Roman

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L G A L A H A D // A M M A C A H O R S
G I L G A L A H A D // A M M A C A H O R S

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

Dance Monkey #4.072: Harpe

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_{Interaction(s): Amma, @Rockette}

Gil was drinking and eating, eating and drinking, truly showcasing the great British past-time of binge-boozing, all while watching Amma on the dancefloor with a mix of mourning and yearning. He barely registered Banjo’s appearance before him until the Aussie’s accent broke through the noise; Gil’s attention snapped to him fiercely, as in the same moment Banjo snatched away his food and drink, swallowing both in equal measure just to definitively deny it to Gil. He opened his mouth to protest, but Banjo was quicker than Gil’s alcohol-soaked brain.

"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody as I am to give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."

And with that, Banjo’s bad leg was on Gil’s good backside and giving him a swift and measured kick away from the booze and onto the dancefloor, carefully-aimed to put him right in the path of the woman he’d been watching most of the evening.

The tempo of the music dipped almost on cue; the DJ cutting away the pounding tunes, shifting to a slower, more intimate soundtrack. Unconsciously, Gil found himself drawn to Amma’s nearby form, and if she had any reservations she kept them to herself. The two were quickly entwined, one of Gil’s hands on the small of Amma’s back and the other gently lacing fingers together with her as he lead them in a simple but elegant swaying movement, old muscle memory coming back as he carefully guided their feet one way, then the other, then back again.

She was only slightly out of breath when they met, her previous display of power slowly dispersing as delicate waves of scarlet through her palms traveled down her arms and waist, hissing into tendrils that fled onto the dancefloor the moment his touch settled on her spine. Amma observed other couples, the movements in some awkward and others fluid, and had realized that such a mundane and simplistic motion held reservations through so many as pairs came and went on the intimate plucking of string instruments and quaint melodies. Her opposite hand settled over his shoulder with a flutter, allowing Gil to lead them (she had never formally danced before, but he led her with a finesse that bespoke of experience). With the quiet that fell upon them, Amma permitted herself a reprieve to study the man who so effortlessly drew her attention through the crowd, a sort of helpless and immediate draw that was sired on an unconscious level that levied her usual hesitations.

Here, and even before when he flitted on the edges of the dancefloor, watching her, Gil beheld a dour expression, content to ply and drown himself in food and drink, his movements elegant but weighted with an emotion Amma couldn’t place, for it was her sincerity often muddied by a surge of hopelessness felt and undone, and credit it to her lightness of foot at the glitz and glam that adorned her surroundings, or perhaps to her powers still coiling betwixt flesh and bone. Still, she made a subtle gesture with her hair tossed back to expose gilded shoulders as he guided them to and fro.

“You seem awfully moody for someone who helped pull all this off.” Not quite a whisper, but just an octave higher, her accent threaded through her playful words offered by a slight cant of her head.

Gil was too drunk to be anything but surly, even as he shivered skin-to-skin with Amma and swam in great gulping breaths of her perfume.
“A fake sheen over a fake recreation of a fake life. Of my fake life. I’m thrilled.”

“Oh yes, the scowl is most becoming.” Amma quipped back and leaned in just so, close but yet far, vague in her words as she often was, with lazy spools of warmth coiling through her limbs as she drew her index finger across his shoulder, a delicate dance of her gestures against the purple threads of his suit jacket. “Must be all of that acting you do.”

“Did.” Gil said, off-handedly, and Amma raised but a single eyebrow. “I quit. Don’t know what I’m going to do after the academy but…it’s not going to be that anymore.”

“Just like that, huh.” She responded immediately, her accent slipping off into a whisper, a touch of understanding, to face the uncertainty of what came after. Amma couldn't even begin to comprehend that shadow of a thought that came and went. For her, the concept of a future was a bleak promise of destructive retribution.

“Is that the reason for your sullen face then?”

“Just like that.” Gil said, almost wistful. The faintest trace of a smile flashed across his lips. “I suppose I’m just…ready to put all this behind me. Permanently. This ‘theme’ was thought up by a very much mask-on Gil. I know it’s only been a week, but he feels like a lifetime away.”

Amma went quiet at that, her eyes dropping at the flutter of her lashes, lulled by the music that guided their swaying, a whirl of thoughts ringing between her ears before she said: “I… sort of get that. In that, things feel a lifetime away.” She rolled her lips together, teeth against her pout, before a smile broke across there, a darling glimmer that fought against the eclipsing mask she, too, wore as the ill-sought harbinger. “To cast away the role made for you by you. I suppose that makes you free.” A word foreign to her likeness that caused a slight flex through her arms, her fingers laced together with his own tightening just a fraction, squeezing slightly before she relaxed.

“Free, ha!” Gil broke a true smile now, and the hand on Amma’s back moved to wrap around her waist and pull her closer still. “Yes, that’s right. Free to cock up my life all on my own.”
They swayed softly, Gil no longer able to maintain his misery in the face of Amma’s gentle words and tender gestures.
“You look beautiful this evening, by the way.”

“Mm, so you did notice behind all that doom and gloom.” Amma lanced back swiftly, unable to deny the flush that flamed through her figure, weighted as coals ignited in every movement made and felt. “You clean up well,” she mused aloud, her palm against his shoulder feathering up to his neck, the pulse beneath her gestures leaping at her touch.

“I'm glad you found me when you did; I've had to turn down quite a few people this evening. Something in the air has them feeling brave.” She laughed, something of a teasing flair, a dance not only in their bodies so close with naught a fragment of space betwixt them but a soft challenge in the gaze that found his eyes and held there.

“I’m sullen, not blind.” Gil teased back. “Had I known you were saving a space, though…well, I probably wouldn’t have needed Banjo’s ‘encouragement’ to dance.”
They held each other's eyes for a few long moments as the music swelled around them.
“Saving anything else for me?”

“Actually…” She breathed, distracted at the moment, her nails delicately plucking at the small arrangement of flowers still pinned to her dress. White petals now lay with remnants of glittering red fragments, such a superficial adornment that she held in her inked hand before she pinned it to the lapel of his purple jacket. Her head canted to one side as she studied the placement as she had seen done on others.

“A custom, I guess- as was explained to me by the girls.”

Gil watched as Amma’s intricately-woven fingers delicately pinned the boutonnière to his lapel; he silently cursed himself for leaving behind the corsage Aurora had thoughtfully sent to Lorcán’s dorm room. He had been too wrapped up in himself to consider it might have made an intimate gesture for Amma.
“Stupid…I didn’t think about it. Aurora even had some sent over, but I was more worried about getting blotto. But thank you…it’s gorgeous.”

He held his hand over the pinned flower for a few moments and then proffered his other face-up to Amma; suddenly, with a slight shimmering haze, a copy appeared cradled in his open hand. Carefully, he plucked it from his palm with two fingers and affixed it to her dress, mirroring the positioning as close he could.
“Hand-crafted with my very own hazies. Hopefully better than nothing.”

Amma was silent in the intimate exchange, the performance of his powers so streamlined compared to her own as he pinned an exact copy to her dress, watching the careful gestures, the two of them standing still in a swaying crowd. She had not considered nor expected to receive such a sentiment, despite what had been mentioned in the purposes of corsages and boutonnières; a faint shimmer hovered there, the perfect replica more symbolic than she realized. Her fingers came up to trace over the white petals and line of her dress, the fabric cool against her touch before she reached forward to curl her fingers against his jaw, soft and delicate, nearly unfelt before Amma leaned up to ghost her lips against his cheek in a kiss that spun into a whisper against his skin.

“Thank you, Gil.”

The hand that stilled over her collarbone where it had pinned the flower moved easily, smoothly upwards across her neck, thumb tracing her clavicle and the veins beneath her pale skin before resting on her chin and gently tilting her face towards his. When their lips met, he pulled her in tightly. Something like a spark emanated: a crackle of red across the outline of their shared figure, shadowed and crimson lightning that converged on the replicated flower.

The way her powers bloomed and swelled elicited a gasp that hung somewhere in her throat, reminiscent of a stuttered breath as electric coils snapped and dragged over her arms, posturing in the lingering remains of black and silver that feathered from her grasp as Amma slid her hands up and over his shoulders and pulled Gil even tighter against her. She felt the siring of warmth at her front, faint lines that pulsated over and over, in tandem with her heart that bound the two of them in the fated tendrils of red and something within that melded entirely with his own, a shared breath as she drew back, eyes aglow and lost and hazed before she kissed him again with renewed intensity.

A colliding manifest of wrath, sorrow, and loss, a melding of two halves wrapt in desire, she felt and tasted the bitterness of uncertainty, the lines of fate swollen with the want and need of connection and purpose. A heaviness that shifted there through their kiss. It melded and coiled with the vibrations felt through the world as Amma relinquished pieces of herself that no one had ever known- a singular construct that yawned as a bridge between a unified soul.

In that kiss Gil felt a presence unlike any experienced before, a mix of self and other, simultaneously alien and instinctual. Wrath, not his but powerful and consuming, was an ever-present specter, but in this moment it was tempered with grief - and then all scurried regardless to dark corners to be replaced by exploding passion and excitement and desire, a fever that burst and bloomed like firework flower-heads in their bellies. This was a mingling deeper than the heat of their breaths, and lips against partner, and hands pulling skin and cloth taut into one another; emotions and scattered thoughts were interwoven and shared, randomly selected and extricated effortlessly from closely-guarded cages. It was frightening, exhilarating, intoxicating. Gil broke away, searching in Amma’s eyes for a hint of what he’d felt, confirmation she’d experienced the same.

Shared breath heated and fanned and plumed between lips and lungs and teeth, heavy and intoxicated by more than just spirits and wine, shored with obsidian and crimson lightning that struck and writhed and finally withered away into a spectacle of ribbon-like silver that reflected back in half-lidded eyes of blue that searched and carved a path through steel and heat and desire. Amma inhaled sharp and quick- words that floundered and failed and retreated from tender lips as she shuddered from the remnants of powers still quaking through her frame before it pooled low into her belly as an abyss of hunger that could barely be sated, an overwhelming swell of connection that anchored her to Gil in more ways than one, a now intertwined surge of knowing him as he was, as he had been, and what he could be through hazy shadows. Amma leaned in, foreheads touching, a familiar gesture known to them as the only answer he needed that she had felt the same.

As the music changed and the pace quickened the words petered out and all that was left was hasted, passionate movement as Amma and Gil separated and began to truly dance in earnest. The crowd around them melted away into a blur of faces and cloth and all Gil could feel was the hard wood beaten rhythmically beneath his shoes and the warmth of Amma’s body close by, weaving out her own pulsing pattern. The music alchemized with the alcohol in Gil’s belly and synthesized some manner of elixir, that spread throughout him and swept him away from his surroundings; forced out of his own head and only able to focus on his body and the rhythm pounding through, the weight of his misery lifted until all he was doing was dancing.

Her earlier performance had been a summons, a deliberate show of power and ability that aligned eyes upon her figure undone through the carefully laid intentions in her smiling graces. Amma now danced with a carefree flare, lightened in the moment and yet weighted by that fluttering connection betwixt them. The silken line of her skirts fell around her legs with every twirl, the thrum of music measured out in every sway and then left abandoned when it swept up and over in a thrumming beat with every other snap of her heels. She brought herself closer to Gil and then she would sway back, almost playful in the breadth she would allow with roaming hands that fell over his shoulders, some instances where she would perch on his chest and lean in so close that tendrils of midnight hair would brush against him. Amma’s smile was one of a veil being lifted, a shedding of a mask of sorts that glistened gold, encouraged by the wine that she still tasted on her tongue, the taste of him in every breath she took, and the commanding presence she afforded as everyone and everything fell away into blissful nothings of red and black.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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

Dance Monkey #4.071: And I'm Watching All The Stars Burn Out

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_{Interaction(s): Alyssa, @Lord Wraith // Banjo, @Hound55}

Lucille Calder cut a drastic figure among the student body.

Her dress was...bold. Backless, the bodice covering her chest but otherwise delivering bare shoulders and sides, and below the waist it split in two before stretching to the floor, a double-slit effect that drew attention to her toned legs. Her hair, no longer than her jawline, was still pushed back, but rather than the hasty and practical slick she usually sported, this was more elegant and considered, strands of silvered hair artfully woven and set into a braided crown as the rest fell away. And then her makeup; Luce had always been pale, and she'd chosen a powdered foundation that only accentuated this, paired with a matte-black that swept across her eyes and brow in strong, sharp lines, ending in vicious points. All in all, the combined effect gave her already-severe face an almost regal but predatory quality, and as she scanned the faces of her peers, many freshmen - and some sophomores, too - cowed beneath her intense gaze.

The point of the dress was almost a challenge in and of itself; many were aware of Luce's abilities, but most assumed it was a neat and tidy healing process - her staunch refusal to attend the university's infirmary was well known within her (admittedly limited) social circle. Those assumptions were plainly wrong, though; there was nothing 'neat' nor 'tidy' about Luce's power, and every injury mitigated still left its appropriate scars. Luce still bore those from her awakening, the very first time she had cheated death, and over the years she had collected several more, her skin criss-crossed with burns and lashes and bite-marks from her gap-year encounters aside Alyssa. Her usual attire hid these - long sleeves and practical trousers tucked into boots - but tonight's dress was specifically chosen to show these off, force them out into the open and prevent either Luce or her peers from hiding from them.

She lingered on the fringes of the thrumming crowd, sipping her martini, feeling...small. Despite the meaning behind the choice of dress, Luce felt old anxieties bubbling within her, and the scars meant to be worn as armour instead only made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Alyssa, her usual buffer in troubling scenarios, was amidst the shifting bodies at Luce's own encouragement, and her roommates had similarly dispersed to find closer friends or hopeful romantic connections. Even Eden, her bubbly blond teammate unusually forgiving of Luce's anti-social tendencies, and perhaps the closest thing Luce had to a true friend on the team beyond Alyssa, had disappeared to mingle.

A shock of red hair suddenly appeared from the throng, and beelined for Luce. She finished the rest of her martini as Alyssa approached.
"Lucille Calder, are you avoiding having fun?" She teased, a wry smile playing on her lips.
"I'm having my own perfectly acceptable kind of fun, 'Lyssa." Luce replied, her face as stoic as usual.
"How is it your kind of fun so often involves standing away from everybody else, not doing anything?"
Luce cut Alyssa one of her trademark withering looks, a glare that had long since lost any power over her friend, if indeed it ever held any to begin with. Alyssa had an incorrigible and pragmatic positivity to her that even Luce's brand of cynicism could not stymie.
"Look, I know you don't get on with everybody in Firebird, but you're not restricted to them. What about your old teammates in Blackjack?"

Luce surveyed the hall again; it was true, Luce struggled with many of her teammates (it was only Alyssa and Eden she could honestly say she enjoyed the company of), and most of Firebird were scattered across the gala anyway. Even now she spotted Cass sauntering along the dancefloor and felt the usual pang of irritation at his smug, caustic persona. Her old team, though? Even before the gap year, she had moved away deliberately from Team 21, and by the time they she and Alyssa had returned to PRCU...

"There's more of Blackjack that are strangers to me now than aren't." Luce said, and it was true; with Calliope off-island and Katja a shadow around campus, she was one of only three remaining of Blackjack's original roster from when she'd first enrolled at the academy. She spotted Rory in the crowd, sharing a dance with his new beau, but when she looked at her empty glass, and then over to the bar, thinking of a refill, she saw a familiar head of messy blond hair. Or it would usually be messy, anyway; even from here she could see it had been impressively tamed.

"Fine. I need a few more drinks if I'm to spend my entire evening here." She said, relinquishing beneath Alyssa's urging eyes. The girls had known each other the better part of five years; it was perhaps the singular reason Alyssa could so easily goad Luce into going against her insular nature, for better and for worse. Either way, Luce pushed herself off the wall and gently patted Alyssa's shoulder - the closest she got to an affectionate gesture - before weaving her way through the crowd towards the bar.

She didn't need to say a word to order; she was a memorable face, and the bartender merely gestured to her empty martini glass as she set it on the surface. A nod was given and the empty glass was whisked away, soon to be replaced by one new and freshly-filled. She sipped cautiously, ensuring the refill was of satisfactory quality, before spinning and leaning against the bar with one elbow, facing perhaps the only old teammate with which she shared some camaraderie.
"I'm sorry Calliope couldn't be here this evening." She opened with, proffering uncommon sympathies to her ex-comrade; but beyond platitudes, she wasn't quite sure how to navigate conversation. "Blackjack's had a rough start to the year so far, huh?"

"We're livin' through it." He raised the juice to his lips again. "You, more than anyone, know all about that, eh..?"
Similarly, the things she'd seen, the places she'd been. Banjo certainly didn't view himself as anything less than 'well travelled', but the tales Luce doubtless had to tell were certainly beyond his ability to relate. Ever since her 'hiatus', at least.

"She'd have been proud." He determined, a single nod from a tight jaw. Placing the empty glass on the bar and gesturing to the night's interim junior barkeep for another. "Course you tell Gil or Baxter I said that... I'll deny every word." His teeth flashed a sizable grin whilst he struggled to hold his form, avoiding making eye contact with his old teammate knowing it would cause him to break out a laugh.
"How 'bout you? How are you holdin' up? Since we both know bein' upright, on two feet isn't much of a gauge in your case. Takin' care of yourself?"

"I can't say your celebrity friend is in a fit state to talk to anybody tonight," she replied, tilting her glass slightly in the C-lister's direction; he was standing at the precipice between buffet and dance floor, nibbling away while tipping back a cocktail from a highball glass. Luce watched him polish off the drink and move on to a beer bottle. "And Baxter...I don't like being looked at at the best of times." She looked to Banjo, who looked pointedly up and down at her dress and wiggled his eyebrows in that particular way he had. "Tonight notwithstanding."

She took a step closer to sit by Banjo on the stool next to him.
"Alyssa keeps me steady. The time we spent away was...changing. But being back; it can feel like we never left in the first place. Everything keeps ticking on."
She sighed. Returning to the academy had been a contentious decision between her and Alyssa; Luce could have cut ties like shedding a limb and never looked back, even to her own detriment. Especially to her own detriment. Alyssa was more optimistic, more faithful than Luce.

Ultimately, she realized she could leave PRCU behind, but never Alyssa; so with her friend's heart set on coming back, Luce had relented and returned beside her.
"I'm grateful the greenhouse is still here, at least." She concluded quietly, almost wistful; all of Firebird and many more of the general student body were well aware of the long hours Luce spent among her flowers and vegetables at the campus' allotments.

There was an awkward pause, and Luce realized this was the moment she was supposed to reciprocate.
"And you? I heard you were put up in the infirmary again." She said, halting and worrying she sounded insincere. She noted Banjo's soggy attire. "And isn't it a bit early in the night to be aggravating? Even for you. Old habits die hard?"

"Some things are evergreen, Luce. Both for your garden, and for stirrin' the pot." He grinned. He thought of Zimmerman cleaning his clothes downstairs in a bathroom somewhere, no doubt in a state of panic. "And some pots deserve it more than others."

He turned and ordered another juice again. He could finish one last one quick before he went and helped come down his frantic roommate.
"Your greenhouse is in good hands, anyway. It's bein' looked after by--" He hesitated and thought. He knew this. Someone had mentioned they'd taken it on. Where was it? This wasn't right...that rolling fog had just come and covered everything. "It's in good hands." No. It was gone. No matter. Surely, Luce'd be happy enough with just that.

Luce frowned as Banjo's face first went blank, then went searching, eyes darting up as he rummaged through his own mind for a name that obviously escaped him. It wasn't like Banjo, she realized; he was a sharp individual, much as she'd hesitate to admit it to him. Was Calliope's absence harder on him that he was prepared to show? Or was there something else looming over him, sanding the edges off that quick wit?

"I've been dropping by. When I have time. Whoever's looking after the flowers is over-watering." She said, unsure how to address his lapse or if she even should. Banjo was perhaps the only soft spot she'd had when she'd enrolled and been tossed into Team 21 a little over five years ago; but it had been a long time since then, and she couldn't say that either of them were the same person anymore.

Hesitantly, she reached across, gently putting her scarred hand on Banjo's tanned skin.
"I don't typically know how to approach this. Alyssa's better at the emotion. I'm more...pragmatic. But...if you need an outside observer. Or someone who knows a bit of...historical context."
She removed her hand, quickly returning to her martini and taking a long pull, draining the glass dry.
"I'm not a very good friend. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to try."

"Killin' em with kindness, at least. If they're gettin' overwatered." He said through a creased line of a smile.
"It's alright, I've never been much for receivin' emotional support either. So you're doin' fine. Wish I could cut loose and do some appropriate damage to the bar, but... terrible bloody timing, this." He slapped his leg again. The fog was there already, but there was no buzz with it.

“Well, when you’re cleared by the white-coats, we can give it a good go.” Luce offered, adding a good attempt at a smile to help the light and uncharacteristic joking land.
“That is, of course, if there’s anything left after your teammate is done with it.” She continued, pointing carefully toward Gil who was leaving a trail of empty bottles and glasses in his wake. “Is he...okay? Or is this normal for the English?”

"Well, now there's someone in more need of concern than yours truly..." His attention finally drawn to Gil, even after he'd mentioned him.

The fog. Everything was like cutting through treacle. How'd he miss that before? And he'd forgotten all about his concern for Raw earlier as well, until it all boiled over. He had enough wherewithal to pick through that scumbag Chad's intent, but then...
Fortunately other hands were on deck there already, but this wasn't-- Things don't normally-- He should... Wait-- he'd said he'd go check on Zimmerman. How long ago was that?

"I've long given up tryin' to understand the inner workin's of the common garden variety Pommy bastard, and even its celebrity variants..." He replied with a dry drawl. A wide grin crossing his face, but his eyes seeming almost vacant. Things were happening around him, and right under his nose, and he wasn't picking up on any of it. He was free to just... be. It normally took him a six-pack before he hit that kind of pleasant haze.

But when he did that he could sharpen up in an instant if he had to.
"Hopefully get to catch up with you again later, but I've gotta go help someone out. Said I would a bit ago and... can't remember how long ago that was now."

He got to his feet and started on his hobbled journey downstairs to the bathroom, parting the assembled crowd waiting for the bar and gingerly limping past Haven, skirting carefully around her wings as she spoke to some redheaded bird who missed the memo on the dress theme.

Banjo grabbed the handrail and descended the staircase at the sluggish pace of one step at a time. He snatched some kind of finger-food item off a tray, and told himself that it was salmon, and that it fit his enforced diet. Limping onwards, he finally found himself staring at the pitiful sight of Gil, paralysed, stuffing his face as he stared ahead at their newest teammate on the dancefloor.

Banjo sighed, looking up at the sky, before limping on towards his teammate, not breaking stride anymore than the hitch already had.
"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody, as I am t'give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."

Banjo snatched the plate out of Gil's hand and drank the remaining contents of his glass, before turning the former movie star to the floor and prodding him in the seat of his pants with the same sole of his left foot that could barely push the boat off the wharf earlier, nudging him onto the dancefloor and into the path of the raven-haired woman who'd been the star of his own limited third person performance playing out before his gaze from the side.

And then he saw the look on Katja's face to the side.
Ah Hell's Bloody Bells... One fire at a time.
Banjo limped on and threw his shoulder into the mens' room door.

Luce had simply nodded and turned to order another drink - something sweeter this time, the dryness of the vermouth lingering behind her teeth. She sipped a rum and coke as she watched Banjo limp away, maneuvering his way carefully across the hall, navigating around and through his own teammates with an ease Luce envied. She considered, perhaps, that she did not have a monopoly on being cagey and withholding; she wondered if the frustration she felt now, at being locked out of being able to properly support a friend, was an emotion her closest friends were intimately familiar with.

She stood straight, gauging her own steadiness, rolling her neck and deciding exactly how tipsy she was, and whether than was enough to try being affectionate, potentially even romantic. Target unclear, to be sure, but uncertainty hadn't stopped Luce in the face of beasts and savages. She couldn't imagine the alcohol-infused student body could be that much worse.

Then again, thinking of recent events, the claws of a wendigo had a far more straightforward response than the intricacies of social politics.
It was times like these that Luce almost missed being out on the hunt.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

As far as a soft reboot goes, I think what's being done to address it is enough. Making a new thread or something feels a tad extreme. "Soft" would definitely be underlined.

@Master Bruce

The iterations are now whipping around so fast that we're not even getting new threads between games.

Roman's Scrapbin

The court messenger arrived in the early hours of the afternoon, sat astride a great and powerful white steed with mudded legs and accompanied by a weary stable-hand, riding an equally-weary nag.

When he had been charged with his solemn delivery, the messenger - a rotund, boastful, magisterial man - had descended upon the royal stables and demanded nothing less than their finest animal. Their finest animal was at war, attending the needs of their finest soldier, but what remained was a kingly and unruly stallion who held too much pride to respect the men that attempted to sit upon his back; yet he had been somehow goaded into allowing the pompous courier to ride him, plied and soothed with vegetables and sugar-cubes by the stable-hand. Still, the horse tossed his head and huffed as the pair cantered toward their destination, disgruntled and patience wearing thin.

Donahue watched their approach from where he toiled in the field, resting against his rake. He had spent the morning tilling his soil, preparing for a fresh crop to be planted. Winter was some months away still, but he still felt the first bites of cold in the air, and the food stores in their current state did not compensate for the lack of coin with which he would otherwise feed himself.

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.