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What is good and what is evil when the human soul is involved? |
[Introduction]   The Night Welcomes You Dear Recipient, If you are in possession of this letter, it has come to the attention of our organization that you have displayed the abilities necessary to join us in our campaign against the shadows that blight this world. The Night is a highly specialized police force trained to eradicate the most dangerous beings and entities that threaten our nation and its allies, the existence of which is paramount to the safety of the world. Should you agree to join our lofty organization, we would compensate you handsomely, provide training, and ensure that you are boarded with those with whom you share your particular gifts. We urge you strongly to consider joining for the good of the nation, the world, and humanity against the shadows of evil that threaten our freedom. The Night Every government has one. Trained in secrecy, outfitted with the world's most advanced technology, and hidden from the eyes of its citizens, these organizations fight against the monsters that crawl the surface of this earth. Their greatest strengths, however, are the natural gifts that God has granted them; their magickal abilities, with them since birth, discovered by the government and cultivated during their training. Vampires, Werewolves, Warlocks, whatever evil stalks the night, these organizations are there to destroy them and return their nation to equilibrium once more, moved by a dark patriotism and a need to keep their loved ones safe from the darkness of the world. The Night, under the control of the United States government, is the first and most powerful of these organizations, from which the others have taken their cue. When a worldwide crisis takes place, it is the first on the scene and its membership list can boast the most powerful set of magicians in the world. And no organization is more respected for its valor and dedication to the good of humanity. So, when members of the Night start disappearing and reported cases of monster attacks go through the roof, the remaining members must rescue their friends and fight the bad guys all at once. And, in the end, their valor might be tested beyond their bounds, for the good of humanity might mean more than anyone had ever imagined. ***** The Rules:  Note the rating. That alone should explain what I am going for with this campfire. This should be dark and violent, and, above all, it should be a general mindfuck. It can be violent, sexual (but not pornographic or anything), psychotic, what have you. All that being said, it's X-men versus monsters, so don't take it too seriously. Though we will be messing with our characters' sense of right and wrong, justice, good vs evil, the extent of patriotism, it's basically a comic book campfire. So keep that in mind along with the rating.The general idea is that our characters are idealists, the lot of us, and this campfire will test that idealism to its breaking point. To clarify, as there were some questions about this, our characters believe in what the organization stands for, its methods, and that they are the good guys. They joined to defend humanity against monsters and firmly believe that The Night is a just and lawful organization out purely for the benefit of mankind. This campfire will destroy that idealism. That's the point.Be mindful of not creating gods for yourselves, please. Obviously, there will be some very powerful characters, but I don't want any Franklin Richards running around this joint, so nothing astronomically powerful. The more powerful your character, the harsher the consequences of using that power. And your character obviously does not know everything you as a writer knows...obviously. No breaking the fourth wall, now. But I trust everyone knows this general understanding.Other than that, just write your best and have some fun with this. This is a chance to completely torture a poor, innocent little character and break their spirit completely. That's actually the point. Until they get pissed and go after us like rabid animals, having fun is all I can ask. Then it's staying alive.*****
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| Jordan hated furloughs. There was nothing more to say about it. She liked time in the barracks well enough, she supposed, time to reconnect with her comrades and those few members of Alpha Squadron that were actually close enough to be friends, but furloughs just sucked. Poking, prodding, meetings...there was nothing relaxing about them. Returning to the field after the two-day marathon always seemed like a release to her, even if it actually meant weeks on end sitting or lying stock still with a weapon pointed at a single point miles away, waiting for some monster to walk into her trap. There was hardly any time for fun to be had at all. Compared to the needles and the couch sessions, not to mention the 'interviews' with HQ, putting her life on the line for the good of humanity was a veritable dream. Which it was, of course. Jordan had joined the Night because of her abilities, she'd stayed because of what she did with them. "Report." Jordan slid the pack from her shoulder and allowed it to drop to the floor, turning the movement into a passable salute. Military protocol had never been her forte. She followed it well enough when absolutely required, but she certainly didn't snap to attention, despite the wishes of upper command. More than once, she'd been threatened with court martial for shoddy paperwork or perceived insubordination. It had taken a Presidential intervention to keep the council from booting her after one too many write-ups, and that because her kill record was perfect. Thus, it was a grudging relationship between herself and HQ. As long as she kept shooting, she kept serving. And she lived for the kill. "Liszt, Jordan M., Alpha Squadron, personnel number Z26-20. Reporting for furlough," Jordan drawled, Georgia peach accent dripping sweetly from her cupid's bow mouth. The man lowered his eyes to the identification tag tucked into her beyond non-regulation decolletage, struggling to keep from staring as her breath caused it to rise and fall. She wore the uniform, of course--the Night wore a uniform like any other soldier in the field, featuring the gray and black of urban camo--but had tossed the jacket over one shoulder, leaving just a black tank top underneath. Lowering her hand from the salute, Jordan smirked a little as the Sergeant raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to toss a rebuke her way, obviously glad to be able to look back up at all. When he stared at her for a minute, brown eyes full of that quintessentially Marine loyalty, Jordan realized he had recognized her. Instead of issuing the reprimand, the Sergeant closed his mouth and nodded, allowing her to pass. "Proceed to identification platform, Liszt. And remember to salute until ease is granted from now on." As Jordan lifted her pack and headed toward the barracks, she chuckled softly and saluted mockingly, sauntering her way toward the back wall of the building, emerald eyes glinting with something sharp. She could feel the Sergeant staring at her as she walked away, consciously allowing her gently rounded hips to swing seductively and with more than just a hint of invitation. Running her hands through her raven-blue waves, kept loose in yet another snub at regulation, Jordan wondered if the Marine would come a-calling some time during her furlough. He'd been the kind of man the Corps used in their recruitment ads: handsome in a way that screamed God Bless America. She'd certainly made it plain that she would accept any advances. And being in the field hardly allowed for the kind of fun he could bring. Jordan looked up at the monstrous door in front of her, gulping slightly at the enormity of it. She'd never come back this way; she wasn't in DC often enough to make it feasible. In truth, no one really knew where Night barracks actually was. They could be anywhere from the mouth of Mt. Vesuvius to miles underground in the Lascaux caves. The only way to get there was through various doors throughout the nation, housed in buildings that were either wholly unremarkable or so well protected even a madman would think twice before attacking. Night HQ was even harder to find, for it changed positions every six months to somewhere so classified only the President, the head of the Night, and the Joint Chiefs knew of its location. For Jordan, coming back from a mission in New York, her entrance was at the Pentagon, one of the few easily recognizable for what it was. Dropping her pack on the ground, Jordan pulled her ID badge from between her breasts and slid it through the scanner, the first of many tests that would prove her identity. The picture on the card showed Jordan at eighteen, when she'd first joined the Night some eight years ago, but the only change was the addition of more womanly contours to her cheeks and the length of her hair, which was somewhat longer. She was still beautiful, with a ferocity to her features that the uniform only deepened, giving Jordan an air of danger. The kind of woman that all but the bravest--or stupidest--men avoided, afraid that she'd somehow de-man them if they didn't live up to her sexual standards. It served her well, because it was a reputation that had the virtue of being in every way deserved. "Jordan Liszt, please place your hand on the scanner." The computer voice was friendly in the way that all service machines were, meant to reassure the listener, but without any inflection that was reassuring at all. Jordan placed her hand hesitantly on the blue-green field of the scanner, knowing and anticipating the burn that scanned all the way down to the deepest layers of skin. Wincing and pursing her lips to keep from whining in discomfort as the laser moved from the tips of her fingers all the way to her wrist, Jordan pulled her stinging hand off the field and blew on it as soon as the light flashed green, indicating that she had passed. Jordan wondered what would happen if someone actually failed to pass the scan test. She'd never seen it happen, or even heard of such a case. "Jordan Liszt, place your eye before the retinal scan." The second test of the Night was easier than the hand scan because it lacked the pain of the first, but the bright laser still caused everyone's eyes to water uncomfortably and, for some, left their vision blurry for hours afterward. In Jordan's case, with high cheekbones and a heavy-lidded bedroom gaze, it proved difficult to open her eye wide enough to the specifications of the exam. One time, she'd been forced to re-do the scan four times because not enough of her iris was showing. A squadron full of Marines and Shadows (clearly some desk-bound general had thought of that name for members of the Night) had appeared behind her and taken her in for questioning after that particular debacle. When the light showed green after the first scan, Jordan let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and waited for the final, most important part of the identification process. Something that no one but a member of the Night would be able to pass. "Jordan Liszt, please demonstrate your most powerful Gift." Sighing, Jordan raised her stinging hand and reached out with her mind through the door and to one of the many locking mechanisms, twisting it and pulling it free of its latch. Jordan's ability as a sniper was only augmented by her magical abilities, which she had discovered during years of marksmanship classes and perfected under the tutelage of the Night, which boasted the most powerful and skilled individuals in the world. A telekinetic with the ability to remote view, Jordan could shoot a can from a fence thirty miles away without a thought and her ability to whisper into the minds of fellow magick-users kept her connected with the world when she was stuck in a gillie suit for weeks on end. Her magick and her hard won firearms mastery fed into one another, making her an unstoppable force with a gun. It was the secret to her perfect kill record, the reason for her continued stay with the Night. The reason the President had had to forcibly continue her stay with the organization, despite his and every superior's distaste for her as a person. "Welcome, Private Liszt, to the Night." The doors swung open slowly, each lock twisting and lifting one by one. With a gaze back at the Sergeant standing at the end of the hall, Jordan smiled and blew him a kiss before stepping into the corridor in front of her. Night barracks stretched out before her, a comforting site despite Jordan's best wish to be annoyed by this particular return home. It looked much like a college dorm and, in fact, was almost exactly like one, each room housing up to four soldiers. As a member of Alpha squadron, Jordan was entitled to her own room closest to the washroom and mess, something she made no secret of enjoying. Privacy was a hard thing to come by in any military organization and, despite her best wishes that it not be so, the Night continued to be connected to the military. Having her own room allowed Jordan to relax alone, do some reading, or perhaps invite someone over for a little bed sport without bunk mates complaining. Walking further into the corridor, Jordan heard the door swing shut behind her as she left DC and walked further into the unknown. Reaching her door, Jordan pulled a key from her pack and slid it into the locking mechanism--a simple lock this time, without scanners or demonstrations of power--before slipping into her room. It was sparse, the only furniture a bed, desk, and dresser, with a lamp in the far corner, but Jordan had added a few of her own touches. Guns--in regulation holsters and racks (the only time Jordan paid any attention to protocol)--lined every wall and were tucked into every corner. A small bookshelf, full of tomes about marksmanship and monsters, with a few choice pieces of fiction thrown in, sat next to her bed. All-in-all, it looked like a standard issue bunk; yet another distasteful sign the Night was just the fifth branch, albeit secretly, of the U.S. military. In truth, Jordan liked servicemen well enough, but she had never liked the idea of lumping the Night in as a military organization. And while she appreciated the close contact between her organization and theirs (especially when it involved Sergeants like the one standing in that corner of the Pentagon back in DC), Jordan had always thought that the Night was special, sent not to promote squabbling and wars between humans, but to save them from the evils of the world. Forcing them to salute and march in columns seemed bloody ridiculous. So, in protest, she didn't do it. And until she could no longer shoot straight, she would continue not to do it as a member of the Night. "Liszt, report immediately. You're late for your inoculations." The voice of her immediate superior, Lieutenant Brian (second lieutenant, as Jordan wanted to remind him), barked through the speaker just to the right of her bedroom door. Jordan rolled her eyes and threw her bag onto the bed, pausing only to throw her hair into a simple ponytail before she headed for the infirmary, not even enough time to change into some clean clothes. Like she wanted to walk around barracks in a dirty uniform. Wonderful. Just back and already her arms were set to be a pincushion, and not even in some decently clean clothes. Rather surprisingly, given her distaste for all reminders military, Jordan didn't mind wearing the uniform. It suited her purposes well enough and made it even more shocking when she dolled herself up, which suited her purposes even more fully than the uniform did. But walking around in a travel-stained uniform never suited, especially when she shouldn't have to. Sidling through the halls, Jordan waved at the people she knew well enough to be friends, making a mental note to visit them if she had a chance this weekend. She hadn't seen some of them in weeks--she'd been stuck on top of a building in New York, waiting for the alpha of a particularly vicious werewolf clan to step into just the right spot--and trading tales was the best part of a furlough. It was a guarantee that everyone in your squad would be there, if only for two jam-packed days of excitement and pincushionry. If Jordan hadn't been ordered to the infirmary immediately--and even she didn't disobey a direct order--she might have stopped to say hello to them then. The door to infirmary, solid white with translucent glass panels, stood out against the brown wainscoting and tan walls of the rest of the building, and slid open when she waved her hand before the scanner. "Z26-20, Liszt reporting for inocs." "About time. You're late, as usual, Jordan." Navy Corpsman Nathaniel Mitchell crossed his arms, blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. He was one Jordan's closest friends--the two had grown up together in Georgia--and understood Jordan better than she understood herself most of the time. "And you're wearing that? Sergeant Billingsley must have had a time of it when you reported." "Was that his name? Good to know. He was cute." Jordan plopped onto the table without being told to and held out her arms, pleased that she had learned the man's name. It would make it easier to track him down when push came to shove. "Hack at me, Doctor!" Nate sighed and picked up her chart. "You're due for almost all of them. Six today. I wish you wouldn't put them off for so long, Jordan. Coming back to barracks every once in a while to get your inoculations wouldn't kill you. They can't need you that much--there are other snipers in this blasted organization, you know--and you've got to come back to get your shots more often than every eight months." Wiping an alcohol swab along her forearms, Nate continued. "And I don't think Billingsley's wife would appreciate your sentiment about her husband." Jordan scoffed. "Like I care. If he comes to me, clearly his wife isn't doing the job." Seeing that Nate wasn't going to rise to her bait, Jordan changed tactics. "Plus, it's not like you're helping a friend out. I've been stuck in the field for weeks and you don't even give me a hug!" Laughing, Nate opened his arms and pulled his friend into a tight hug. For all his banter, he did worry about her. She never did take the proper things seriously and it would probably get her killed one day. "You are something else Jordan Molineau Liszt. Now, I've got six needles to jab into you today. So think about something else and don't stare at the pointy thing." "When's my appointment with the shrink? I know I don't have to meet with HQ, thankfully. No captures for me. Just a confirmed kill, which they hardly need me to report. Bastards, the lot of them..." Jordan leaned back against the wall, picturing Sergeant Billingsley with his uniform puddled about his feet and relishing the shock those thoughts would give her Southern Gentleman friend. "By the way, I heard the chatter about a big take. Who'd they get?" Nate checked his syringe, full of anti-lycanthropy serum, for air bubbles before sticking it into Jordan's arm. "Some blood mage. Iain McCleod, head of the dance club Briar Rose. And your appointment is for 0830 tomorrow." "Iain McCleod? That asshole? Really?" Jordan whined, pouting just slightly in petulance. "I was hoping to get my hands on him." "He's too big to kill, Jordan. McCleod was the head of an entire circle of blood magicians whose activity lately has gotten the attention of even civilian police organizations. We've got to know what they were planning for us. Whatever it is they're doing, there's a lot of power involved. Powers-that-be are thinking those bastards might have gotten enough power to scry for the location of HQ. Which, to put it lightly, would suck." Jordan made a face. "Understatement. But, hey, if it means some action for me, I hope they find something. It's been three weeks since I got that were-jackass and my trigger finger is itching something fierce." |
They called him in weeks ago but he hadn’t received the message. They were angry at first but it was hard to be angry with someone like him, particularly when he was doing his job. Now he was being called back for a furlough rather than just a report, that was ok. He grinned, trundling through the walls of Headquarters, wondering what new drugs they were going inject into him this time. Since he’d been so late in responding to their order he supposed that they’d probably have to add in a few of the ones he’d missed and what not. He knew that when people saw him they would never have associated him with something like the Night. His eyes were bright blue and mischievous, his mouth was lined by laughter and the five o’clock shadow was hardly military. His sandy hair was unruly, looking permanently like a long-haired cat that had had its fur brushed the wrong way, not that he didn’t try to tame it, it just never worked for very long and he’d been in the field for a while now so it was no real surprise that it had grown unmanageable. Furthermore, whilst his uniform was tidy with the well pressed trousers and polished boots, he looked oddly amusing in it, as he was playing dress up and had loaned an outfit rather than earned it. It was mainly to do with the contagious energy that poured off him, he was too happy, it seemed, to bear a badge or wield a gun or kill another living being. Yet, at the same time, he was one them. The lean, broad shouldered jester was just as ruthless and patriotic as any other member of the force. There were no exceptions to that defining trait. It was just harder to spot. He walked with his hands in his back pockets and his grin in place as he ambled towards the taller, broader, burlier and obviously more serious man that was acting as guard of the Big Black Door. He wasn’t sure how the Door had become more than just a simple door but he supposed it was probably something to do with the fact that it was the replaced for one of the first things he had ever destroyed. Even if it was an accident. The Shiny Silver Door he’d dusted when he’d first arrived had been too easy to ruin, this one was supposed to be stronger, he wasn’t going to test their theory. They’d probably have him pay for it himself. “Report.” His salute wasn’t graceful or perfected but it was respectful, his grin was lost as he declared his name, rank and number for the grim faced guard. It was a matter of discipline, he knew that respect came from giving respect, or at least it did within the Night, and therefore he gave it where it was necessary. It was hard though. He was in such a good mood. “Farran, Gull P. W. S. Alpha Squadron, personnel number A3-362.” “Farran, continue to the identification platform.” “Sure thing, Sir.” He saluted again, breaking into a grin as he waved goodbye. He saw the corners of the man’s mouth twitch and he knew that he had made things a little more interesting for his fellow man. He trotted over to the door, thoughtfully proceeding to the platform, noting any of the slight differences from last time, trying to figure out why the concealed cameras had been moved from the corners to the sides and why there was an extra light added when it wasn’t even switched on. It was the Massive Door next. Badge. Scanner. Swipe. He nodded contently to himself as he heard the beep of success. “Gull Farren, please place your hand the scanner.” Scanner. Hand. Burn. He didn’t enjoy this bit too much, though he supposed no one did and he felt the bubbling of his cold blood as the laser inspected his palm. What was the point in even testing his hand, it wasn’t like he had any distinctive marks on his fingers or anything, those had been removed in various instances before he’d even become part of this business. “Gull Farren place your eye before the retinal scan.” He grimaced, this bit was worse though. The bright light made his eyes water and he had to blink a few times to clear the blobs of black from his vision. The blue of his eyes seemed pale for a moment as he stepped away and the lights flickered briefly. Scowling at the machine he waited for the final order. Test. They preferred ‘tests’ after all. “Gull Farren, please demonstrate your most powerful Gift.” Gull sighed this time, a teasingly bright smile lighting up his face. He stared directly ahead, his eyes shifting from the bright, unnatural blue they appeared to dark grey and with it the lights died, the screen splintered, the walls of the room seemed to tremble and the door before him broke open. He looked around, blinking with his blackened eyes, deciding that he probably ought to put things back together if he wanted to avoid a reprimand... then again, maybe this would teach them a lesson. They really shouldn’t reply so much on electrical, electro-magnetic or plasma-energy. It just made things too easy for people like him. Then again, he didn’t know many people like him so maybe that was ok. But imagine if he turned coat. They’d be fucked if they wanted to keep him out. They could deal with the mess. It was just too easy if they continued like this. Oh but he just didn’t want to seem vindictive. It wasn’t really him. His eyes blurred into the bright blue of before but the colour bled into his pupils and sclera. The room began to vibrate and the temperature soared upwards until a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He couldn’t fix the machine, he didn’t know how it worked, but the walls were intact and gleaming, the door was in on peice albeit still open. Why was it that creating things took so much more energy than destroying them...? Gull’s good mood was dampened, he lifted his small pack from the space at his feet and passed through the door without so much as a twitch of a smile. His eyes were only just returning to normal. He wondered if any of his friends were around. Maybe Jordan or Shank. He wouldn’t mind seeing some familiar faces. The thought brightened him up almost instantly and he almost forgot to stop at his room, his feet wanting to carry him straight on to find out who was around. “Ah home sweet home.” He grinned widely, letting the door swing open into a room that he was sure made people feel like they were stepping into the old English world that he had left behind. In the corner sat a dark wooden, four-poster single swamped in bold, highly patterned duvets, pillows, sheets and blankets. Technically, the bed itself was regulation but he’d removed the bed legs so that the iron frame was on the ground, added another mattress so that the bed was higher and comfier and then built a classic frame around it to add a sense of symmetry and simplistic luxury. If he was expected to spend weeks out in fields, sheds, caves, forests, ships, tanks, military bases and other uncomfortable places, he was bloody well going to have somewhere luxurious to come back to. Three walls were white, the back wall being deep red with a tromp l’oiel fireplace painted to the right of the bed. On the other side of the painted flames was a desk made of the same wood as the bed. Above it was the beginning of three shelves which contained books on everything he could find, physics, mythology, martial arts, languages, karma sutra, geography, dark magic, philosophy, classic novels: the list went on, as did the shelves which continued from the space above the desk all the way round the right-hand wall and the wall where the door stood, only stopping when they met the wardrobe. He toed off his boots and let his feet mesh into the soft Indian carpet. His room couldn’t be less Night-like. But that didn’t matter... This wasn’t meant to be. He had missed his sanctuary. He checked the time piece on the desk, humming under his breath as he realised he still had half an hour before he was needed anywhere... He could see who was about. Or he could clean himself up, wash himself of detritus. Decisions. He decided on the latter, people would wait if they were around for inocs and he really wanted a hot shower. * By the time he ended up in the white panelled walls of the infirmary where he was due his needles, he was feeling decidedly refreshed. His hair was clean, pushed back of his face, although still wild like wind-muddled wisteria; his skin was free of grubbiness and he’d brushed his teeth with minty toothpaste for the first time in three weeks... that natural oil stuff just wasn’t as good at leaving teeth feeling clean. So as he greeted the grumpy looking Navy Corpsman Nathaniel Mitchell, he was feeling quite confident. “You’ve lost weight Gull,” Mitchell was one of those friends of Jordan that he’d taken to actually liking, he was honest in a no-nonsense kind of way, and genuinely gave a crap about most of the people who came in, plus he had a sense of humour and that was something which Gull couldn’t help but appreciate. “Well, three and half weeks battling a Hell Mouth will do that to you.” He agreed. Hell Mouths were a term that related to the use of dark magicks to either raise demons, dead, or give that kind of power to those who didn’t naturally possess it. Usually caused by a black magician. And anyway, he knew his face was a little more drawn than before he left and he realised that he couldn’t really afford to considering how lean he already was, but it was only a few pounds, not the end of the world and now he was back he could make sure he fed himself up for a bit. “Take more of the nutri-bars next time, you’re probably only just passable right now.” “Eh. So poke me with the pointy things, pass me and let me go eat.” He smirked at the slight quirk of Mitchell’s eyebrow that showed his suppressed amusement. “You’ve got nearly as many as Litsz, four inocs and a booster for the anti-lycanthropy...” Gull shrugged, he had already rolled up the white sleeved shirt so there was easy access to the elbow vein and he’d drawn a large black circle around the spot that he had decided he should have the injections. “Try not to cry too loud this time.” Mitchell teased as he readied a large needle against the energist’s pale arm. Rolling his eyes, he focused on the way that the tip of the infection pierced his skin and the prickle that told him that it was the booster rather than the actual inoculation. They tended to throb rather than tingle. He kind of liked the tingle. * The ache in his arm that followed inoculations was normal but that didn’t make it any more pleasant and he certainly wasn’t feeling as vibrant as before. He had three hours before his meeting with Josalinn Meadows, resident empath and psychologist. She was the only one that had survived his dislike of mind-doctors long enough to earn a grudging respect. He may not like that fact that he had to talk to her about what he had done, how he was performing, whether he was still coping, but at least she took all the mischief and mind games he played on her lightly. Having a few hours to kill though was nice, he was definitely going to go bang on people’s doors, maybe go to the mess hall, he was sure that it was busy. |
| “Gull, you sunnovabitch, how’ve you been?” Jordan grinned, a series of white teeth gleaming with something between genuine pleasure and an unequivocal invitation. She sat, arm carefully balanced against the back of a couch (both to protect the sensitive needle wounds and to look as comfortably casual and nonchalant as possible), legs stretched out in front of her. Long gone were the boots, replaced by a ridiculous pair of fuzzy pink socks that Jordan secretly loved more than she probably should, and the uniform, though that had merely changed into black pants and a white tank top. She’d even managed to get in a shower and black hair lay plaited down the middle of her back. It was leaving quite a wet stain, but Jordan was too studiously uncaring to do anything about it. Farran grinned back and gave a quick shrug. “Oh you know, same old, same old. Fighting bad guys, saving the country, blowing shit up. You?” Jordan smiled, making a show of studying her fingernails. “Same. Killed an alpha couple weeks ago, but there haven’t really been any interesting assignments for a while. I’ve literally been trapped on top of a building in New York this entire time. Had tons of fun fucking with the Mets, though.” Her grin turned mischievous. It was a well-known fact that Jordan hated the New York Mets. In fact, it had become something of a joke over the last few years, especially when she’d managed to seduce their top prospect and completely (by accident, of course) destroy his rotator cuff. Coming from Georgia, she was, of course, an avid Braves fan. Except for Chipper Jones. Jordan couldn’t fucking stand Chipper Jones. Gull shook his head. “You crazy Yanks and your baseball. Couldn’t be buggered to learn about it myself. It’s like a less slow version of cricket.” “Which sounds to me like a huge improvement on the game,” Jordan replied as Farran came to settle down on a chair adjacent to her own perch. “Plus, a cripplingly old guy shuffling around the diamond with a cane for three hours would still accomplish more than a cricket match, so the comparison his hardly true. Especially when a telekinetic mastermind is involved.” Laughing, Gull brushed a bit of his unruly mass of hair from out of his face, and slouched into the oversized cushions of his comfy chair. The two had been almost instant friends. Both had a certain disdain for the rules, for regulation, for being military, that the Night had never learned to understand or, even less, appreciate. But both were equally talented and equally devoted to their cause. Gull had been part of the Knights before transferring to America a few years ago. Hell, it was almost unheard of for the Night to recruit outside the US. Gull was the only one she could think of in the last few years. So when he’d gotten there, not long after Jordan, they’d become fast friends. And, to this day, Farran was (aside from Nate, of course) the person she was closest to in the entire damn organization. It didn’t hurt that she wanted him badly. She’d long ago figured out that the both of them were wild about each other, but something had always kept them apart. And it wasn’t necessarily the obvious problems of distance and work—the two were almost never thrown together despite both being Alpha squadron. No, something else had kept them apart. Jordan had only figured it out after she’d ended up in some random jarhead’s bunk, surrounded by a dozen drunken Marines all drunkenly competing to be the one to fuck her. It was Jordan that was keeping them apart. She was doing it her all by her own, damn self. She’d had an inkling for a long time that, deep down inside, Gull was something of an English gentleman. A traditionalist, to a certain extent (at least when it came to relationships). And he wasn’t the kind of man to get mixed up with the kind of girl that slept around just for the hell of it. So, though they both wanted each other, both cared for one another, and, hell, were probably perfect for each other, Jordan went ahead and fucked it up night after night, random guy after random guy (and the occasional woman just for the hell of it). Mostly because she was afraid that, if she stopped, someone would know just how deeply she cared for Gull and use him against her. The ‘Bad Guys’, as she still had a tendency to name them in her thoughts, would definitely do something that messed up just to get into her head. But damn did it feel like a knife would get stuck trying to cut the air between them. Jordan caught Gull staring, his dangerous blue eyes hovering somewhere between her face and her chest as if not sure where to go. She smiled ruefully and pinched him. “Hey, jerkface, my face is up here.” Farran recovered instantly. “What? I can’t help it if you have an amazing rack! What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t appreciate their…awesomeness?” “Point.” Jordan chuckled. “I definitely have a most luscious pair of mammaries, if I do say so myself. Anyway, have you run into anyone else? I haven’t seen anyone since Nate used me like a pin cushion. Even had time to shower.” “I saw Shank on the way in. Told me he was going to the mess and then he’d be in to visit for a while. Apparently, he was part of the team that took down McCleod. Should make for a damn fine story.” Jordan could hear the envy in Gull’s voice, and it reflected her own sense of jealousy. She’d spent the last month with nothing more to do than shank foul balls and knock a few homers directly into the laps of little kids (she hated the Mets, but they were just kids…). On one memorable occasion, she’d let the pitcher of the Florida Marlins hit a grand slam just for the hell of it. That had been a fun night. But, fuck if it stood up to Shank! He’d gotten to take down fucking Iain McCleod! Jordan groaned. “Motherfucking bastard.” “Who? McCleod or Shank?” Gull was playing with some sort of plasma ball, tossing it between and through his fingers like a weird, magical version of Cat’s Cradle. “Both.” Jordan snorted. “I wanted him for myself, you know.” Gull looked up and nodded. “I know, Jordan. We all did. But, I mean, think about it. Someone had to take him down. His damn club was fucking up ley lines, corrupting them for miles around. You probably felt it on top of your little building. Hell, even the mundanes could probably feel it and they couldn’t pick up on magic if it bitch slapped them upside the head.” Mundanes was the word for people outside the Night, the ungifted, people who couldn’t do half (or any) of the shit that the Night did every day. The people they were paid to protect. Jordan pouted a touch petulantly, which childishness Gull had the kindness to ignore. “I know, but still…I never get to do anything fun anymore.” “Well maybe if you smartened up and started greasing a few wheels, someone would be willing to give you one, you whiney little baby.” Jordan and Gull both looked up to see their tank of a friend come sidling into the room, his voice thin and raspy after so many years of silence. Sam Shank wasn’t exactly built broad or big--though he was pretty tall--but Jordan always remembered him as being bigger than he was; mostly because of his demeanor. He was the kind of guy that would make officer one day, the kind of guy that wanted to be officer one day. And he definitely ambled, as if he was always in kind of a hurry. But he was a good friend despite all that. And he’d never tried to sleep with her, which earned him bonus points. Jordan thought he probably had an idea of how she and Gull felt about each other and had decided to be respectful instead of exacerbating the problem. And for that, Jordan would forever love him a little bit. “Shut up,” was all Jordan said, though the lightness of her tone belied her annoyance. “How were innocs?” Shank shrugged. “Just two. Some of us don’t wait for years.” “So, you got to take down McCleod! I mean, I know it was a team, but who else was with you? And how did you do it?” Jordan practically jumped up and down like a giddy schoolgirl. This time, both men studiously ignored the bouncing of her breasts beneath the barely adequate restraints of their bra and tank top fortress. “I take it this means Alpha Squadron gets the duty of cleaning up the mess Briar Rose made, right? Great! It’s about time I got to do something exciting with myself.” |
The room was warm and clean. White curtains with a yellow, sunflower trim were drawn. The light, although not real, trickled through the narrow crack between folds and gave the walls a natural glow. In each corner of the room were old fashioned lanterns that spilt a steady amber light along each side of the room. The whole place was cosy. There was one empty chair: a large, luxurious, hulking chair that looked like it wanted to swallow a human being. A small coffee table sat beside it and on the other side another chair, a less exorbitant chair with a pale occupant. The occupant was a woman. Her eyes were like dandelions, an unnatural yellow around black, petal-like irises and there was something about them that drew the mind back to a clock face. It was as if you could see the seconds ticking by in her eyes. She would look up expectantly every few minutes, with no anxiety, just looking. She waited: still and quiet until the door opened. Then, welcoming the visitor in, she offered them the overwhelming chair with a wave of her hand, the skin of which had acquired that translucent quality only found in those who spend too much time away from natural light. Yet when she smiled, her soft mouth was wide and her eyes were placid and dark and larger than before and the visitor would feel at once at home. Sitting in the room with an empath was something that Gull disliked immensely. No matter how many times he was made to visit, he still loathed the feeling of sharing a space with a human lie detector that could manipulate his emotions should they so desire. Emotion, he knew, was far too powerful a thing to ignore. For a psychologist it was no bad thing, to make the patient trust, to make them feel capable of such an action, especially in their line of work. She didn’t use her empathy on him at any other time, except his arrival. He knew that was because he was always tense when he first stepped through the door but he had learnt to throw off the charm quickly enough. He’d been friends with another sort of empath back in England and the man had taught him the trick – albeit the hard way – and he knew how to recognise the sudden drop in anxiety, the rapid increase or decrease of his pulse, the subconscious flood of another’s impressions upon the mind. She had merely smiled their first encounter when he’d demanded that she stop trying to force him to open up and since then Josalinn Meadows had let him talk freely, only using her gift to calm him when necessary. Now they sat in silence. “How do you feel about Shank taking down McCleod?” “Another one bites the dust.” He murmured, “It’s a good thing. Jealousy over the fact that he got to take out the biggest twat we’ve been after for a while but it’s more because I’m bored than anything else.” “You were on a Hell Mouth.” “Well there’s only so much they throw at you.” He grinned, “I hate Hell Mouths, always the same thing. Some little man raising demons that he can’t control. They always think they’re the smartest person in the room. When really, that’s me. Obviously.” Rosalinn didn’t change her expression, “You’re protecting your core self again. Fiercely protecting it. Do you want to give me a reason for that?” He looked at her with his sharp, blue eyes, the gleam of the amber lights caught in them like a malignant star, “Not particularly.” “You should just tell me the truth. You’re hurting yourself by trying not to think of what you want to admit. Why is that?” “The truth is mine Rosalinn. You just get to make sure I’m stable.” She did smile then, that smile that made her face seem instantly wider and less like a timepiece, “I know. But somehow I’d hoped that you might have told me what was bothering you. After all, you did bring them up.” It was true, he had. She’d been simply waiting for his usual jibes and jokes and he’d gone and brought up how he had been talking to Shank and Jordan. He placed the tips of his fingers together and the amber lights wavered a moment as he lit up a ball of static energy in his hands. It was a habit he’d always had. He liked to keep his hands busy, it kept his mind sharper. He rolled the energy over his palms, relishing the tingle and twinkle under his skin. “Sign me off Rosalinn.” “Only if you tell me, off record, what’s making your mind wander.” * McCleod had been messing about with the world’s energies for months, years even. It had been one of the cases he’d been on back in England – geopathic illnesses and stress had been eating away at the country. Poltergeists had plagued shops, spirits had been trapped on earth instead of passing on, flights had crashed out of the sky as computers were confused by degenerating power, people had gone missing after losing their sense of self. Mundanes had become sick. Even members of the Knights had been effected despite their natural defences. He had been a nasty son of a bitch, desperately seeking power, desirous of it, covetous of it. Going after McCleod’s gang became a worldwide event within the first four months of the ley-crisis. At first it had simply been a matter of effecting the supernatural and the mundane. Then it became the earth itself. Volcanoes erupted after thousands of years of dormancy, tectonic plates that had been moving together suddenly withdrew, destructive became constructive, parts of the ocean floor dropped away whilst others rose. Ecosystems, balance, natural harmony... it was all falling apart to his gain. His last mission in the UK had been Operation Tannhjolina. It had been a simple plan to try to take back the energy around the South-Western Ley points that lead from England to mainland Europe. They’d planned for weeks, plotted twenty four seven, had patrols and duties and slow-moving creepers. They’d had such a perfect system and yet some how it had all ended in disaster. He’d been one of the few to come out relatively unscathed – and only then because of luck rather than talent. Several of his oldest comrades had died trying to take down McCleod. He’d always imagined that he’d have followed that demon raising, power-hungry maniac to his own death. It had been the last, tenuous strand of fidelity to his mother country that had made him want to be part of bringing the Holina Ring down. That was now gone. People like Shank had got there first. He was jealous. He was almost angry. It had made him pensive and briefly wiped his usual good humour from his thoughts. Even though he knew that taking out McCleod was only the beginning, that the ring was so much bigger than just the one man... he still felt as slighted. * “You believed it was your mission? Here in the US? You thought that you could be of some use in that case.” Rosalinn hummed gently, “I see.” He grinned and pushed back his hair, “Yes. For a moment there I was furious with myself for not being there. But I know that that’s the way it works. Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I’m mad.” “I know Farran.” She smiled benignly, “You can go back to the sexual tension and banter with that girl of yours now.” He laughed then, standing and brushing his trousers down out of habit, “Sexual tension, where are you getting such ideas from?” “Defend your core, little Farran, you know as well as I do that it isn’t really sex causing tension.” “When you put it that way, you know, I could well fall madly in bed with you.” He teased, turning on his heel and heading for the door. She was still smiling, her pale, vapid smile, “Stay safe. I’ll pass you.” He was out the door in seconds without a second look. A slow, feline grin spread along her lips, the sunflower eyes narrowing with mirth. It was funny how these Agents worked. It was also funny how he always passed the test but never told any truths. * It took a while for him to pinpoint Jordan again. She’d been on his mind since he’d left Meadows in her yellow room. Strolling now, he had very little left to do for the furlough but he wasn’t complaining. He was actually quite relieved. If he could sleep, he knew he would have already curled up in his bed, tucking himself down, perhaps with some frivolous book. But he didn’t sleep easily anymore, never really had, and now he was too full of energy. Pacing the mess halls of The Night, he encountered various characters that he hadn’t been expecting. Not because they weren’t meant to be there – everyone on their level was called into these things – but because he had almost let their faces fade to the back of his memory. There were people he had begun to believe had been killed or promoted. Naida had been one of those people. She’d breezed past him. Beautiful, confident, isolated. She was still paler than he remembered, her eyes less focused, her manner less imperious. Nonetheless he had watched her go with that infinitely small sense of wonder at her grace. Jordan had it too to an extent but Naida’s gift was part of the sensuality that she oozed. Jordan was a different thing altogether anyway. He felt a pang of sadness for Naida though, something that wasn’t particularly common, but he understood loss, perhaps better than many Night members. It was why he was in the US now and it was the reason he lied to Meadows. To his surprise he’d also seen Major von Krowe, only for a moment and only through the glass-walled upper passage. But that meant Seigfried would be here and that made him grin. “You’ve realised how many of us are going to be back?” Ah yes, he’d been trying to pinpoint Jordan. It seemed more like she’d pinpointed him. He grinned and nodded, turning to greet her, “You’re stalking me.” “Naw, I just follow the smell of arrogance. And you’ve been stalking me for the past twenty-five minutes.” She teased, sauntering over to him with the small sashay of her hips that teased him like nothing else. Her eyes fixed and flashing with a coy mirth. “You caught me. I couldn’t get your giant ass off my mind.” He joked right back, “So what you seeking me out for?” “Shank got called away.” “And it’s too early to start a party?” “Something like that.” “Tea?” “You seriously never change do you?” He laughed and shook his mop of hair from his eyes. He didn’t like furloughs but it was good to see Jordan. |
| Boots hit the pavement without a sound, the only alert coming from the slammed door behind her. The SUV that had carried her to the entrance left quickly; the driver seemingly eager to put some distance between himself and the soldier. She had never been an intimidating woman, stoic, mysterious, even haunting perhaps, but not terribly intimidating. Her five foot four inch frame weighed little over a hundred pounds, and when scrubbed of the smokey make-up she favored, the woman looked as innocent as one could reasonably achieve in adulthood. Tonight, however, she came as close as she might ever hope to intimidating. From her jet black hair to her polished boots she was covered in kaleidoscope of filth: the crimson of O negative creeping up her neck, the inky blood of a hell hound soaking her left side, the white powder of drywall pressed into it. With each step she could feel the squish of blood in her boots, the stickiness of it clinging her uniform to the lily-white flesh beneath. Her most recent hunt had been a great deal more fun than originally anticipated. She stepped through the main door, saluting the sergeant as she entered. Her usual formality was not at all effected by the spectacle of her appearance. “Private Xiao Mei. Alpha Squadron, personnel number A93-24. Reporting as requested, Sir.” She began, no hint of the Chinese accent one always seemed to expect from her. The sergeant knit his brow, lifting a hand to press his knuckle to his nostrils as non-nonchalantly as he could manage. Mei stifled her grin. She was well aware of the reek of sulfur that still clung to the black blood of the hell hound, and mixed with the rot of death so commonly lingering after spending time in a nest of vampires, it was no surprise that she smelled as good as she looked. The sergeant managed to take control of his gag reflex and continued on, his handsome face still twisted but looking less as if he would vomit.“Your Identification, Private Xiao.” He requested. Mei glanced to the laminated image fastened to her pocket, which just peaked out of the mess. She slid a gloved hand over it's smooth surface, revealing the photo and name underneath. It was a recent photo, taken not a month prior, but it still took a few glances between the image and the face to satisfy the sergeant. “Private Xiao, please continue to the identification platform.” He answered stepping out of her way with a single fluid movement, his voice strained through held breath. “Yes Sir.” Mei stepped onto the platform, and slid the ID card through the scanner. Though it read with little issue, it left behind it streaks of gore, encouraging Mei's full lips to purse and her perfectly shaped brow to furrow. She searched her person; hunting for any inch of clean cloth with which she could remedy the mess. Finding none she pressed forward, a hint of guilt felt for the inconvenience she would cause the one that followed her. “Xiao Mei, please place your hand on the scanner.” The computer commanded and she obeyed. Mei pulled off one glove with the other, pressing palm against the smooth glass. The pain never bothered her, her tolerance was high and the strange tingling that remained after was always a curiosity. The scan passed by, it's presence enough to inspire the muscle to tighten through her arm and into her shoulder, and again it left the tiny pins dancing in her palm. The green light flashed and she stepped aside, amused for a moment by the flash of white skin and manicured nails, all attached to the swamp monster she had become. “Xiao Mei, place your eye before the retinal scan.” The computer commanded, reminding her to be serious. It wasn't every day the soldier got to look like the devil while embracing the satisfaction of a child making mud pies. If anything she was inclined toward the opposite. In the field her body was a tool, meant to be used and abused for the sake of the job, at home she was military precise, every wound tended, every detail perfect. She allowed a shallow smile, taking in a practiced resolve as she drew her breath and returning her mindset to that of the good soldier. The scanner blinked to life, firing a beam of technological torture over an iris of such dark chocolate it was hardly distinguished from the pupil. Her large almond eyes begged to blink against the assault, but despite the irritation she was the victor. It accepted the scan on the first try, a relief to the soldier who was now free to blink away the tears that pooled in her long lashes and cut lines down high but delicate cheekbones. “Xiao Mei, please demonstrate your most powerful gift.” She actually enjoyed this part, it being one of the few times her 'gift' was used with kindness and consideration, and not to manipulate and torture something to death. Mei closed her black eyes, her mind searching for the assigned target. The computer allowed for a human override for emergencies, and for the few telepathic individuals who were unable to directly influence physical matter in a way the computer would recognize. Listening and seeking she finally found him, a private with a quick wit and an inclination toward old scotch. A man after her own heart. “Hello Private Hanson.” She whispered with her mind, her voice calm and polite as she tip toed into his consciousness. Even those having been assigned to the Night were not always prepared for the discomfort of another probing into their mind, and she did her best to create as much comfort as possible. At least when her allies were involved. As unpleasant as it could be, this was not a new job for Private Hanson and clearly not the first time someone danced in his head. “Please state your name.” He asked aloud, even the tone in his thoughts cool and collected. “I am Private Xiao Mei, requesting override protocol Alpha. Do you require a more complete demonstration?” John hesitated a moment, she could feel him debating,“Please.” Mei always chose memories carefully, and only ever looked when she was given direct permission. She had found that a single wrong manifestation could trigger something deeply damaging; another could effectively change a mind or plant an idea. In her training she had been told stories of men driven mad by one stray thought; a thought she could place as easily as speaking a word. The idea had both terrified and excited her, but most importantly it had inspired the desire for a surgeons precision. Every neuron she commanded to fire, every neurotransmitter manipulated, every spark of communication would be chosen carefully, thoughtfully, and with the utmost respect for the mind. Unless of course she was in the mind of a monster; those play grounds were far less restrictive. She sifted through John Hanson's life, every detail, every memory, every accessible thought available to look at in an instant. When she felt she had seen all she needed, she chose; locking in her mind the image of a red bike with an ace of spades clipped in the spokes. His father Andrew had given it to him when he turned eight. One of many cherished gifts. She had discovered only fleeting sentiment and playful childhood memories associated with the object, easing her mind to the safety in her choice. Finally she allowed him access to the files to which she was browsing, materializing before his eyes the image of that same red bike. He reached out to touch it and as his fingers reached the surface she reminded his nerves of what he felt. The cold steal of the frame, the rubber grip of the handles, the harshness of the chips in the fading paint. She could feel him smiling and with it the familiar rush of dopamine. “It's a very nice bike, John. Thank you for sharing the memories with me.” Mei spoke allowed this time, her voice returning to it's usual playful tone; her lips parted to reveal straight, pearly-white teeth. He lifted his fingers away and she let the image disappear once again. She withdrew from his thoughts, still enjoying the echoes of his pleasure, and listening for the familiar click of the steel lock. She was not disappointed; the latch released and she was allowed to enter. “Welcome, Private Xiao, to the Night.” the computer answered. Mei stepped into the familiar hallway beyond, it's peculiar homey feel still surprisingly uncomfortable even after her two years stationed here. In truth if anywhere could feel like home it should be here, in these strange hallways with these familiar sounds. A year had been the longest she had ever remained in one place until now, her entire home life having been spent between military bases, both in China and the United States. When she had joined the military at eighteen, she had traveled similarly; her particular skills of assassination and infiltration keeping her on the move until twenty, when her abilities, both supernatural and otherwise, had secured her an offer with the Night. She allowed her pace to quicken toward the bathroom, tossing her pack, weapons, and more treasured personal items into a sealed bin to be handled by a decontamination team. Her Uniform, complete with undergarments and boots, were tied up and thrown away. It would take her long enough to scrub the grime off of her, she was not about to take the time to baby half destroyed fatigues. An hour later Mei emerged from the shower, her strong, feminine form now void of any hint to her previous state; the stench of sulfur replaced with the pleasant aroma of poppies and fresh linen. With hair combed and trimmed, the cut of her A-line returned to it's place at her chin, she nibbled on the softness of her lower lip. Her cheeks still flushed from the heat of the water, Mei stood before the full length mirror, clad in a towel and observing the wounds of her previous battle. Over her dark eyes hung a sweep of black bangs, more wispy and less precise, and hiding well the small cut that crept from her hairline. The result of a well placed headbutt. An effective strike, though it could have been avoided. Her knuckles, one of the few places on her delicate form that showed the scarring of old wounds, were beginning to bruise. She could have prevented the damage if she had waited another moment, allowed the team to enter through the back before leading the charge through the front. She found a bruise here, a sore muscle there; every mark a critique of her choices. With her ability being strictly mental, she needed to be as efficient as possible, and most wounds meant inefficiency. Deciding she had learned all she could for the time, she allowed the professionalism of the job to melt away, her narrow shoulders visibly easing with the thought. Rustling her hair until it fell how she liked, she slunk barefoot and half dressed into the hallway, her usual confidence apparent in her gait. At her door sat the small black tub, her items cleaned and returned to her pack. Tucking it under one arm, she slipped quickly through the door into her tiny room, her modesty intact. The bunk was, outside of combat, the aspect of Mei's life that most strongly suggested her inclination toward creativity. The décor was eclectic and minimalist, a combination of ten different styles surprisingly complimentary to one another. The bookshelf was filled with everything from Sun Tsu to Charlotte Bronte; piles of books held in place by miniature terracotta warriors and battling plastic dinosaurs. A collection of pewter soldiers, casts of the tiny green originals, peaked from behind bindings and lamps; locked in an epic scene of war that changed fronts with Mei's moods. Her bed had been removed in favor of a hammock, the floor beneath littered with overstuffed pillows of varying sizes, nestled together on a patterned rug. The walls were covered with sketches and maps, some old, some new, all meaningful in some way. Several held with them memories that were not her own. Swinging wide the closet doors, Mei sifted through uniforms until she found the small stash of casual clothing reserved for just such occasions. A pair of dark denim jeans were pulled over long legs and fastened around curved hips. A sweatshirt, black, fitted and rather science fiction in appearance covered her chest and sat high on her neck. A few small knives and her pistol were tucked into pocket, holster and knee-high boot. The Night was safe, they took huge precautions to assure that, but she always carried. With black eyes lined in coal and dark lips lightened with peach-flavored gloss the color of flesh, she emerged from her room, a new bottle of aged scotch wrapped in thin fingers. It wasn't often the group was all together, and it was something Mei was hoping to celebrate. |
| Jaclyn Dumas was having a wonderful day. Any day spent with family was wonderful. And now she was going back to base where she’d get to see her friends and help make the world a better place! What wasn’t to like about a day like that? After good-bye hugs and kisses for and from her mother and sister, Jaclyn skipped off to work. She loved skipping, and combined with her innate ability, it could actually be turned into a viable means of transportation. Every time her foot touched the ground, she disappeared then instantaneously reappeared all the way down the road. Skip, port, skip, port, skip, port, skip, port. Tah-dah! Looking up at the base of operations where she was stationed, Jaclyn was reminded again of how gloomy the place looked from the outside. But, appearances certainly weren’t everything and while it may have seemed an imposing structure, it was full of her friends and people who wanted nothing more than to keep their loved ones safe, and that was more than enough to make her smile. “Come on, everybody, smile smile smile,” port, “fill my heart up with sunshine, sunshine,” port, “all I really needs a smile smile smile,” port, “from these happy friends of mine!” “Your identification, Private Dumas.” “Hello, Sergeant Davis! How’s the wife?” She produced her ID. “Well, thank you. Please continue to the identification platform.” Jaclyn complied. “And your daughter? Her school play was last Friday, right?” She swiped her card, then eyeballed what appeared to be a bit of fibrous tissue from a small intestine if she didn’t miss her guess. “Oh, wow, who came through here last?” “Jaclyn Dumas, please place your hand on the scanner.” She complied. “Private Xiao.” Jaclyn smiled. “Of course it was.” Mei was one of Jaclyn’s favorite people. Well, to be fair, the whole team was made up of her favorite people. She smiled at the thought of her friends. “Jaclyn Dumas, place your eye before the retinal scan.” She complied, bending forward slightly at the waist rather than stepping closer, hands clasped behind the small of her back. The process provided mild discomfort, but one could never be too careful in their line of work. “Jaclyn Dumas, please demonstrate your most powerful gift.” “Can do!” And within a second, she teleported ten times before reappearing precisely where she had been before. A normal human eye wouldn’t have been able to even track precisely what was going on, but the computer could and it released the door locks. “Welcome, Private Dumas, to the Night.” “Thanks, computer!” And she skipped down the hall, normally this time. There was something to be said for old-fashioned means of moving oneself from point A to point B. For her, it gave her the opportunity to say hello to the base personnel she bounced past. Two guards by the door she entered from. “Hi, Tammy! Hi, Steven!” One technician passing her on the left. “Hi, Rachael! How are the kids?” “Well, thank you, Jack! How was your mom and sister?” “Splendid, thanks!” Camera room. She popped her head in. “Hi, Amy! Hi, Rick! Hi, Chuck!” “Hi, Jack!” was the simultaneous reply. She smiled in response and continued on her way. Smile smile smile, Fill my heart up with sunshine sunshine, All I really needs a smile smile smile, From these happy friends of mine! Jaclyn popped into her room briefly to deposit her rucksack on her bunk, then took a quick once-over of herself in the mirror, not so much for vanity sake, but because teleporting could leave one a mite mussed. Blonde hair in long ponytail, check. Standard-issue Night t-shirt, black with emblem, check. Standard-issue night-ops camouflage pants, check. Combat boots, shined, check. Make-up? None, but still fabulous, check. Momma’s own baby-blues sparkling? Check. Ok, maybe a hint of vanity, but what’s a girl to do? She didn’t want to just show up to work after a week off and look like the bad side of a wendigo. Confident she was squared away, Jaclyn popped back out of her quarters and made her way to the mess hall. That was always where everyone hung out when they haven’t been together for a while. Her heart sank a bit as she remembered she had planned to make cupcakes for the return, but then again it was likely they would have been confiscated and her squad wouldn’t have gotten them anyway. Oh, well! She was happy to see the team in any case! And she burst through the doors to the mess with great enthusiasm. |
Long, smooth fingers stroked through fluffy matted fur as a young man waited. Perched cross-legged in a pile of stale hay and dirty scraps of wood, Brett Parker sat alone in the remains of an old, dilapidated barn. Well, not entirely alone. Streams of sunlight cut through holes in the fading red rafters, warming the orange tabby sprawled across his lap. The heat was a welcome visitor as the structure's weak frame hid them from the brisk air outside. Aside from an equally neglected silo, the barn was the sole structure on acres of unused, federal farmland. This was Brett's first visit to this location, and it had been more difficult to find than anticipated. But as usual, he was early. Fortunately, he had a companion during his wait. The kitten continued to purr despite interruptions in the man's ministrations due to deep knots. On this particularly nasty tangle, Brawl hissed and leapt forward. Her claws sliced a trio of red stripes down the soft, peach expanse of Brett's forearm. Standing up, he grabbed his pack and watched as the cat slinked closer to the disturbance. Something behind a rusted, green tractor caught the feline's attention. Brushing orange hairs off the black and grey of his camo uniform, Brett followed behind the kitten. Brawl quirked her small head as she studied the light emanating from the barn door. Hanging off its hinges, it was an unusual choice for a portal. But the soldier decided he quite liked it. And finally, it was opening to welcome him home. Kneeling down, Brett crooked a finger behind an orange ear for a quick scratch. Pulling away, he stood to approach the portal back to the Night headquarters. Brawl weaved in and around dulled, black combat boots as the solider stepped forward. Reaching for the door, the man's skin stitched itself back together. As he entered the portal, a small trace of blood was the only trace of the cuts that remained. ***** "Parker, Hayden B. Alpha Squadron, personnel number Z42-36. Reporting for furlough." A questioning hazel gaze flicked up to his face before returning to stare at the badge in the officer's hands. Brett expected her reaction. When most people met him for the first time, they startled a bit. His photo ID showed his mussed, wavy red-blonde locks. And even the sprinkling of freckles across his tanned, peach complexion was visible. But beneath his thick, narrow brows, the small grainy picture did not fully display his rather human condition. "Proceed to identification platform, Parker." The officer stated, resuming her professional air and returning Brett's badge. He nodded in thanks and dropped his salute before heading to the large door ahead. Standing just under 6 feet tall with a lanky build, he took long strides with an easy, steady gait. Readjusting the pack on his shoulder, he slid his badge through the scanner. "Hayden Parker, please place your hand on the scanner," the computer requested. He knew it was protocol to use his legal name, but it still bothered Brett to hear it. Flexing his slim fingers, he placed his hand upon the cold, sleek surface. He closed his eyes as the laser began to move down toward his wrist. When it came to healing or harming others, Brett had to think and exert effort to shift their cells. But as he practiced his skills over the years, his body learned to immediately heal its own minor injuries. More severe wounds often required greater concentration. Brett reckoned it was a survival mechanism, and he had to keep his body from healing too quickly for the laser to confirm his identity. If he wasn't careful, he would fail the scan test. To his relief, the light flashed green, and the computer's voice continued. "Hayden Parker, place your eye before the retinal scan." Stepping closer, Brett focused on the bright laser ahead. It was important for verification that he have both eyes tested. His left eye--the brown one--always passed without wavering. For reasons unknown, his blue eye always seemed to water at the intrusion. Finally, the light flashed green. Brett blinked a few times as he waited for the last command. "Hayden Parker, please demonstrate your most powerful Gift." This part was always the most difficult. Brett had developed his Gifts later in his adolescence and still had room for growth. He had only joined the Night a few years ago, but he was grateful for the training and the purpose inherent in the group's mission. The issue was not performance. Brett believed in the Night, and he was proud to do what he could to help and protect in the line of duty. But when it came to a simple show of powers, he wished healing was the best option. Unfortunately, he was at his most powerful when hurting others. This also meant he needed someone to inflict his ability upon. Clearing his throat, Brett spoke up. "This is Private Hayden Parker requesting override protocol Alpha. I need further accommodations to provide a complete demonstration." He knew someone could hear him. HQ assigned a solider for human overrides in case of issues with the scans and also for the variety of Gifts Night members displayed. A screen to the right of the platform and door flickered to life. "This is Private Willett. Please proceed with the demonstration, Private Parker." Brett saw the older man wince. Unlike the earlier officer, he knew about Brett's abilities. Brett wanted to apologize in advance, but he knew it was not professional in this situation. Nodding, he focused on the man on the screen. Willett had stood up to make his body more visible--thoughtful but unnecessary. Brett had already found a weakness in the man's form. Due to his close location, Brett could reach out and sense the molecular makeup of the man's flesh, blood, bones, and organs. He could also sense an interruption in the organic cells--a metal plate implanted in Willet's left leg. Brett could not touch that, but the significant scarring nearby was a sign of bullet and shrapnel damage. Scar tissue remained, likely leaving ugly marks and memories. In the field, to cause the most harm, Brett would tear at the cells around the metal plate. He would turn the surgical implant into a weapon against its host. He was glad that was not necessary here. Taking a deep breath, Brett used his mind to grasp at the man's cells. It was almost as if he was using telekinetic claws to sink into the sensitive skin. Then centimeter by centimeter, he would pull the target apart by the seams. In this case, he didn't want Willett to suffer, so Brett went for the quick, bandage-ripping approach. He sliced the scar open in one swift movement. It would sting, but it wasn't deep and there was little bleeding. Willett was tough and could handle it. Brett just needed affirmation and then he could fix it. "Welcome, Private Parker, to the Night." The heavy door opened, and Brett sighed in relief. He then looked back to heal Willett, but the screen had already flicked off, breaking his visual connection to the target. Closing his eyes, Brett tried to hold onto the telekinetic, almost physical connection instead. There. He could feel the warm, pulsating cells. This time he took a gentle hand and molded them back together. Brett stepped into the hallway, ready to return to the barracks. As he walked down the corridor, he placed his right hand against the wall to steady himself. He had a slight headache from having to heal with the sudden loss of visuals. It was an event he should have been more prepared for. In the field, it could happen anytime. He then rounded a corner and arrived at his room. Brett traveled so often for duty and did not have a place he called home outside, so he was glad to be back. And he was ready to see some familiar faces. Opening the door, he slipped into his assigned room. Due to the heavy nature of his Gifts, Brett strived to surround himself with positive influences. For this reason, he resided in one of the barracks’ larger rooms that accommodated more than one Night member. The walls were painted a soft, sage green. A full size bed was tucked in one corner made up with navy sheets and a bright patchwork quilt. On the cherry oak nightstand sat a lamp and a rosary with beads carved from wood. Above the bed, its inhabitant had hung some matching cherry shelves lined with family photos and books. Stepping closer, Brett surveyed the gleaming smiles against smooth, dark skin. “That is my sister Kendra and her two children, my beautiful nieces Adela and Angela,” a warm, melodic voice spoke. A large hand settled on Brett’s shoulder, nudging him to turn. Brett shifted, facing his roommate. Shorter and broader with velvety black skin, deep blue eyes and dreadlocks, Asa Delano was a kind, patient soul. He was also a pyrokinetic with great focus and skill. “I just got to see them for the first time. I’m a proud uncle.” “That’s great Asa,” Brett responded with a smile, grasping the older man’s hand in a firm, brief handshake. “I know the letters and photos weren’t enough. I’m glad you finally got to visit your family. It’s rare for a mission to fall so close to home.” Talking to someone about their family was relieving. Brett valued any time spent talking with others and not on tearing them apart. “Hey Ase of Base, they want us down for inocs soon,” a louder, rougher voice announced as it entered the room. “Whoa, Brett, you’re back!” All 6 feet 3 inches of Keagan Cross’ slim but muscular build came bounding across the room. Brett readied himself for the collision as strong, tatted arms wrapped around him and lifted him off the floor. Just a couple years older, Keagan befriended Brett when he first joined the Night. They both benefited from sharing a room, and despite his blunt demeanor, Keagan’s humor and affection were always welcome to Brett. “Thank you, Cross,” Asa offered. “I’ll head down there now.” Asa and Keagan got along just fine, but sometimes the taller man got a bit too rowdy for the pyro’s tastes. Keeping an arm slung around his shorter friend’s shoulders, Keagan led them over to their half of the room. His green eyes brightened as he recalled the events of his last mission. In layman’s terms, Keagan had the gift of invisibility. In reality, he had the ability to shift light and create a force field of sorts around himself. When manipulating the light field, he even had heightened speed and strength. He was a skilled asset for the Night. Strong, smart and focused, he could be trusted in any situation. On their side of the bunker sat two full size beds. There was enough space between them for a shared nightstand and for walking comfortably. At the end of each bed was a distressed chest trunk with brown leather bindings and curved edges. On the outside of their beds, next to their respective walls, they each had their own bookcase. Keagan filled his with trinkets from his travels, books on cars and motorcycles, and binders of notes from his training. Brett lined his shelves with anatomy books and illustrations. He had a few gifts from Keagan, as well as some old hardcovers, bottles of Aspirin, and a framed photograph of his late grandmother. Brett sank into the downy embrace of his thick grey duvet. Instead of seeking refuge on his own black and red striped comforter, Keagan elbowed Brett over and laid next to him. He ran his fingers through the ruffled strip of black down the center of his head--the sides were shaved shorter--before turning to face the healer. Brett had his eyes closed, but he could feel his friend’s gaze. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting your inoculations?” He asked, peeking out through his brown eye. Keagan’s toothy grin grew, which Brett recognized for the warning sign that it was. “You should join me,” the soldier insisted. “I know you don’t usually need the shots, but hey, a check up never hurts.” Brett rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement. He began to sit up but a thick arm shot out and grabbed him by the neck. Chapped lips and scratchy stubble pressed against his skin as Keagan plastered a sloppy kiss under his jawline. Brett batted at the older man to fend off his ridiculousness--he was always a joker, at least Brett hoped he was just playing around. It was likely. The man was the biggest flirt and had successfully charmed the pants off of several men and women in the barracks. Brett didn’t envy the man, though. He doubted he could handle all that attention. “I get it, you love me, you missed me,” Brett laughed, elbowing the man. “Now get off!” Chuckling, Keagan pulled away and stood up from the bed. He fixed the covers as Brett opened and held the door for his friend. “Damn right I missed you,” Keagan replied with wink, approaching the door. Then with an affectionate slap on the cheek, he stepped into the hall to head to inocs. Glancing at the clock above the door, Brett caught the time. His friend was going to be late, as usual. |
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