The Freaks Reloaded IC Chapter three: the Game is On

"It's great to hear from you again! Mmm... tired? Eh... yeah, just a bit." Damon admitted with a yawn. He noted the tone in her voice, smiling at the thought of her concern. The tough ol' gal really did have a soft spot, albeit, difficult to find. Although he was a tad surprised at the aspect of being called - that's when he remembered that he wasn't in a good situation to be picking up calls. It really was dangerous, just the idea of someone overhearing them. But he did strive for some sort of comfort in this horrible life he leads, comfort that a voice of a friend can bring. On that thought, he felt somewhat concerned for Winter. Wherever she was, it was loud; the faint whipping of the wind and the large, heavy motor in the background signified a large tuck of some sort or another. Was she next to a highway or something?

"To be honest?" Damon rhetorically asked, feeling himself beginning to yawn once more. "I'm a little lost my self. I'm in an old motel somewhere in the middle of Detroit... Michigan. I had to stay up a whole day or so working on this project for this guy in Florida. It works though... I got a whole thirty-five hundred out of it - in cash. Too bad we can't share that, hm?"

Too bad he was he being hounded by authorities is what he meant, right? Indeed, it would absolutely wonderful if they were capable of sharing that and if they were in the same place, but he couldn't put anybody at risk. Out of the risks he has taken, meeting with criminals and corporate managers who can be bought out of their information (because nothing was confidential with them), and even just strangers - putting Winter in viable danger was a risk he didn't want to take.

Storm had eventually killed the rabbit, and now, the temperature of the blood was cooling, eventually, it would freeze. However, she would salvage every bit of it. However, before she could completely drain the corpse, the sounds of footsteps alarmed her, and she withdrew her tentacle. The tendril shot back into the shell in a flash, and using all twelve of her other tendrils, Storm increased the suction, and clamped the clam shut, very tightly. She knew what this meant, it happened every time, and she always hated it. Someone had seen where she had landed, and now, they were going to most likely attempt to pry her shell open. She growled a little, which sounded more like a chihuahua's, and was very quiet. As she let her irritation take root, a tiny gust of wind formed a small vortex around her. It was not enough to cause injury, but just enough to make snowflakes and leaves dance around in a circle. However, this was a warning: Do not touch.

Richard shuffled through the forest quietly, and was startled by the sound of a growl, much like that of a small dog's. he whirled around, perplexed by this sound, when he saw a large clamshell the size of a basketball laying in the snow nearby. Now, for a moment, Richard was puzzled; he had been sent to catch a mutant, not hypothermia and a giant angry clam. Yet again, this was coming from a guy with no face, so he realized that this shell must have been some sort of mutant; a strange mutant, but still mutant.

Slowly but surely, he slunk across the field towards the shell. The whipping wind didn't phase him -Richard had fought more dangerous things than a clam with an attitude problem in his days. So, he bravely walked over to the clam, and bent down to get a better look at it, the whipping wind embracing his face in a frozen hug.

"Um, hello, there, friend." Richard said to the clamshell after a moment "My name is Richard. Could you please come out of your shell so that we can talk?"

Winter grinned into the phone, nodding her head slowly in unintentional glee. It was good to talk to a friend, especially after such a long time had passed, and she had buried this feeling in a stew of self-pity. "CENSORED, Damon. Three grand... Detroit... You sure is playin' big nowadays! What're you gonna do with all that?"

She gave a low chuckle. Suddenly, she would rather joke about Damon's life, things that no longer seemed real to her, than dwell on the facts of her own. Winter was content to live on this phone for just a few minutes longer. Outside, the wind was strong, the air was cold, and she was alone. It was not that Winter did not enjoy being alone; she much preferred her solitude to the alternative, the condescending stares of people like the man who tore her sleeve. But with Damon, she could be sincere.

It struck Winter that a thirty five hundred dollar job might include some measure of danger. She quieted her grin. "Say, you been stayin' out of trouble, Damon?" She did not mention his abilities, and the security they could offer him, for fear of breaking the illusion of normality which hung over the conversation.

Damon let loose a lighthearted laugh. "I'm not too sure, actually." He chuckled in return.

Playing big, wasn't exactly he would like to call it. He was in the cheapest motel he could find, he's dealing with illegal software to criminals, and he's on the run from the fuzz. Even now, as he talked to Winter, he's trying to keep track of when he should leave... which should be soon. Winter started talking again. About whether or not he was staying out of trouble. His smile screwed up on itself, as if trying to hide a guilty face.

"Me? Yeah, of course... I'm still running if that's what you're talking about." Damon told her melancholic. He sighed. Those... images. They still burned themselves into his mind! He can run all he likes, whether it be from the police, his friends or everything he has ever known, but he cannot escape those images. He can't escape himself.

He... he should probably provide details about the job since she, well, since she sort of asked.

"The job was to create a Trojan software for this guy in Florida; to shut down some rival business by going through their computer system and sweeping the whole thing of data and information. So yeah, bam, records gone. I suppose that might get me in trouble - if I get caught."

Storm, holding her shell tightly shut, was perplexed. Plenty of people had tried to get her to come out of her shell by prying it open, or in some cases, failed attempts to smash it. However, nobody had ever tried to speak to her, seeing as she just looked like a giant clam, and nobody ever suspected that she was an intelligent creature. She decided, since this wasn't the usual behavior, she would open the shell a fraction, but not enough so that the inner part could be visible. Storm hadn't been near a mirror in years, but she didn't need one to know that she looked hideous. She loosened four of her tentacles and released them, so that the shell opened about an inch. A faint blue came from the crack, a glow given off by the electric sac in her stomach, and her eyes appeared in the crevice, two large white eyes, with white elliptical pupils that were barely distinguishable from the rest, yet still functioned properly. There was the faint clear skin, and the transparent skull, with the greyish-blue brain visible, past a tiny horn on her nose. The smelly scent of brine filled the air.

Storm growled again, but it sounded more like something a very small dolphin would produce. "What do you want?" She hissed, her voice distinctly like that of a female her age, yet altered by a squeaky sound. "Have you not thought that I might be in this shell for my own protection? I have opened it an inch, but no further! Now what do you want from me?"

Richard gazed down upon the polished shell that sat in front of him and chuckled. He chuckled because he was talking to a clam, and because this clam was talking to him. He also chuckled because the clam that was talking to him was talking in the voice of a teenaged girl. Richard thought back to his teenaged years; back when he had a face; back when he had a girlfriend and a warm place to sleep and a family to love him; back before that fateful day when his life turned upside-down forever and sent him down a path to becoming whatever he was today.

Yeah, it was nice back then, but now here he was; a man without a face talking to a teenaged bivalve. But Richard had gotten over all of that; his family, his brother, and his warm house. Because of all the challenges that his family imposed upon him, he became a better person who could help others get over their mutations.

"Well then," He said, his tone implying a smile that simply couldn't be "My name's Richard. I am like you; a mutant. Now, how about you come out of your shell so that we can speak, okay? I assure you that whatever physical mutations you possess trouble you no greater than mine do".

Storm hissed, "I have been like this for eight agonizing years. How would you like to walk around, and feel pain unless you were trapped inside a shell? How would you like to have a tiny paper cut, and then go to the hospital because you might bleed to death? Unless you want me to electrocute you, I'd suggest you don't press the matter any further. You are quite capable of speaking to me while I am inside my shell, and I have already said that I would open it no further. I am not going to put myself in agony for the sake of a conversation, and if you concern yourself with my well-being, you will not force me to leave my shell in an unsanitary location such as the woods."

"Miss," Richard said in a happy tone "for thirty-five years I have been unable to touch another human being without hurting or even killing them. I do not wish to argue with you, nor do I fear you. Now, I shall sit down and we shall talk to one-another, okay?" He still kept his happy tone up, as, despite how it sounded, Richard was perfectly happy. This girl reminded him of himself when he was 18, after he killed his brother. He was just like her; seclusive, angry, living his life in a shell. So, he sat down on the ground cross-legged in front of the little clamshell and attempted to look into her shell, though all he could see was a pair of brilliant blue eyes.

"You have very beautiful eyes." He said.

Storm just laughed at the compliment, although it was half-hearted in nature, as though she didn't know whether to be offended or flattered. "I've seen what I look like, trust me, anyone else who heard you say that would think you were insane. The shell I live in, and the pearls that I create, are the only things of beauty that define me. Are you sure you are not freezing to death? Perhaps the conversation should carry on somewhere else, because you appear to be turning blue." Storm was completely honest about freezing. It couldn't be good to stand outside for so long in this kind of weather.

"Heheh, I'll pertend I know what all that means." Winter found that she had run out of things to say. She was puzzled. Surely, Damon would be the one person to whom Winter could talk freely and casually. She found instead that she could not put words to the buzzing hive of her concerns, curiosities, fears, and even joys that sat, dormant, inside of her head where her mind should have been.

Instead, Winter was silent, and enjoyed and hated the silence. She watched the morning light at the end of the open-topped brick tunnel and found that she did not want to pass through. This alleyway and this phone was a place of solace and quiet.

A place of stagnancy.

Winter drew a breath. Had not she spent the prior evening fearing and loathing her immobility? She forced herself to step out into the street, momentarily lowering the phone from her cheek. The fog had begun to dissipate. Gray, broken slabs of concrete flanked the lonely road on either side. The morning was as bare and bland as ever. What Winter would give to be rid of this oppressive isolation! She could not remember a time in her life when she had not yearned to escape herself.

Frowning internally, Winter brought the phone back to her cheek. She thought of her childhood with Damon, but mostly thought of how long ago it was. She felt suddenly that she depended upon him, and was unspeakably averse to this, but felt guilty to show her turmoil.

Winter thrust these thoughts from her head, attempting to appear composed as she broke the lengthy pause. "Sorry. I should go."

"Huh - oh, yes, of course. I should be going soon too. Well... anyways, best of luck eh? I hope you catch your next big break." Damon said. He couldn't help but feel an ounce of concern for the Winter. She sounded distracted, not fully there. Regardless, however, he should concentrate on his travels after the phone call. He had to figure out the next best place to go. He could probably find another place in Detroit, it's a big city...

No, it's too much of a risk. He'll be crossing state borders to Ohio or Indiana. He wished he could go back northeast, where Winter was and help her out with this big pile of dough he just got. But that was far too risky. He'd be putting more people in danger than just himself.

Winter felt a sobering sensation, as if she had drawn a florid picture and torn it to pieces in her fists. She swallowed twice before replying.

"Mm. You too... Bye, Damon." She took the phone from her ear and, without looking at it, ended the call and placed the phone in her pocket. She stood in the alley for a long time. Her mind was as stagnant as her body, frozen in an endless cycle of struggle and defiance.

When Winter felt right, she moved on. Familiar sidewalks and comforting gray monoliths to the faces that looked down on her flanked her movements. She would have thought about her choices had she believed in free will.

Perhaps fate would take pity, and Winter could come to be friends with Damon again. But she felt that time had blown them apart like two small lifeboats in a storm, and could not admit to herself that she felt this way, and did not want Damon to sense her turmoil which she herself despised.

Richard looked down at himself, and would have smiled if he had a face. His hands had now morphed from a light pink to a sky blue. He shivered a moment as he sat in the frigid snow, and then attempted to get up, which he shakily did. As he rose, he made the mistake of misstepping in a snowdrift, and fell face-first into it, causing him to become even colder than he already was. If he kept this up much longer, he would get hypothermia.

"Yes," he said after rising from the snowdrift "let's find a warmer place". He began to walk towards town, to where his hotel was, hoping that the clamshell could move without making another storm.

Seeing Richard move, Storm extended her scalpel-shaped tail from her shell. It had special grooves and ridges along it that made her capable of moving on rough terrain other than sand. Unfortunately, it was not a pretty sight. It was a milky color, and looked incredibly slimy. At the base, blue veins were visible, indicating the transparency of her skin. She dug her tail into the ground, and pulled herself along, using a gentle breeze to move herself over rough terrain. She dug deep into the snow, just enough to get a few bits of debris other than melt water. When she pulled them into her shell, they would eventually become coated in the same material as the inside of her shell, becoming pearls. There was no shortage of supply, considering that she could land in places with lots of debris.

Seeing that Storm was following him, Richard trudged through the white snow our of the park and across a street where a Humvee was stuck in a snowdrift. The driver appeared to be equal parts angry and hysterical in laughter, as he had gotten his all-terrain truck stuck in the snow. Richard simply rolled his unseen eyes and shuffled down a partially-buried sidewalk down a few blocks, shivering like a leaf. He finally arrived at his motel, where Richard used his snow shoes to unbury the door and let himself in. He turned around, and held the door open for the little clamshell girl to enter.

Storm dragged herself through the door, and then promptly stopped, withdrawing her tail. "Now, perhaps we can speak without the cold interfering? First of all, I would like to just outright ask you why it is that you came looking for me? You never really explained very much." For a lot of people, one thing that was truly disliked was when someone delayed the main topic and kept delaying. Storm did not yet know why Richard had searched for her, but it typically bothered her when certain things occurred.

"Oh yes, I should probably explain that." Richard chuckled and went to flip on the light switch of his small motel room, however found that all of his power was turned out. It was cold, but not as cold as it was outside. He walked to the middle of the room and sat down on an armchair which sat in front of a ratty black leather couch.

"Have a seat and I will explain". He said. As soon as Storm had seated herself (Slight meta, but I don't want to chop this part up. sorry), Richard began.



"Well, my friend," Richard began "people like you and me, we're different; different from all of the other normal humans in the world. There is nobody like you or me anywhere on the entire planet. Some people call us the Freaks. I call us meta-humans. Because of our differences, whether it be creating powerful storms or hacking others minds or one of the other hundred of meta-mutations, other humans fear us. They want to hurt us because they do not see themselves in us. Because they fear us, many meta-humans have been killed or maimed for their mutations. My name is Doctor Richard Colt, and, just like you, I am a meta-human. I am a member of a group of other meta-humans who teach our kind how to constructively use their powers to benefit society and save all humans, whether they be normal or meta. Our facility is perfectly suited for any mutant, and provides a safe place for our kind to live and learn without being hurt by the humans who hate us. I am here to offer you an invitation to my facility, where all meta-humans can live in peace with one another, away from the humans who could harm them.

"So, would you like to accompany me back to the facility? If you do not enjoy it or wish to return home in any way, you are by no means forced to stay".

Storm thought for a moment, considering her options. Eventually however, she replied to the question. "I might as well go, considering that I do not have a home, and have nothing better to do with my time. If you can provide a sanitary environment with high humidity, then that is enough to convince me. I only ever generated storms so that I could still breathe, considering that gills typically need water to function. However, I will rely on you for something like transportation, considering I cannot move very quickly, if that was not obvious." Storm hoped that this would make her life just a bit more bearable, as it was. Although the introduction itself sounded as though Richard were parroting another person's prepared monologue, she had a reason to believe that it was true.

"Excellent!" Richard clapped his hands together and leaned back in his chair, shivering. "We're going to be stuck here for a few days, but once the roads are cleared, we will head off to the facility".



“Death most resembles a prophet who is without honor in his own land or a poet who is a stranger among his people.” -Khalil Gibran

And scene (act II imminent)

(Just a note, the italicized parts are The Raven speaking, the other part is something else.




The Raven's diary; February 22nd, 2013

This city -this world- falls apart beneath my feet. No matter what I do to help them, my efforts are forever in vain. I can feel their hatred, and they cannot feel my love. Days have come where I have begun to wonder what I am fighting for. I never meant to become an object of fear, but of awe and trust. I have slaved every day of my life for over twenty years to bring justice to this land we call America; my home. But it seems to all be in vain. The people hate me. The police want me dead, and so do the criminals. I suppose that fighting crime these days is all that keeps me sane. It's something to hold onto; something to make my life seem worth the fight. I suppose that delving into society's problems is almost thérapeutique to me, like it helps me feel wanted.

A white wanted poster flutters through the crisp morning air. It flutters through a crowd of pedestrians, and sticks to one's jacket. he grabs it and throws the poster into the street, where the roaring force of a bus speeding by sends the poster floating into a puddle set into the street. It rained the night before. Up above the people, on top of a building, sits a man in all black, a ski mask across his face and the long barrel of a sniper rifle extending from his hands. He positions the scope to a window, and zooms in. Sitting in front of the window is a teenaged girl, maybe 17, with auburn hair and crystal blue eyes. She has just awoken from her slumber, and is now at her window looking down at the rest of Baltimore, wearing only a tank top and boxers. The Hunter smiles; cheap shot.

But apparently, it's all in vain. All the people are standing at the Plutonian banks of the River Styx and someone's pushing them in. I feel as if my world had been turned upside down as of late.

He centers the crosshairs a foot above the girl's windowsill to adjust for the distance and wind, and pulls the trigger. The long screw-on silencer at the front of the rifle, muffles the sound to a deafening "ping!" like the sound of a slot machine spitting out coins. The bullet flies through the air faster than the human eye can see, and collides with the windowsill, shattering it like the glass it is. The girl doesn't even have time to react, and is on the ground in seconds, a hole through her throat. The Hunter smiles, and gets up to walk into a black hand gloved hand, who punches him to the ground. The Hunter looks up from where he now sits on the top of a building to see The Raven standing above him, a rusty railroad spike splashed in blood in his hand. The Hunter smiles under his mask as Death himself glares down disapprovingly.

"My move, Raven." The Hunter says. He jumps to his feet before The Raven has time to react, and throws his assailant over the side of the building. The Raven falls down and down to a threatening concrete pavement which spelled death in blood and ridicule. But the word death means nothing to Death. As he falls, The Raven begins to roll midair, and haphazardly spins himself sideways. He grabs a flagpole from 10 stories up, and swing downwards, where he lands on a rusty balcony railing of a condemned apartment building. He is now eight storis in the air, high enough to kill a man. The Raven jumps to the wall opposite the balcony, the wall of the building that The Hunter stands on, and digs his railroad spike into the side of the brickwork. It screeches terribly as he descends down eight death-defying stories, and at four stories up, the massive rusty nail catches the top of a windowsill and holds fast. The Raven looks down, and drops like a falling falcon. He lands on one knee and his hands, and looks up at the office building. The Hunter is gone.



Chapter 2: Aces High

New Orleans

Marshall Copeland awoke early one sunny New Orleans morning to the smell of fresh coffee and the enchanting din of his maidservant's "Good morning, monsieur Copeland!" He sat there a moment, staring up at the high beige ceiling of his bedroom, and then propped himself up slowly, his back cracking ominously as he rose. He groaned a moment, and his maid helped him to a sitting position, as she did every morning. He smiled at her kindly, and muttered "thank you, Maria." she nodded and handed him an olive porcelain coffee mug. He drank slowly from the mug as his tall beautiful maid went into the kitchen and made him a bowl of raisin and brown sugar oatmeal, which constituted his breakfast.

After eating his small breakfast, Marshall rose from his posh velvet bed and hobbled into the bathroom, still stiff from sleeping, and jumped into the shower. A half hour later, he was standing in front of his mansion outside of New Orleans, dressed in a white long-sleeved collared shirt and a black dress vest. His glasses were pushed up on his face and his trademark black cowboy hat sat on his head. His light ebony skin seemed to shimmer surreally in the sunlight as he pulled a fat cigar out of his pocket and lit it with a clear lighter which appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just the same. He blew into the cigar for a moment, and then breathed in the black smoke like he had since he was a boy. He stood idle a moment, admiring his house. It was massive, all white marble, like the Capital building. It even resembled the Capital building, with it's long white columns, slightly warped so as to always seem straight from afar, and its high arching white dome, atop of which was a golden statue of a younger Marshall holding a sword above his head. The real Marshall shook his head and smiled sentimentally. He had been such a self-absorbed moron back when he had that statue made. It was pure gold, tempered with steel to help it withstand the elements. He remembered that the second arm used to hold a miniature planet Earth in its hand, but the second arm was hacked off, courtesy of The Watcher. Marshall blew out a cloud of black smoke and smiled up at the statue, feeling his own arm to make sure that it was there.

After another moment of staring, Marshall made his way down a covered walkway which lead from the front of his house to his garage. He had the walkway built back in '95, to shield him from the rain while he walked to his garage. Upon entering the garage, Marshall was hit by a waft of the combined scents of new car air freshener and motor oil. The garage was the size of a football field, and was lined end to end with cars, organized by era, with aisles going down each alley to allow the cars to get through if driven. For ten minutes, Marshall walked down the aisles slowly, perusing his collection to see which card he should use for this particular occasion, and decided on his favorite car; a 1955 straight gold Chevelle SS with black racing stripes. He notified his security staff that he was ready to go, and by the time he left the garage, he was accompanied by two black Ford Crown Victorias and a black Humvee.

As he pulled around his circular driveway, he hit a button on his bluetooth and placed a call to a contact of his in town, a large and vicious man by the name of Cycon, who would help him with his endeavor.

"Cycon?" he said in a smooth country voice as soon as the phone picked up 'We're going".

Detroit

(forgive me if I mess some details up)

A Silver Pontiac Firebird concept, the only one in existence, pulled up to a ratty apartment building in downtown Detroit. Now, many people would say many different things. Firstly, one would say that this car is of a make and model that doesn't exist, which is true, as the only one of this car in the world was now in front of this apartment building. Secondly, one would say that most cars don't normally have a slim gun barrel, belonging to a 50 Cal, embedded into their hood. Thirdly, and most oddly of all, this particular car appeared out of nowhere. Nobody saw it drive down the street or park in front of the apartment building. In fact, it was hard to tell whether or not it was there now. People who focused on the car soon found their minds wantering onto other topics, and soon nobody payed attention to the car's existence. A moment or two after the car appeared, the driver's side door of the car flipped out and up, and a very pretty Latina woman wearing a full-body leather suit that hugged her tight. The woman's hair was long and light brown, and was tied back in a long high ponytail which came halfway down her back. On her face, she wore a pair of black sunglasses, accompanied by heavy makeup. She checked her reflection in a compact, and headed off towards the door of the tenement, the door to her Pontiac closing behind her.

She asked the doorman for her target's floor, and he gave her the room number. She thanked him and kissed the young man on the cheek, leaving a glossy lipstick mark on his cheek. Five seconds later the doorman looked around confusedly, wondering who he was talking to and where the kiss mark on his cheek had come from. He blushed and rubbed his cheek a moment, smiling stupidly. Valkyrie just rolled her eyes and muttered "what a moron" before she hit the up button on the elevator and ascended to the 3rd floor, where her target was supposed to be, a man by the name of Damon. This was a recruitment mission, not an assassination, but Valkyrie still had her trusty Desert Eagle in a holster at her hip, just in case this one was another crazy.

Cycon



Cycon was wide awake. This particular day he was here on a job, wearing not his usual attire which usually consisted of speedos, or swimming trunks. He was wearing a blue hoodie with the sleeves cut off for added mobility, and jean shorts. With his swimming trunks under it. Of course he wasn't wearing shoes, instead he's wearing the easy to slip out of sandals. He was spending his morning getting something to eat. Since he was "new" to town he decided to try out the local cuisine. Some restaurant out there, he didn't know. He just wandered into some building down town that looked like a restaurant and was promptly seated by a rather tall waitress who was fancily dressed in a sort of white and black suit. Which was the attire of the rest of the restaurant. A theme or something--- Cycon didn't give a f*ck. She sat him down by the window so he'd see the lively streets of New Orleans. "Okay, are you ready to tell me your order?" She kindly asks.


"Oh, I am!" Cycon enthusiastically states. He grabs the menu that was resting on the table and spent two minutes saying, "This!" while guiding his fingers on what he wanted. The waitress was overwhelmed since Cycon was requesting everything on the menu that involved eggs, and bacon. The waitress was dumbfounded, and smiled.


"I'll just get you the omlet and the bacon..." She sarcastically says since there's no way in hell that any intelligent restaurant would get him all that food when he doesn't look like he could pay for one. She walked to the back and gave the cooks the order.


"Cool!" Cycon responds gleefully, not truly understanding what happened.


--- Fifteen minutes, and two glasses of orange juice later ---



The waitress returned with the meal that Cycon had more or less "ordered"; an bacon, ham and sausage omlet, with several stripes of bacon on the side. When the waitress had turned her head then he invented a new word for "eating". He consumed his meal in the rudest manner ever, food everywhere, and in a few minutes he's finished his meal. Which prompted the waitress to return, "Check?"



"Yes, please." When she turned around... he bolted towards the door at top speed--- not even the broadest term of subtly could possibly be applied to this instance. He knocked over the chair, which caused the waitress to turn around and scream, "Stop him!"


Cycon's a bloody super villain. Nobody puts rules on him, and he's above paying with money he doesn't have. In front of the door way was another waiter who reacted faster than expected. When Cycon was close the waiter grabbed on to him with a near-monstrous grip. Unfortunately Cycon's "unique biology" allowed him to escape from pretty much anything. His hand turned into a sickly dark blue slime and with a simple "plop" he was free of the waiter's grip. The waiter was more confused and scared than anything, so he stood there staring at what he just saw for a few seconds. Which was exactly what Cycon needed to escape. He darted out the door at top speed dropping his sandals in the process. ((Since have you ever tried running your @ss off in those?))


The waiter collected himself, and started up the chase. Which was fine with Cycon since he's done this over a hundred times.


1. Steal food
2. Get chased around town for thirty minutes
3. Use powers to escape
4. ???
5. Profit!


While he was running down the street, the cellphone that was in his swimming trunks started ringing...






((Yes. It is necessary to listen to all of that before continuing))


He reached into the pocket of his swim trunks, and flipped it open. Marshall (The Renegade, swag), his employer and the reason why he's even in this town on the @ss-end of America is calling. He couldn't exactly talk here. The fun will have to end here, his hand launched at the edge of a roof and he climbed on top.


"Cycon, we're going." That means that he's going to start his mission, and he should start making his way there. "Oh yeah, boss. I'm on my way." He ended the call and jumped off the roof and his arm turned into slime and promptly launched off to the next object he can attach to, and his body followed. "Woooooooooooooo!!!"


((So just have Cycon appear when you're ready, Maxx))

Marshall and his entourage drove up just as Cycon appeared on the ground. Marshall watched his henchman bounce to the ground like an overzealous slinky and rolled his eyes. Cycon was one of those types who you kept around just for his sheer usefulness. Marshall wound down his window and the back doors of the black Humvee opened. Three large men wearing black suits and sunglasses filed out and surrounded Cycon. Several moments later, another black Crown Victoria drove up and it's driver side door opened to reveal that it was empty; a self-driving computer program had guided it to New Orleans.


Detroit


Three solid black Shelbies were parked in a neat row on the second floor of a parking garage across the street from Damon's apartment complex. None of the three had drivers, and were all controlled via an AI program. Each of the three had a small indentation on their hoods, which contained a video camera that was zoomed in on the building. The three cars saw everything, from Valkyrie pulling up to her going into the building. Unlike the people on the street, however, these cars had no memories, per say, so they could watch anything for hours and understand completely what was going on. Eventually they would strike, but they wanted the girl in the black suit to do the work for them. Either way, it was pretty hard for three cars to capture a man on the third floor of a building without wrecking themselves.

Cycon



Cycon was swinging about town to his and the Renegade's meeting spot like spider-man. Stretching his arms vast distances to attach to walls, and so on. Once he arrived at their "meeting" he was already going to fast for a traditional stop, he risked crashing into to the Renegade's ride. The next building he attached to he swung high up into the air and landed with a splat. Something that would have killed the average man only turned him into a puddle of dark blue slime with clothes. He slowly reformed with his clothes where they should be (a skill he's picked up over the years of doing this over and over again). Once he was complete his body went back to it's 'natural' colors. He crossed his arms with a smile on his face, "That was fun..." He didn't pay too much attention to the men that surrounded him, since if they were Marshall's men then there's--- Where is Marshall? Cycon looked around for his boss very... obviously. His neck stretched slightly above the men that surrounded him to look around. "Yo, yo where's my boss?" He curiously asks