling in the snow with his hands on burst-open carcasses and bringing unnatural, sluggish movements back to dead animals, he was condemned utterly. Solomon's battered adolescent body lay in the snow on the brink of death from combined injury and hypothermia beyond the passing of midnight before he was finally found and returned home to his parents. The day after, an emissary darkened their doorstep to instruct that Solomon was no longer welcome in the town. It had been decided that at best he was odd and unsettling, and a potential danger to others; at worst, he was actively dabbling in dark and heretical things beyond human understanding, and would deliberately bring monstrous consequences upon them. Solomon was taken away a week later by H.E.L.P. after a desperate letter of appeal from his parents to their headquarters in Canada, seeking somewhere Solomon could not only be safe, but also understood. He spent the rest of his adolescence in the organization's care, effectively a foster child, and came to learn that he was no dark wizard, nor possessed by the devil; he was a Hyperhuman - a distinctly unique Hyperhuman - and H.E.L.P. were keen to assist him in understanding his own nature, so that they could understand it better in turn. R E C R U I T M E N T R E C R U I T M E N T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Between his natural interests in the morbid and the occult from his early years, and his growing understanding of his own abilities in his adolescence, Solomon spent much of his time in H.E.L.P.'s care researching magic and the supernatural, poring over old tomes and studies of the paranormal. By the time he reached eighteen, he was already considered something of a specialist by the organisation's officials, and following a university course graduating with a Bachelor's in Mythology & Occult Sciences, and then a Master's degree, and then completing a Doctorate, the freshly-honoured Doctor Solomon Winters was by default the foremost expert on magic, the occult, and all things paranormal within H.E.L.P. - and most of the country, if not the continent - and his own personal research into the supernatural that his academic studies didn't cover wasn't about to slow down. When Solomon started seeking out actual real-life encounters with those things that exist outside the veil of humans and Hypes, he was alternately warned off, or laughed out, considered broadly as an intelligent but off-putting man, who wasted his talents on fanciful stories meant to frighten children. When Solomon actually did come face-to-face with a beast from beyond the pale - and managed to have the good sense to record his encounter for concrete, empirical evidence - he was suddenly the only man worth talking to about the supernatural, and was quickly inducted officially into H.E.L.P. to share his knowledge within the organisation - and allow them to supress it as necessary. C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U C A R E E R W I T H T H E B U R E A U ________________________________________________________________________________________ Solomon has worked with H.E.L.P. and H.I.T. for over thirty years, and for such a long career, his rank within the organization - Special Agent - doesn't reflect the sheer breadth of his experience and service. What it does represent is the reaction his superiors and comrades-in-arms invariably have to his aloof, vaguely-absent, off-putting personality and behaviour, as well as the unsettling nature of his abilities, and his obsessive study and research into aspects of un-reality that the organization doesn't necessarily consider worth the time-and-resource-investment that Solomon continues to put into, and demand for, his inquisitions. As a result, while Solomon is a well-respected agent among most within H.E.L.P., and a well-recognized name to most who work for the organization, he's also an incredibly 'internally-mobile' one; he's been shipped around and transferred between many units, offices, and task-forces across both H.E.L.P. and H.I.T., more than nearly any other individual within the operation, and is passed over for promotions and more senior positions. He struggles to make friends, and is absolutely incapable of playing the political network game to his advantage; it is only the sheer tenure of his service, the breadth of niches filled by his occult expertise, and the unique utility of his particular abilities, that cause him to only be shuffled, rather than disciplined, demoted, or fired entirely.

P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N P H O T O I D E N T I F I C A T I O N _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N P H Y S I C A L D E S C R I P T I O N _________________________________________________________ RACE: | Caucasian _________________________________________________________________ SEX: | Male _________________________________________________________________ HEIGHT: | 6'3" _________________________________________________________________ WEIGHT: | 161lbs _________________________________________________________________ HAIR COLOUR: | Brunette (going grey) _________________________________________________________________ HAIR LENGTH: | Short-cut _________________________________________________________________ EYE COLOUR: | Grey _________________________________________________________________ HANDEDNESS: | Left A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T S, & W E A K N E S S E S _________________________________________________________ H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || NECROMANCY __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION || Esoteric __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION || Biological __POWER SCALE || 4 __THREAT CLASSIFICATION || Δ Solomon's hyperhuman Einseele, or 'OneSoul', has a unique resonance (even among fellow Hypes) with HZE ions, granting him a peculiar dominion over the lingering Überseeles ('Oversouls') and Unterseeles ('Undersouls') of the deceased, and even partial communication with those of the still-living. This dominion allows Solomon to interact with the dead (and sometimes the living) in a handful of ways: • Through focus, Solomon can conjure up the Überseele of the dead and communicate with the lingering consciousness contained within, able to ask questions, share memories, and with the more recently-deceased, engage in full two-sided conversation; • By making physical contact with deceased bodies, Solomon can funnel his dominion into simple commands to the Unterseele of a being, animating the dead flesh into carrying out his command; • Through a combination of resonance with the Über- and Unterseele in tandem, Solomon can dip into a being's memories and emotions, feeling them for himself. Using the same method, he can also experience the final living moments of a recently-expired corpse. L I M I T A T I O N S & W E A K N E S S E S • While Solomon can connect with the Überseele of a living being to experience their memories and thoughts, he cannot influence them, nor can he command the Überseele. • Solomon's Unterseele commands require a corpse, and physical contact with said corpse; he cannot animate dead-flesh from distance. • Commanded dead-flesh is still subject to real-world physics, and isn't imparted with any additional durability or strength, so can be fended off accordingly by those capable. • The Überseeles of the more recently-deceased, or those of individuals who were particularly strong-willed in life, can manifest to Solomon independently of his summons, which can distract, frighten, or overwhelm him with voices and thoughts he didn't willingly conjure. • Due to the Einseele inherent to Hyperhumans that unifies and balances the Über- and Unterseele, Solomon's abilities do not work whatsoever on other Hypes.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Enjoy the world's smallest post by the owner of the world's smallest............................................................

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

---

"Do you have everything?" Jasper asked, once again at reception and casting a studious eye over the now-upright figure of the young mutant girl now taken into his care. She was out of her gown and dressed in her own clothes again, a fairly nondescript t-shirt and shorts combo, in the distinct leanings of the '90's grunge' trend - at least as far as Jasper understood contemporary fashion trends, and if you looked at his suit, you'd probably think he didn't understand them very well. Ah, but this was part of the illusion - because then Jasper could say it's 'vintage', and you wouldn't be reasonably able to refute him, and he'd walk away with a very irritating smug grin on his face.

The only thing that decidedly wasn't 90's grunge, that even Jasper knew was garish, was a vibrant yellow trenchcoat that trailed down past the backs of her knees. She wore it almost proudly, collar popped, sleeves pushed up over her elbows. It was fairly obviously too big for her, but she wore it all the same.
"I didn't exactly come in with much." Jubilee replied. Jasper just rolled his eyes. If she wanted to be sarcastic, fine, but he wasn't turning the car around if she forgot anything. Instead, he turned to his colleague, stooped over the reception desk scribbling away and signing dutifully at various points on the page where the attending nurse's finger pointed.
"Marty, you done with that transfer paperwork?"
"Just about, sir. You sure you don't want to approve this?"
"You wanted me to check it out, you put your name on the paperwork for when the brass comes calling."
Marty frowned, but knew better to protest. He finished signing the paperwork, and the nurse took her copy away, leaving the three of them alone in the reception. Jasper nodded, and Marty lead the way to the door, pushing it open and beckoning Jasper and Jubilee through. Jasper went first, but Jubilee hesitated on the precipice, squinting out at the bright afternoon sun. She held a hand over her eyes.

"Christ, it's bright. When did that happen?" She said, Jasper turning to look at her.
"When did what happen?" He replied. "The Sun? We just installed it yesterday."
Jubilee lowered her hand and frowned. "Don't be an ass. I'm just saying, it's bright. Feels like a camera flash permanently going off in my eyes."
Jasper looked up at the sky. It was sunny, sure, but not anymore than any other day. There were even clouds lazily drifting across the sky. A nice day, but hardly blazing.
"Well, the car windows are tinted. Now can we go?"

Jubilee grumbled but didn't say anything further - at least not that Jasper or Marty could overhear, anyway. Marty headed toward the car, clicking the beeper to unlock it, while Jasper held the door for Jubilee. She hurried through, taking a sharp intake of breath as she stepped into the sunlight, practically jogging toward the car until she reached it and wrenched open the door. Jasper regarded her in confusion as she bundled herself into the rear seats and pulled the door closed hastily.

After-effects of the seizure, maybe?

He shrugged mentally, filing the thought away for later, and made his own stroll over to the passenger side of the vehicle, climbing in to sit beside Marty.
"Take us away, champ." he said, watching Jubilee in the rear-view mirror as they pulled away from the clinic.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by Simple Unicycle>

As an excuse/explanation for my post count?

@Sep

It's so inspirational how you've worked hard to overcome adversity and be the man you are today. I don't think I could have done it if I were Scottish.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: House Lynx Dorms - P.R.C.U. Campus}

Dance Monkey #4.027: HIGH ON THE WIRE

---

_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Gil shivered beneath the cascading cool water that bounced off his chest and shoulders, beading down his ribs and stomach. His skin was still jaundice-splotched, bruises at the end of their life cycles lingering with ugly yellow-browns; looking at himself in the mirror on the back of his bathroom door, he was a far cry from the well-maintained figure he'd cut a couple short weeks ago. The 'just-enough' tan was fading in the perpetually-overcast weather of the autumnal Canadian coast, and while he'd previously maintained carefully-crafted definition in his arms and abdominals, he felt the loss of progress where he'd been laid up in the infirmary. He ached, his body remained tender in places, and his ankle was still sore and reluctant to take his full weight.

He put his head to the wall and twisted the temperature gauge, shivering again as the water sputtered and the cold water was replaced with hot. He stood there, eyes closed with steam pooling around his feet and beginning to rise up his slick-wet calves and thighs, just enjoying the stillness of it. The water played white noise in his ears and he could feel himself almost lulled back to sleep, his mind wandering lazily around everything and nothing. He took deep breaths, centring himself and allowing the steam to fill his lungs and clear his head.

A harsh buzzing interrupted Gil in what would otherwise have been a meditative descent into a re-infused perspective. Instead, he furrowed his brow, irritable for the intrusion, and lifted his head from the wall as he turned off the water and stood dripping, clinging to the last vestiges of vapour and heat as the buzzing continued and he groped for a towel beyond the shower curtain. He found it and dragged into back into the cubicle, drying himself off quick-and-rough before wrapping and tucking it around his waist and stepping out into the still-steamy bathroom.

His phone buzzed again, the vibrations loud against the tile sill it rested on above the sink. He thought about dashing the damnable thing against the floor or the wall and letting it shatter into fragments quite unable to bother him again; instead, he picked it up, inspecting the incoming call.

Artie was trying to reach him, again. How many days had it been? Gil supposed the persistence was warranted, perhaps even necessary in his line of work. He sighed. There was no avoiding it forever; at the very least, Gil owed Artie a professional obligation. He opened the bathroom door, goosebumps spreading across his bare torso as the warm air rushed out, and moved to sit on the bed, still slightly damp and wet hair dripping onto his shoulders.

He answered the call.

"Hi Arthu-" "Gil! Where in the damn hell have you been?"

Artie's voice came through thick and fast, laden with ire and exasperated. Gil pinched the bridge of his nose, immediately filled with regret for picking up the phone.
"Infirmary. I was laid up after the tri-" "The trials, yeah, I know, why do you think I've been trying to call? You missed that weekend shoot. I had to play nice, reschedule. Are you at least on your feet now?"

Gil felt the good mood he'd woken up in drain away. Amma and the calm she brought felt so far away in this moment.
"Yes, Arthur, I'm on my feet, but I don't thi-" "Well that's good news, at least. Bouncing back like always, eh! Look, I'm glad I finally got through, because the re-shoot is this weekend, and it's looking like we've got some more scripts coming through. Some of these are hot, Gil! Hot!"

He just kept talking like nothing had happened, like Gil hadn't nearly died, like he'd just had a bad hangover from a networking party and was ready to dive straight back in. Gil felt angry, an emotion he'd been previously unfamiliar with but was growing quickly accustomed to.
"It's all great stuff, I'll send it through the usual way once I've gone over everything. Anyway, the car can pick you up from the ferry dock like normal, you just need to get away sharp Saturday morning, we'll fly you out and have you back Sunday night. You know the routine. You still got the lines?"

Gil didn't answer; he just sat there, drip-drying, wishing he was talking to anyone else right now.
"Gil? Bud? You still there?"

"I quit."

This time Artie didn't answer, and Gil let the silence stretch out.
"What? No you don't, come on kid. Look, we can push the ad back again or chuck it out if you don't like it, it's just licorice mints, you're right, it's not on-brand. Just check out these new scripts I'll send you, there's some great stuff. You just need something exciting again! You took a blow but you got right back up, and I'm proud of you kid, I really am, but I can guess you're still a bit screwy from the hit. Take a week off, get some bed-rest - we'll have you right as rain in no time. Quit! You sure you're not making a move to comedy?"
Artie laughed, unconvincingly, and that just annoyed Gil more.
"I mean it, Arthur. I'm done. I can't deal with it anymore. I quit, or retire, or whatever you want to call it. I'll finish out my year here, and then I'm going back to England to do something else. My dad's firm, maybe. But I'm done with Hollywood. I'm grateful for all the work we've done together, but this is it for me. I'm out."

"Look, just- I'll scrap the ad. You just take some time."
"I'll have the same answer the next time you call me."
"You're not thinking straight. Get your head on right, and we'll get back to norma-"
"I said I fucking quit!"

Gil yelled down the phone and hung up, tossing it across the room. It bounced against the door and thudded onto the carpet; he could feel his face flush with anger, and he took a few long, measured breaths to cool down. He got up, pacing around the room, angry at Arthur, angry at himself, angry at his bruised and aching body, angry at his ankle that throbbed with a dull ache every second step. Gil scooped up his bottle of painkillers and chucked two pills dry down his throat, pocketing the rest; in the closet hung the suit he'd picked out for the dance, and after pulling on a pair of jeans and a tee, the bag was slung over his shoulder.

He stooped to scoop his phone on his way out, taking a spiteful second to block Arthur's number, and then shot a text out to the boys:

I'm picking up booze on the way over. Little bit of everything.

We're letting loose tonight.