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  • Slate Morrison

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    Brow furled at Chuck's back-peddling. He released his receiver but lethal hearing caught the question to Smitty. There was a stutter in her deep breath, the half hour of "rest" was not nearly enough, the headliner had been threadbare for days now, she needed a couple days of oblivion to recover, time she didn’t have. She needed her "site"…. they needed her site.

     

    Pain that was finally beginning to mask behind pills and liquor exploded back to life as the map flickered like an engine lacking enough gas to start. Teeth clenched as the breath seethed through them, the effort repeated twice more before the "key" finally turned the machine over, brilliant white lines flushing out in all directions before being pushed beyond the walls that confined them.

     

    Winds. Thick tight winds were circling the ship with a menacing organization. She didn’t see the shape the man above deck did, her gift didn’t show "ghosts" it showed things of substance, echoes on surfaces that gave her pictures. It was not until the split second before it plowed over the deck that she saw a coherent form. Furled brow tightened as the eyes remained squeezed shut, an itch of a realization playing at the surface of her consciousness.

     

    She "saw" them when they became tangible. If they were tangible…. they could be harmed.

     

    [atticus]What the hell was that?[/atticus][derrick]….a really big fish.[/derrick]

     

    She didn’t know the difference between a guppy and a whale but she knew the motion it made was some form of swimming. Chuck's "command" to stay below deck tightened lips into a thin line. Forehead rested with a soft thunk against the radio, a faint growl in her chest far from human, vocal chords that could mimic nearly any sound vibrating as the soft "shit" escaped her lips. The men's exchange about wards was not heard as she pondered her next move.

     

    She was exhausted….and angry. Inferno burn not well fueled with a reason. Because she had been asked to be a piece of equipment yet again? Because she had reached a limit when she fought always like she had none? Because "phantoms" seemed to have taken real interest in a wound she was always trying to forget she had? Because "he" seemed intent on popping back into her life and tumbling her feelings into confusion? Because "he" made her feel lonely when before she never noticed? Because she cared what "he" thought when no one else's opinion really mattered?

     

    Whatever the reason, the anger was as thick as her exhaustion and it was a dangerous combination that tapped into something ominous she still had no control of. A vile gift the Nevus itself had granted her when it tried to kill her below New York. There were only three that had ever witnessed it and lived, and the two men in the room were not on that short list.

     

    Mugs on the table seemed to vibrate on the rustic coffee table, dancing along the surface as they moved in random directions, her boots, still upright where she left them, slid several inches before toppling over as a picture on the wall bounced against the metal wall before swinging wildly. It was as if anything not bolted down in the small cabin was suddenly possessed.

     

    Hand snatched the handle of the door and flung it open, bare feet slapping softly onto the metal hallway before the door was slammed closed behind her, hand laying on the wheel to lock the door shut and the men inside. Lips pursed before the hand slid away, wheel barely turned, enough to catch the door but not drive the big bolt into the wall, she wanted to protect and at the same time.... she knew she might need them. Stalking down the hallway, Chuck's voice played in her head again, it had betrayed panic. Chuck was very level-headed, panic in his tone meant the danger was real, and while most in Bakkhos thought her a cold fish, she protected her people, even when they didn’t know it... or deserve it.

     

    Breath seethed as she held onto the map. If she was going to fight back, she needed to hang on to the glimpses of tangible creatures that came and vanished as quick as they moved to attack the crew. Fire hose exploded off its reel, twisting violently before plunging to the ground as she passed it by, bare feet pushing up the open grate stair treads towards the deck.

     

    As a crew-member came half falling down the stairs in an effort to escape above, her hands mauled him searching for a weapon, realizing her glock had come off with the holster when she had removed his leather jacket. A bowie knife was rammed into the back of her jeans as the colt was ripped out of its holster before she shoved him down the rest of the stairs, his keys falling out of his pocket, giving him a heart attack when they nearly hit his head rocketing across the hallway with a life of their own, embedding in the rusted steel wall.

     

    Legs were gaining solidity as adrenalin began to hide exhaustion from the vessel owner. A dropped wrench clattered on the metal decking before rocketing through the moving air, shattering through a portal window to fall lifeless once more inside the ship. Men were frantic and attacking at the wrong moments, she watched them blindly swinging at air, trying to kill too soon and only trying to protect their flesh at the moment they should attack, that last moment when she finally saw a corporeal form as fangs sought flesh. It was only in that last moment that she actually saw the shapes that the men saw in the winds and fought without success.

     

    [derrick]WAIT!! UNTIL THE MOMENT THEY ARE TRYING TO SINK TEETH IN YOU![/derrick]

     

    There were screams in response, "crazy" hurled at her by several. Running into the open deck, she saw it at the last second, the mouth sliding over her side, teeth catching and tearing her tee over the old wound before starting to sink into flesh, gun was instantly at the side of its head and firing. The sound was deafening, a blood-curdling scream that could turn men into cowering vegetables on the floor as the form evaporated back into the winds.

     

    [derrick]YOU WANNA LIVE…DO WHAT THE FUCK I SAY![/derrick]

     

    As if to emphasize the threat, a crowbar nearly decapitated one of the crew as items not bolted down seemed to be as possessed as the winds mauling their ship.

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    As the bigger man hastened to follow Mason, Slate caught his arm and held firm, [slate]We don’t owe them.[/slate] Rigid words as solid as his grip.

    Bewildered blue eyes glared back. [atticus]They’re people. What the hell is wrong with you?[/atticus] He questioned, brushing past and throwing open the door.

    Atticus didn’t hesitate. Deftly stepping into the narrow corridor the tall man cast his luminous stare over a thick shoulder, then ahead. He barely had time to react! The silent torpedo flew toward him, black toothy mouth agape. It looked like a shark, dark and misty, a shade of smoke shrouded in a predatory semblance, but what ever it’s form it was still only an elemental of the winds. Instinctively, he threw up a powerful gust of wind to counter it’s attack but as it was upon him those inky black holes for eyes turned over red. It’s ghostly teeth glistened solid!

    There was the grisly sound of snapping bones. Blood spattered the walls, black blood that quickly dissipated into smoky wisps. As the shark shaped shade bore down upon Atticus, Slate’s foot struck the side of it’s head with a shattering impact crushing it’s briefly corporeal skull against the metal wall. The thing slumped to the ground, it’s form washed away by Atticus’ conjured gust of wind.

    [atticus]Shit![/atticus] Atticus gasped. He had been completely caught off guard by the nature of the elemental. It had taken physical form! If only for a few seconds but then that’s all it needed.

    Wide eyes drifted over to his saviour. [atticus]Since when did we start keeping score?[/atticus] He accused.

    Slate shrugged off the condemning remark. [slate]It there a better way to kill these things other than to wait for them to bite me on the ass?[/slate] he inquired.

    Atticus hated it when the man avoided confrontation but there was no time for debate. They needed a better way to fight these things. It stood reason that they might get stronger and aside from that the crew members weren’t as resilient nor as strong as the two of them.

    [atticus]The ward at the stern.[/atticus]

    [slate]We ain’t all gonna fit in that.[/slate] Slate argued as they began to cautiously move down the corridor.

    [atticus]No. It wouldn’t keep them at bay for very long anyway. Do you remember the dweomer-charm?[/atticus]

    Slate nodded. [slate]Yeah, so.[/slate]

    [atticus]We can use it to transfer the residual magic of the ward to some weapons; allow us to hit these things.[/atticus] Atticus explained while metal steps reverberated beneath their foot falls.

    Slate grabbed the handle of the outer door and twisted the handle. [slate]That all sounds good, but…[/slate], he replied with a doubtful nod as he thrust the door open, [slate]… we might have a slight problem getting there.[/slate]

    The outer deck that fringed the containers was teeming with shades of various forms. They writhed and slithered about, appearing and disappearing at random. Directly in front them two men were desperately slashing machetes through an intangible squid-like horror. The blades sliced through the smoky black body striking nothing but air, then it’s two longer tentacles lashed out, momentarily solidifying and throwing them against side of a container.

    Without hesitation, Atticus leapt into the air, his physical form fading into a ghostly representation of itself that only those like Slate, able to glimpse into other realms could truly see. The Nord grew in size, flesh like moon-light rippled with muscle, lengthened white hair flowing, great silvery wings stretching wide as the the Zephyr launched itself into the fray.

    With a powerful swing Atticus buried his fist deep into the creature’s abdomen, tearing through it’s black innards, entrails spilling to the deck. The men’s mortal sight, however, saw only the distorted outline of a pale figure moving between them and the shade. As it contacted the large black squid a vehement gust of wind ripped through it, completely destroying the thing.

    Several more of the shades quickly descended upon Atticus, quickly overwhelming the weakened Zephyr. The elementals were strong, their rage infused by the very magic he had employed to repel the storm. Magic always had it’s price!

    Out matched by five under-the-sea simulacra and only able to maintain his ‘elemental form’ for short while Atticus materialized in the flesh as he was hurled across the deck.

    The two seamen stood helpless, gripping their useless blades as the big man materialized out of no where, flying uncontrollably through the air toward them. He crashed down hard on the deck, sliding to a stop at their feet where he lay groaning.

    Behind them, Slate awaited for the right moment to strike, but he could only take down two at the most, if he was lucky. Then a small glass box with an emergency symbol on it caught his attention.

    The three of the shades lunged at Atticus, shark teeth bearing down upon his defending arm but just as the jaw clamped down it erupted into bright red. A flare blasted directly through it. Jagged black teeth melting into the wind. The intense heat of the fireball dispelling them all, but it was only temporary. A few moments later they reformed but by then their quarry had escaped.

    Slate pulled out a flare canister he had stashed in his belt and reloaded the gun. [slate]So what’er we up against here Doc?[/slate] he inquired while spying round the corner of the narrow passage between the bulkhead and cargo. It had been as good a place as any to retreat to but realistically, these things could fit into any space they wanted to. Their only chance was to keep moving but Atticus wasn’t looking so spry. The big man lay on the ground, chest heaving. Slate remembered him once likening his ‘windy form’ to holding your breath while performing strenuous activity underwater. Even for one as fit as he was the transformation took a heavy toll.

    [atticus]There not like everyday creatures.[/atticus] He explained between deep gulping breaths. [atticus]They’re elements trying to be ‘alive’ as we know it.[/atticus]

    [slate]So they’re stupid.[/slate]

    Atticus wavered his head back forth, debating the use of the label, but… [atticus]Yeah, I guess. Way to sum it up.[/atticus]

    Part of a wry grin pulled at the side of Slate’s mouth. Not too far away he could see Mason. She and some crewmen were tangling with the shades but these were using a different tactic. Angelic eyes could just make out the creatures. They were remaining invisible and throwing projectiles with controlled gusts of wind.

    ’Stupid. But adaptable.’

    Fiery violet eyes shifted to their two tag-alongs. The hardened seaman cowered in the shadows, nervously gripping their machetes. They were both completely out of their depth.

    [slate]Gimme those.[/slate] Slate demanded as he alleviated them of their weapons. Weren’t gonna do them any good anyhow, [slate]We’re gonna make a break for it, and when we do, you two hightail it back the way we came.[/slate]

    [atticus]You can use fire to keep them at bay.[/atticus] Atticus offered, [atticus]There’s also…[/atticus] he racked his brain to remember some of the old myths as he wearily stood. [atticus]… moving water. Flowing fresh water might act like a wall to them. Maybe the drinking water pipes.[/atticus] That was if these elemental shades adhered to the typical lore concerning spirits to which Atticus most likened them.

    [slate]It’s a long run to the ass of this ship.[/slate] Slate pointed out to the exhausted Nord.

    [atticus]You want me to carry you?[/atticus]

    [slate]Asshole.[/slate]

    Slate tossed a machete to Atticus. He tossed it back, [atticus]It’ll just slow me down.[/atticus]

    [slate]Suit yourself.[/slate] He gripped the two machete in one hand and readied the flare gun in the other.

    [slate]Soon as we move you two haul ass.[/slate] He told the two seamen who answered with twitchy nods and anxious eyes.

    [atticus]What about Mason?[/atticus] Atticus asked.

    [slate]What about her?[/slate]

    Atticus frowned and discontentedly shook his head.

    [slate]She’ll do what she wants.[/slate] Slate clarified, [slate]Not for me to say whether it’s in her best interests or not.[/slate]

    [atticus]Fair enough.[/atticus]

    [slate]Ready?[/slate]

    Slate took the lead. The passage was too narrow for two to run abreast. Behind him, Atticus crouched low and took a deep breath.

    [slate]GO![/slate]

    They bolted out of the chute like two greyhounds in pursuit of a hare, exhausted muscles straining for every bit of power they had left. Slate was fast but Atticus literally moved like the wind, quickly pulling ahead.

    ’Shit! What the hell are you doing Gale?’ But the answer was obvious.

    Atticus was utilizing his power over the wind and ability to make himself ‘lighter’ to move with incredible speed. It also turned him into a bright beacon to the eyes of the shades. He was drawing them to him, a bright shiny lure for the barracuda.

    A blast of cool air tossed Mason’s hair as Atticus bolted past on his way to the stern of the ship and trailing behind was Slate, holding his own against the speedster. Assessing her situation he slowed his pace in case she needed help. Not all of the shades were enticed by the Zephyr, especially those that currently had the blood and flesh they so desired to become within their grasp. That, and there was another flame luring the moths close by.

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    [slate]We don’t owe them.[/slate]

     

    The words hit sensitive ears without mercy. Jaw clenched as she forced tired muscles to carry her further away and up the stairs. Brushed aside. She and all they had gone through together was clearly brushed aside by the cop. They had saved each other several times over and clearly to him that all meant absolutely…….

     

    …..nothing.

     

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    [derrick]Buy one lousy drink in a god forsaken pub and think you can just take me home Jersey?[/derrick][slate] Women usually take me home for a lot less.[/slate]

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    [slate]You got someone waiting for ya Mason? A guy…. a girl?[/slate][derrick] I live alone Jersey. No one waits up for me.[/derrick]

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    [slate]Drop 'em[/slate][derrick]…and you havent even bought me breakfast.[/derrick]

     

    Scent of a spiced omelet tantalizing the growling stomach as sweats not made to accommodate her long legs were dropped for his wound administration.

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    [slate]Straight ahead. You see it?[/slate][derrick]That's a bad joke even for you Jersey.… why is it every time we get together we end up wet and in danger? … what is so wrong with just dinner and a movie?[/derrick][slate]I can arrange that.[/slate]

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    Vivid memories were unwelcome daggers. His easy chuckle, talking about being a boyscout … asking her about her past. No one else had ever bothered. A warmth that had wormed its way into the heart that had never cared about anything but playing.

     

    False warmth.

     

    The first kill didn’t make her feel better, it only fueled the dripping anger that sought to erase what had been lingering as counterfeit memories for over a year. She actually welcomed that the phantoms seemed to lose interest in the crew when she approached and sought her as target instead. Fighting she understood; affairs of the heart….they had eluded her all her life. There was a reason that to this day, no one waited up for her.

     

    Map was contorted in her fatigue, warped as though viewed through an old piece of depression era glass. Entire form flinched as the flare caused a brilliant detonation of lines to form on the shapes, its whine and explosion echoing harshly off any surface.

     

    [atticus]What about Mason?[/atticus][slate]What about her?[/slate]

     

    That wrench came again in her gut as she forced herself to tune out the words from everywhere on the deck, the crew, the captain, but most importantly… him. Exhausted anger ripping every loose weapon from any crew that did not hold onto them firmly. Machetes, pipes, guns and knives were rocketing through the air, some piercing elemental phantasms as they tried to find substance, but some sliced and hit the crew itself. There was no control in the angry release of the hidden ability.

     

    [npc]…fuck[/npc]

     

    Chuck ducked trying not to get clubbed by a pipe, eyes searching for Mason. He was one of the small list who had seen this before and lived through it. Fighting through the winds he was barking for men to get down. He had seen this angry release decapitate a man in the altercation in the garage. Fortunately it had not been a Bakkhos man but the hitman they had sent for Gaspari.

     

    Knife pulled from the back of her jeans to plunge into the neck of a head trying to clamp onto her left arm. They could not keep up. The storm was beginning to overwhelm the deck as more than one man had already lost their fight.

     

    Wind lifted the wet tail of mahogany in a way that almost seemed to caress. Pivoting she "watched" the two forms sprint for the end of the vessel, attention settling on the broad shouldered highlighted form that was familiar. Brow smoothed. Anger dissipating into simple ache.

     

    Pivoting she noted that too much attention was drawn by the two men, shadowy animals were turning away from their prey to instead hunt the sprinting bait. But even that enticement was lost when one came too close to her and instead was drawn to her… or more importantly, the Nevus mark she bore.

     

    If it was a storm, a disruption in its flow should dissipate it. At least that was her theory.

     

    As the sharkish grin came for her, hands moved away to give it room. Her name vaguely cut through the winds as Chuck screamed for her not to. Expression cringed as she let the bite come, little needles of teeth finding untouched and scarred flesh. Gasp was held through clenched teeth as she instead had her attention on the map around her.

     

    She had been right. The moment the scar was punctured, creatures seemed to pivot, salivating at something she couldn’t detect. Knife turned in her hand to plunge upward through the jaw, the form bursting moist tendrils over her before dissipating.

     

    Drip from her wound was contaminated. Pierced smooth flesh of her abdomen oozed a deep crimson from the dozens of small punctures while the rest had torn into the spiral raised scar, the visceral ooze of ebony tar coming from the ridges where the spire had skewered her beckoned the storm to change direction. Chum in the waters of sharks. More shadows turned, an ambrosia on the air that even her sensitive nostrils couldn’t detect.

     

    Lure them away. If the storm was split……

     

    Exhausted legs set bare feet in motion. Sprinting for the stern, hand grabbing Chuck as she ran by, half dragging him along.

     

    [npc]..what the hell are you doing?![/npc][derrick]..they are drawn to me.[/derrick][npc]..ya, I noticed! Why are you making it worse!?[/npc]

     

    The captain wasn’t slow. He soon realized just where they were going.

     

    [npc]…Mason… what are you doing?[/npc]

     

    They reached the ladder, his hand snatching her shoulder and spinning her hard around.

     

    [npc]NO![/npc]

     

    She shoved the gun in his hand even as he protested.

     

    [derrick]Get this damn ship to New York in one piece. [/derrick]

     

    Chin lifted to "watch" the boys one last time, fixating on the form she knew, expression must have betrayed a pained emotion because Chuck pivoted to see what she was paying attention to before quietly speaking her name, the unspoken question in his tone.

     

    [derrick]He can be an ass…. but….. try to get him to New York in one piece….he….. means something to me.[/derrick]

     

    She could almost hear his frown as she planted a hand on his chest and shoved, the captain falling away from the ramp as she scrambled up the ladder to the only free fall lifeboat on the ship. Chuck had made the mistake when she first came on board of teaching her how it worked.

     

    [npc]MASON![/npc]

     

    Hand slapped over the oozing wound, smearing the ebony over the doorway of the hatch before stepping inside.

     

    [derrick]You want me…. come and get me….![/derrick]

     

    Snarl under her breath came as she yanked the hatch shut, hearing Chuck trying to scramble up the ladder after her. Wheel was spun until it locked shut, released so she could skid down the sloping aisle to the captain's chair, hand gripping the release and yanking it.

     

    She knew how the escape boat worked, but she had never been in it for a release. Hands clawed at the seat backs trying to keep from falling up as the boat rocketed down the ramp, free fall literally taking her feet off the ground, levitating for the briefest moment before the nose hit the ocean like a brick wall. Body slammed down into the dashboard before falling back on the floor.

     

    Groan was thick as she crawled to the captain chair once more, fingers molesting the dashboard for the big button Chuck had shown her would start the engine. Located finally it was pushed. The engine sputtered to life, the craft launching forward away from the cargo vessel rapidly, water billowing in wakes behind it for almost 500 yards before it died. Button was hit again and nothing happened. Dead.

     

    Sighing she fell back on the floor, lying on the steel as she listened, hoping it was far enough to disrupt the storm that churned over the ship. Her escape was causing the effect she was after. Like a cyclone interrupted by a low pressure running through its center, the living storm stuttered as half its attention followed the Zephyr above and the other half scattered off to follow the leaking Nevus ambrosia.

     

    Stomach was heaving on the edge of nausea as the map evaporated and plunged her once more into absolute darkness. Fingers had become slick as they held over the array of needle wounds. Bobbing sensation elicited a soft groan as she felt the roll of the waves pair with the first smack of creatures catching up to the escape pod.

     

    A floating coffin. How very appropriate for one that was petrified of water. Arm fell over her eyes as everything started to shut down, free fingers wiping the crimson moisture from her upper lip.

     

    They would figure out how to dissipate the rest of the storm. Her cop was clever and Mighty Mouse seemed to be almost a part of the elemental world himself. They would figure out how to save the ship.

     

    And if she told herself it enough, perhaps it would be true.

     

    Safety pod pitched left and then right as metal was struck like a mallet on a gong. Shoulder slammed one of the safety chairs as she was tossed over, the bobbing tub floating on its side for a brief moment before slamming back upright, tossing her to the center aisle once more. Groaning she worked to get up. She needed to strap in while they played bumper cars with her tombstone. Exhausted form half fell into the "captain's" chair, both arms sliding into the straps before fingers fumbled with the latch just under her chest. The click came just as the lifeboat was slammed again, tumbling over as it plunged entirely under water, a seam hissing warned her that a faint spray of water was gushing in.

     

    The boat wasn’t meant to be a submarine. Hands clutched the harness that held her in the chair as the boat popped back up, fighting to right itself for only a moment before the vultures struck again, dunking the entire lifeboat once more. Again the hiss of water spraying in a weak seam warned it could burst and fill at anytime. Bare feet suddenly sitting in a half inch of water to make the point even clearer. Hands gripped and ungripped the harnesses again and again.

     

    Drowning.....this was a damn crappy way to go out.

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    The small dark thunderhead hovering above the ship towered into the sky, a classic anvil, the flat of it’s lower mandible scraping it’s toothy scud across the highest point of the vessel. As he streaked across the deck Atticus peered up into the churning black, grimacing at the cloud. Then as if it felt his despise the slowly spiralling vortex began to break apart, a portion of it’s mass bleeding into the ocean as it followed the shades in their pursuit of a life boat.

    [atticus]What the —? Who the hell is that?[/atticus] Atticus shouted to Slate relying on the man’s keen sense of vision.

    Slate threw a look over his left shoulder, blazing violet eyes magnifying the image several times, just managing to catch a glimpse of the driver.

    [slate]It’s Mason. What the hell is she doing?[/slate]

    It was evident that she was leading the Shades out to sea but Slate couldn’t figure why the creatures would be compelled to follow her. Atticus wasn’t surprised. He had observed how the elementals had been attracted her but why draw them off? It was suicide. Then as some of the Shades began to convulse and writhe uncontrollably her reasoning became clear.

    [atticus]The cloud and Shades. They’re one.[/atticus] Atticus expounded.

    As the elementals broke away from the pack in pursuit of Mason’s boat half of the cloud went with them, weakening the whole. Already separated from the bulk of the storm the lone cloud could only sustain itself by consuming ‘life energy’. It needed to kill to survive and thrive and by separating the Shades the cloud was breaking a part, weakening itself and by consequence the Shades as well.

    A part of Slate wished he could recall the past he shared with the woman. Perhaps then he might have felt something, anything. The cold gaze abandoned the vessel and turned to their fast approaching goal, the magical ward. It was still radiant, the power of it repelling the creatures and within it the two men found haven, but they were not seeking sanctuary.

    [slate]Here we go.[/slate] Slate prompted his companion as he stuck the two machetes into the center of the circle and Atticus followed suit by adding a long pole topped with a vicious hook which he had obtained on the way. The cop then held his hands before the weapons and chanted a series of mystical words. As he continued to repeat the phrase the glyph’s glow began to dim. The creatures pressed closer and closer until the soft light died.

    A smoky shark was first to cross the faded barrier. It bore down upon them, black teeth turning solid but before it could strike the hooked staff ripped into it’s misty body and held fast. The thing writhed and twisted like a real fish on hook as Atticus dug deep and tore the elemental apart.

    It had worked! The enchantment of the wind-ward had been passed to the weapons.

    Slate took up the two machetes and hacked through the wispy arms of an octopus, the enchanted blades able to strike and damage the inter-dimensional entity. They effortlessly cleaved through more of the nebulous forms around them. Their numbers reduced to half by Mason’s valiant sacrifice Atticus and Slate fought to utter exhaustion. With the demise of each elemental the storm cloud began to weaken and dissipate. As it faded, so to did the Shades.

    Atticus hooked the mouth of a massive orca-like shade, hurling the thing toward Slate who cleaved through it’s smoky form with one tremendous hack. It was the last one and with the end of their battle in sight, exhaustion began to quickly grip the two altered-men. Both were tattered and bloody from the many near misses and windy blasts from the elementals.

    [atticus]I think… that’s all of them.[/atticus] Gasped Atticus, leaning heavily on his pole.

    Machetes dangled loosely in Slate’s limp arms while he spun around, surveying the deck, straining his ears. Both men then momentarily tensed before identifying an approaching noise as foot falls. It was the Captain, followed by a few surviving members of the crew. They hastened toward them and past, their attention focused on the matter of the capsized lifeboat. Oblivious to the motion of the ship during the fray, it apparently had swung around so that they could attempt to rescue Mason.

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    Very rapidly the water was halfway up her shins. Wisps of white furling from her lips in the faint red glow of the console. Shivers didn’t repel the cold beginning to encapsulate the orange coffin, nor did it fend off the violent attacks still coming, flipping the lifeboat like a toy in a child's bath.

     

    Hiss of the water escaping into the cavity caught her attention when it became less wet. It was air, the hiss of a leak, like a tire sliced on its wall.

     

    They were coming in.

     

    She suddenly wished she hadn't been so generous in giving Chuck the gun. Knife was pulled back out of the band of her wet jeans as fingers fumbled with the latch on the shoulder harnesses, the click resonating in the hollow tube. Feet planted in the water as the knife was held, blade lying dangerously up her forearm. She had nothing left, abilities silent.

     

    Chin tilted as sensitive ears listened to every slop of water inside the tube, ever clang of spirits slamming its exterior metal, every hiss of spirit oozing into the wet sanctuary. Knees stayed bent as uncanny balance recalled its natural rhythm, adjusting for the bob and roll of the toyboat.

     

    The first pass caught her, teeth grazing a rip across her left forearm as the knife missed its mark, pulling through mists as she spun trying to listen for its location.

     

    [derrick]….come on ya dumb fish…..come on…[/derrick]

     

    Hissed whisper growled in her chest as she turned in slow circles, ears following the murmur of the wind. Next attacks came fast and furious, knife hitting its mark twice though not with a killing blow. Outside the shadows were dissipating as the boys began to dissect the clouds but the vessel bobbed violently with the battle raging inside. The sound came again, this time she knew precisely where the gaping mouth was going.

     

    Three feet…..two…….one……

     

    Knife came up from her hip with all the violence cold and tired muscles could muster, blade sinking up into the lower jaw. Her heaving pants brazenly scorched the air as the mass erupted this time, its ebony tendrils bursting then evaporated.

     

    Hip hit the side of a chair as white furled from her lips with each short gasp, water now lapped against her knees as feet became acutely aware the floor was slanting. The nose of the lifeboat had begun to dip under the waves, the orange capsule showing distinct signs of taking on water. It was sinking.

     

    Turning, tired knee hit the floor hard as she tried to make for "higher" ground. Like a funhouse floor, the surface below her feet pitched left and right and then slanted deeper as the nose sunk further. Chin quivered against the cold as numb hands grabbed the back of chairs to climb towards the rising back of the lifeboat, the knife precarious between her teeth as she tried to get her feet planted. Like a spider up rocks she scaled the backs of the chairs that now faced downward, long limbs closing the distance between her and the hatch at the back of the lifeboat. Even as fingers slammed the metal and began to frantically molest it for the wheel, water was catching up, the slosh of frigid black death creeping up her legs until she was waist deep.

     

    Efforts to turn the lock on the hatch were ineffective, the frame damaged by the spirit battering while the fingers that demanded its obedience held little of their pitbull strength. The metal instead became a lifeline, clutched as she tried to pull her torso out of the rising waters only to admit defeat, the mounting waters would overcome any contortions she made into the small pocket of air. Body violently shivered against the glacial waters as breaths came in sharp little gasps, the lap of cold quickly reaching her chest.

     

    It was so quiet. Quiet and cold. The shiver of her breath seemed to create melody with the gentle lap of rising waters inside the hollow space.

     

    Was this death?

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    [npc]We’ll use the crane to keep’er afloat.[/npc] The captain ordered, deep tones shouting above the roaring winds still pounding the choppy sea. One of the men was already running to the machine. [npc]Johanson, Chang, lower a skiff. Vasquez, get a light down there![/npc]

    The crew was efficient and determined but it didn’t take a veteran seaman to realize that they were racing against time they didn’t have. The life boat was sinking too fast and all Slate could do was watch, powerless — useless. Powerful arms braced against the deck railing quivered weakly. It took of all his remaining strength just to stand, the Angelic strength coursing through his body near completely spent for the moment. Mason’s life was in the hands of her crew now, that and one other man in particular.

    Were the situation not so dire, Chuck would have never relied on inhuman abilities but with the life of his friend hanging in the balance he didn’t hesitate to cast his pride aside. The big Nord had proved himself a hero in his eyes and right now they needed super-hero.

    [npc]Can you save her?[/npc] Chuck’s gaze swung from Slate to pause on Atticus. He wasn’t in much better shape than his friend but just as Slate collapsed on deck it became obvious that he was Mason’s last chance.

    Without hesitation Atticus picked up a length of rope lying on deck and leapt up on top of the railing. The storm was fading in the east but high winds continue to batter the dark waters below. He’d never make it to her in time if he didn’t fly but the weariness of battle and lack of sleep hung heavy.

    [atticus]I'll get to her but then it's up to you.[/atticus] Atticus told the captain before leaping off.

    He fell like a stone, his body pivoting in the air, head toward the water, arms outstretched into the form of a classic dive. The Captain cringed as he watched the man fall. The height was too great for a man to safely cut into the water and if he hit a wave the wrong way it would snap his back in two.

    Slate watched curiously as Atticus plummeted into the sea. Maybe there wasn’t enough gas in the tank to manipulate his density but then at the last second the big man veered off and shot across the water. Low on energy Atticus needed to rely on momentum to get to Mason, using his speed of descent he changed his trajectory at the last possible moment rising into an arch. He skimmed over a high crest, then another. Unable to maintain any altitude Atticus had to rely on a quickly calculated launch to cover the distance, he was almost there! Then sea rose up like a great black hand and slapped him out of the air.

    Illuminated by the spotlight the lifeboat was just before him when a wall of water leapt up. He hit hard. Seconds felt like minutes while he fought to orient himself in the icy waters. Fatigued muscles cramped from the cold then finally he saw the glow of the vessel’s stern bobbing in the sea.

    Throwing the rope over the side, numb hands clamped on to the side railing and pulled the man’s massive frame up and over. Atticus flopped onto the submerged deck and saw Mason lying still, her hands clasped onto the back of the boat.

    ’Where the hell was that skiff?’ Atticus pulled himself up and peered over the side of the boat. There was no sign of Vasquez, not that he could see much through the waves.

    [atticus]Mason?[/atticus] Atticus called out. She was alive but barely conscious. [atticus]That was a brave move…[/atticus] he complimented, trying to keep her coherent as he looped the rope around her waist then under her arms, [atticus]… and I’m hoping you’re not going to have to take the consolation prize, which is a ride on the hook of death.[/atticus]

    Atticus didn’t want to have risk strapping Mason to the crane line. He and Slate had barely survived the rescue the first time. He thought he had heard an engine but he couldn’t be sure.

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    Knife had fallen from chattering teeth, vanishing into the frigid waters inside the sealed capsule. If the creatures came for her now she was defenseless. It was a fate she was resigned to as limbs barely could cling to the hatchdoor that refused to open. The small pocket of air was shrinking as the water continued to rise inside the lifeboat. Soaked to her shoulders she was slowly coming to terms that she was going to die in the most horrifying way possible. Not in battle, not destroying her enemies, but drowning. The water was a world she had spent her life avoiding, never learning to swim. Irony abounded.

     

    Strange that knowing it was over she still clung to the door, to the last pocket of air for faintly blue lips to gasp within. Survival instincts were a powerful thing. Perhaps too there was that sliver of hope that "he" would come for her. He had done so before.

     

    Consciousness was fleeting when the loud clang resonated inside the tube, brow flickering to life inside the coffin. Steps outside drew a gasp of breath in the dwindling pocket of air. The door yanked open tore the lifeline wheel from half frozen fingers, form plunging underwater only to be pulled from their depths. Coughs flung water from her lungs as he lifted her from her almost tomb.

     

    Head shook as she was placed on legs that were not ready to hold her, leaning in for the briefest moment before realizing her rescuer was not whom she had expected.

     

    [atticus]Mason?[/atticus]

     

    Voice confirmed it wasn’t, hand pushing against his chest to escape only to nearly slide off the small patch of metal they were both perched upon, hand snapping back out to latch onto the bulked bicep. Long fingers dug into his flesh as the legs trembled still unwilling to carry her weight.

     

    [atticus]That was a brave move…[/atticus] [derrick]…yeah well… someone needed to get this fiasco winding down.[/derrick]

     

    One hand dared to release his arm to wipe water from her face before adding quietly.

     

    [derrick]… what now Mighty Mouse?[/derrick]

     

    She was vaguely aware of hands around her waist, the rope not yet weighty enough to feel until it scraped over open wounds drawing a winced grunt that was swallowed quickly. Fingers moved it off her bare abs, cold fingers tracing over the old wound confirming what she already knew, the punctures in the scarred flesh had already healed themselves even as the ones in her unscarred abs continued to bleed. That damn wound protected itself….again.

     

    Feet were wet. Why was that registering? Of course they were wet, she had been submerged. No, they were freshly wet. The last of the lifeboat was sinking out from under them.

     

    [derrick]…fuck…[/derrick]

     

    Soft swear escaped her lips as an ear was tilted to the winds listening for the ship. Coming. But was it coming fast enough.

     

    [derrick]…um… Mighty Mouse… I might not have it in me to swim if we go in.[/derrick]

     

    It wasn’t a confession she couldn’t swim, not exactly anyway. It implied more that having sat in the cold waters her muscles wouldn’t do it, which was partially true as well. Knees locked as she tried to let go his arm, they were perched on about a three foot square slab of metal, not exactly far she could go. Head tilted again, the crane was moving and not that far away.

     

    Great. Chuck was going to pull the same maneuver she had pulled on the boys. It happened fast, the metal beneath their feet surged downward as the last air pocket swallowed water and the boat headed for the bottom of the ocean. Her panicked grip on his arm might have given away her fear if she hadn't lost the grip almost as quickly as they were sunk under the water, the tug on her waist as the rope caught dug into her skin just as the giant buoy of the crane nearly concussed them both falling into the water. Flailing arms managed to catch the oversized hook as it plunged between them, left elbow hooked over the steel as the right felt in the waters for the other man. He wasn’t her problem and yet she would feel bad if he went down when she hadn't.

     

    As the hook began to lift she felt the cord of muscle grabbing beside her. A bit of relief sunk into her chest as the right hand came up to lock with the left to ensure she didn’t lose her own grip as they were hoisted from the frigid waters. It took forever to get over the deck, the cable swinging dangerously close to the ship itself, arms were trembling by the time she clearly heard the shouts of the deck coming up along side them.

     

    It was a blur as bare feet hit solid surface again, the buckle of her knees dropping her hard to the deck, a hand reaching for her slapped away as her own half frozen hands planted on the metal and pushed herself up, knees locking with a soft growl. She was a demi-god among the Bakkhos, a creature they couldn’t understand how she existed..functioned within the world; a creature that seemed to keep going when all others could go no more. But it was all smoke and mirrors. She was acutely aware of how mere a mortal she was when beside real gods of men like the two exhausted fish they had plucked from the water. Pride and pit-bull stubbornness were usually all that kept her last one standing.

     

    Chuck was rushing over to say something but before he could her own voice barked at the crew.

     

    [derrick]….we turned around yet? Get this rust bucket back on route to New York.[/derrick]

     

    He knew better than to ask how she was now, pivoting instead and starting to bark orders at the crew still standing around to look at the three weary fighters now soaked on their deck.

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    High winds rushed across the deck whipping pale wet strands of hair across Atticus’ face as he slowly propped himself up on unsteady arms. Once again dropped on the deck like a flounder. This time he felt like a fish out of water, catching his breath, until a sturdy arm reached down and hauled the large man up.

    [slate]Nice work. Not that ya did much.[/slate]

    It was Slate. There were few who could move Atticus so easily, even in his weakened condition. He smiled and nodded at the comment. He was right, Mason probably could’ve saved her own ass when push had inevitably come to shove. Dramatics aside Atticus felt his presence to be negligible at best but now back on deck he was useful again. Catching Slate’s shoulder to steady himself he rubbed the weariness from his brow and set his mind on treating the injured.

    [atticus]I’m a doctor.[/atticus] He informed the captain.

    Chuck momentarily paused for a few seconds. First surprised by the revelation, next to consider the man’s physical and mental states but irregardless of those the medical officer needed the help. He’d never seen a doctor that looked like Atticus but he wasn’t doubting the man’s word, not after he’d risked his life alongside the crew.

    [npc]Canossi,[/npc] he called out to a short swarthy skinned sailor, [npc]Get’em down to sickbay and introduce ‘em to Macoy.[/npc]

    Slate frowned as Atticus volunteered. He didn’t think the Doc was much up for the triage but from what he’d seen, medical personnel were well trained in sleep deprivation. Of course there was the whole battling ‘evil elemental shades thing’ on top of it all to consider as well.

    [slate]I’ll give ya hand.[/slate] Slate offered with a shrug. After all, he had some medical training and wasn’t ready to ‘deal with’ sleep just yet. [slate]Macoy? Really?[/slate] He poked fun at the Star Trek reference figuring it had to be a nickname but Chuck wasn’t laughing.

    The dark hours of morning slowly but surely brightened with a new dawn. Turned out the medic’s name was actually Macoy and he had a good sense of humour about it too. The man possessed a plethora of ’Bones’ quotes from the original series and the newest movies. Every few minutes there was a ’Dammit Jim’ or a ‘You green-blooded… something’. They’d actually forgotten just how tired they were for all the laughter the guy induced but sleep eventually snuck up on them all and sleep they did. Even Slate was able to pass into a blissful abyss of slumber and bypass the ‘grey world’ that forever haunted his dreams. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly and figured it wasn’t just the fact that he was dead tired. The strange elemental storm had to have something to do with it.

    Slate’s eyelids fluttered open as warm sun upon his face and the scent of coffee stirred his senses awake. He had fallen asleep in an old recliner tucked in the corner of the medical bay, morning light beaming through an east facing port hole. Not too far away, Atticus was curled up in a cot alongside the other patients he had helped treat, still sound asleep.

    On the other side of the room, back to him, Macoy’s thick coppery curls sluggishly bobbled about as he filled a couple of mugs, offering one to Slate, yawing a [npc]Here ya go.[/npc]

    Even as the detective thankfully accepted the steaming cup of coffee he got the sensation that the ship was no longer moving. [slate]Where are we?[/slate] he asked, standing up and gazing eastward to the sparkling sea.

    [npc]Docked. We made it in a few hours ago.[/npc] Macoy answered.

    They were finally home.

    [slate]Hey Doc.[/slate] Slate called out before he took slurp of coffee.

    Atticus’ eyes shot open, going from fast asleep to wide awake in a matter of seconds. A profoundly light sleeper he was often completely coherent the moment he woke up but this morning, understandably, he was slightly slower to rise. [atticus]How long have I been out?[/atticus] he grunted, expecting to patch up yet another body.

    [slate]Long enough. We’re at port.[/slate]

    The two men stepped out onto the sunlit deck and gazed upon the vast cityscape of New York with renewed appreciation. There had been times that both of them believed they’d never see it again but at long last, despite all odds, they’d made it.

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    Ears itched at the voice that she knew and yet it seemed….she didn’t. She wanted to correct his jibe at Mighty Mouse. The big man deserved her thanks, death had begun to embrace her in the sinking capsule, he had robbed it of a prize.

     

    But somehow she couldn’t find words. Help was not something she readily accepted. The last time she had been rescued for anything had been by the man now helping the Mouse up. Perhaps thanks were too soon anyway as death continued to embrace her from behind, its hand laying heavily on the chest where her heart struggled to keep a normal rhythm, the cold having seeped into her organs threatening to shut them down one by one.

     

    A doctor. Of course the colossal giant was, because that made perfect sense. Faint quirk hit her lips as she could feel Chuck looking at her for guidance, the dip of her chin giving him permission to let the guy work on the crew.

     

    That voice again. It was difficult to breathe but she told herself it was the cold and not the fact that through it all, the man she had looked for for seven months after he vanished seemed intent on ignoring her existence.

     

    As Chuck showed the two men the way she waited until the cop had passed, hand catching the large bicep of the Mighty Mouse doctor as he moved to go by. A heartbeat passing before the fingers gave a gentle squeeze then released as she kept walking past him. He probably wouldn’t understand, but the enormity of the "thank you" gesture was not missed on the captain whose brow quirked up at the big man before continuing to show them the way down below.

     

    She never went down to the medical bay. Fighting vasoconstriction and hypothermic collapse of her organs she only knew she had to get warm and she didn’t want to be near "him", the rest she would deal with….later. Legs had given out under her when she finally got to the sanctuary of her cabin. Managing to plug in the burner plate and set the bottle of rum on it before trembling fingers stripped out of wet clothes. Consciousness was a teetering thing but she managed to pull the blankets off the bed and wrap icy skin in them before nearly burning herself on the bottle of rum. The last third of the bottle was drunk, heated liquor helping to warm organs from the inside as she curled up on the worn out couch and found oblivion quickly. But it was fleeting.

     

    Far earlier than those below, she was awake. Wincing as untreated wounds that had continued to bleed now were torn open as the blanket that clung to the coagulating mess was pulled away. A cloth in the small sink was used to wipe away the blood she could feel before pulling open the cabinet in search of bandages and dry clothes. The bite to her abdomen was still the worst. The punctures over the catastrophic scar had healed but the ones that desecrated unmarred skin were deep and unhealed. Large gauze pad was placed over it before the ace bandage was wrapped several times around her waist to hold the compression in place.

     

    Fingers rummaged until the thick fabric of jeans were felt. A pair of worn ones shimmied into as she sat on the arm of the chair, legs still trembling with the effort it took to stand. She normally bypassed socks but as her toes hurt with the mild frostbite they had, she found herself pulling two pair on before pushing them down into her boots. Black t-shirt was pulled over mostly dry hair before she took a brush and worked through the rats nest that hung to her hips. The mob still fought old ideals of a woman's place in their world. She wasn’t about to leave a shred of doubt that she might be weak when she took the deck once more. The tail of silk was pulled back with an elastic to drape down her spine as the dark circle shades were searched for, long fingers finally locating them under the sink having been tossed about in the tumultuous storm. As she slid them over sightless eyes, the only evidence that something was "off" was one she was not aware of. Beneath the short black sleeve on the left side, on the side of the old wound, the surface veins over the lean muscular arm were stained black beneath the skin's surface, like every vein from the shoulder to the back of her knuckles had been tattooed over and the dark ink had faded a bit.

     

    Fingers found the leather jacket but the damp still saturated the coat, thumb ran over the collar before frowning and letting it drop once more on the trunk to finish drying. She didn’t need a coat. Boots stomped several times to be sure the muscles were awake and would not fail her before she set out into the hall and up the stairs, hands tucking the tee into the band of her jeans as she made the deck to ensure the bandage was hidden. Dawn was still a bit off but the air was decidedly warmer inviting a deep breath into lungs that still stung from the intake of saltwater and cold.

     

    Chuck was there almost immediately, the pungent odor of beans permeating the air around him.

     

    [npc]…coffee?[/npc]

     

    Nodding she took the cup and drank the bitter concoction more for its heat than the caffeine.

     

    [npc]…y' a'right?[/npc] [derrick]..yep[/derrick]

     

    She couldn’t tell the eyes he had fixated on her arm with a frown.

     

    [derrick]When we making dock?[/derrick][npc]…just twenty minutes now.[/npc]

     

    Nodding she handed him back the empty cup, right hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose, the lift of the dark shades exposing the deep dark circles under her eyes. She needed rest, and likely a doctor but the captain knew better than to suggest either as he took the cup.

     

    [derrick]…we're late in so let's start preppin' cargo to get offloaded so we can do it as quickly as possible once we get docked.[/derrick]

     

    The last was said loud enough so the tired crew around knew their orders, the deck beginning to scurry again with life as tie downs and cables were starting to be unlatched. The weather was calm and the cargo was no longer under threat of being tossed overboard in the last few miles to shore.

     

    By the time the massive ropes were being tossed down to the dock below the crew on deck was an oiled machine once more as she stood on deck barking orders. The crane checked first to be sure it was undamaged in their fight, it was quickly attached to the first container as several men slid down the stairway to the dock below and scampered off to get the trailer beds in place under the swinging loads. They were not expected and no one was there, out of touch with home base and now more than a week late, the warehouse crew likely had given up hope. But the ship crew knew what to do and soon they had a rhythm going. It only took a little over two hours and all the containers had been offloaded onto flatbeds that were now in a neat little line between the warehouses.

     

    Feet planted solidly under her on the unmoving deck she waited as the last container was being lifted away. Aware that more than one crewhand had scampered by and half paused by her. The arm was garnering strange looks as they wondered if one of those "things" had infected the Bakkhos guard dog. She was only aware that there was something they saw that she didn’t and it itched at her brain.

     

    Head turned slightly as weighty steps hit the deck, their two flounders had finally managed to come up for air. Jaw tightened before she continued to oversee the offloading of the cargo. As the last container hit the truckbed below there was finally life in one of the warehouses as some of the morning crew were finally making it in and realizing the ship had come home. They scrambled only to realize their jobs had been done for them.

     

    Walking past the "boys" she walked around to the side of the crane.

     

    [derrick]….that's it, lock 'er down.[/derrick]

     

    As she came by them again her shoulder grazed the cops, the touch signaling for attention as words hissed quietly under her breath.

     

    [derrick]…suggest you don’t have a thing to say about who you are to those on the ground here, you don’t make a whole lot of chat on your way out, and you find your own way home.[/derrick]

     

    Still protecting him. They had never really talked about the fact that they were from opposite sides of the "tracks". It didn’t seem to bother him back then, warm laughs over breakfast had made it seem the cop didn’t care what "family" she belonged to, now……now she wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t turn the gun on her. The skip in her chest told her that sadly… she would likely just let him take the shot. Loyal dogs were like that once they chose.

     

    Boots hit the metal stairs leading down to the dock below, muscles still trembling to keep her moving.

     

    [npc]You're late![/npc]

     

    Mario. Great. His staccato steps and high pitched snip at her just one of many signs the caporegime hated her guts. He believed a woman's only place was under a dick and he was always quick to want to show his "title" meant he outranked her, at least on paper. Problem was he was not well liked in the family and family forged their loyalties on actions not titles, as evidenced by several of the boat crew approaching behind her shoulders, all to happy to put him back in his place if he made a move against her.

     

    [npc]…..suggest you back off Mario. Before Gaspari's dog buries you at sea.[/npc]

     

    Chin lifted at the voice, faint quirk to her lips as Mario half jumped out of his skin not expecting Strollo to come out to the warehouse himself today. The boss approached the woman with a clear respect. After all, he had been the one to ask for her help in getting the cargo back safe. His gaze fell to the ship and the strange symbols on its metal bow.

     

    [npc]..trouble?[/npc]

     

    [derrick]…cargo is all here. Did come across pirates several times on the route. Suggest you alter the course to swing further south from now on. Also ended up in some crazy living storm. Gonna need to ward your ships against them and even then, won't guarantee safe passage.[/derrick]

     

    Thumb jutted over her shoulder at the two strays still on the deck.

     

    [derrick]…picked up some strays bobbing in the storm. Don’t know nothing about the haul, or us. Helped with the wards though. Suggest we just let them get on their way. We ever need a favor, they might come in handy.[/derrick]

     

    She could feel Carmine's gaze lift to the ship and then come square down on her again. Mario was itching to make the call, she heard his hand sliding in his jacket for the holstered gun but again Carmine put him in his place, hand lifting to call him off as he smirked faintly at the woman that stood several inches over him.

     

    [npc]…you're call Gray. You say they safe… they safe.[/npc]

     

    He called some orders to the fresh ground crew and rapidly the cargo was being driven off to points unknown in the warehouse district as the battered ship's crew began to stumble off in search of where they left their cars more than four weeks ago.

     

    Turning she was about to head up the stairs again when Chuck came trotting down them to meet her.

     

    [npc]…thought ya might just want to head out so brought your things.[/npc]

     

    A smile finally lit the corners of her lips as she accepted her large duffle and pulled it over her shoulder, tension through her cheek and shoulder as wounds tugged. Its weight let her know he had packed up the wet jacket and her bottles from the cabinet.

     

    [derrick]…thanks[/derrick]

     

    [npc]…need a lift..[/npc] [derrick]…nah… gonna walk it. Wanna feel the ground not moving under my feet for a while.[/derrick]

     

    He lingered, eyes on the arm that she still was blissfully unaware garnered so much attention.

     

    [derrick]….am fine Chuck…get home to Dona.[/derrick]

     

    He paused before chuckling a bit and nodding, finally heading off to find his own car. Weight was adjusted on her shoulder as she paused to listen for the two "flounders". She couldn’t help it. She wanted to be completely indifferent and yet, she would never understand why he was under her skin.

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    The harbour was abustle with movement, a rhythm of shipping and receiving that beat on day after day. Both Atticus and Slate commented on the uncharacteristic amount of snow that covered New York, huge piles of snow left over clearing the docks had amassed in it’s corners.

    The two weathered warriors watched the gathering below from one of the upper decks. Atticus’ long powerful arms draped loosely over the railing while Slate leaned back into a corner, leg braced against a support, head turned over his shoulder. [slate]Same ol’ West Side Story song and dance.[/slate] He commented, voice well out of the gangster’s hearing, well, those in the ‘human range’. These days, who knew? But Slate didn’t care who heard him anyway.

    [atticus]So what’s going on?[/atticus] Atticus inquired, chin falling lazily into hand as he continued to study the body language of the gangster’s below. Well aware of Slate’s abilities, how the man was able to eavesdrop on conversations at incredible distances.

    Neither were worried, though perhaps they should have been. There was probably enough fire power down there to perforate a couple of normal guys, of course, when it came right down to it, neither of them were ‘normal’ nor defenceless. Atticus could feel it again, ‘the drift’, that sense of detachment from what it was to be ‘human’. This past year had been bad. Being on the run, living alone by their extraordinary abilities. It was only out of idle curiosity that Atticus thought learn how these sort of things played out in the mobster world. That was what ‘they’ were, he wasn’t born yesterday. He had picked up on the subtle hints along the way.

    Slate brought Atticus’ attention to well dressed man with greying hair. [slate]Carmine Strollo.[/slate] he introduced, [slate]An underboss. Mason’s vouching for us right now.[/slate]

    [atticus]That’s nice of her.[/atticus]

    Slate dismissively jerked his shoulder. [slate]She’s just playing it smart.[/slate]

    Atticus nodded. Slate was a cop. Gasoline on this hot little party so it was simply best for everyone to simply ‘keep calm and carry on’, although Atticus was a little curious about the protocols of law enforcement in this instant. [atticus]Do you have to report this?[/atticus]

    [slate]Report what?[/slate] Slate innocently replied, smiling at the question. [slate]Everything here is legit on paper and by the time you can get all the warrants together to check the fine print the evidence is as good as gone. This is what they do, and they do it well. Besides, I’m technically still working for the N.W.D.D. right now.[/slate] he laughed.

    Atticus chuckled. He was right, they both were, and this was well out of their jurisdiction. Not that he would have done anything to rock the boat if it wasn’t. They owed Mason.

    [atticus]So you remember anything about her?[/atticus] Atticus asked, noting how she looked at him. There had to have been something there at one time.

    Slate shook his head, indifferent to the loss. He was getting used to it, the ‘not knowing’. For all he knew Mason was just an ‘informant’ he’d forgotten about. It was shit like that, that made his job all the more difficult. His current journal didn’t have anything on her, once he got home he’d have to check his database for any references concerning her. Not that it would jar the memories, they were gone. A drawback to the benefits of unnatural abilities.

    [atticus]Says something though, eh? Her sticking her neck out for you like that?[/atticus]

    Slate just shrugged again. [slate]Maybe.[/slate] He didn’t time for pursuing ghosts. All he wanted was to get home and piece his life together. Literally. Catch up with Uncle Ezra. See how Adria was doing. Touch base with the constants in his life that yet remained etched in memory. Atticus sensed it right away and backed off. He’d become accustomed to Slate’s subtleties, especially where his ‘past’ was concerned. Even he got a little disheartened at times knowing that one day, should the two of them part ways for long enough, that he’d just become another lost memory to the ‘grey angel’. One of the few people aware of this handicap, he could at least extend the man some understanding concerning it, of course with Slate it was often a case of ‘you’re damned if you do or damned if you don’t’.

    An introspective silence stretched between them and they remained still, hovering above like a couple of ravens awaiting opportunity. It wasn’t until the gangsters began to disperse, each heading off to their respective corners of their shadowy world that it signalled the two to finally part ways. A strange feeling for Atticus, the more sentimental of the two but Slate thought nothing of it. He unceremoniously tightened up the collar of his borrowed coat and shoved off the railing with a, [slate]Catch ya later old man[/slate]

    Atticus smiled at the reference to his age. He knew he would see hime again, and realized that a part of him was still running, waiting for something to happen, someone to strike. It would take a while to get back to ’normal’, but as usual, Slate just kept on, an unyielding stone slab to the elements. The sound of his boots against the steel grating of the outer bridge deck trailed off round the corner. Then he was gone. Atticus never saw him exit down the gangplank to the dock, the man just seemed to vanish, of course disappearing into thin air wasn’t exactly his thing. Slate had his on ways. He made his way to the starboard side of the ship and in one tremendous leap crossed the distance to the ship moored beside it. The landing was smooth, maintaining stride, continuing across the deck with a series of spectacular bounds. Repeating the gymnastic display until everything fell behind.

    [atticus]Son-of-a-bitch stole my exit.[/atticus] Atticus smiled to himself as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his checkered jacket and made his way toward the gangplank.

    After a few flights of stairs down to the main deck Atticus could see Mason ahead sharing some parting words with Chuck. Not wanting to leave without offering a thank you he paused for a moment beside the two.

    [npc]Mr. Gale.[/npc] Chuck acknowledged offering a strong weathered hand which Atticus warmly accepted, [npc]Thank you for your help.[/npc]

    Atticus grinned and nodded. [atticus]Well, if it wouldn’t have been for you we wouldn’t be having this conversation so I guess we’re even.[/atticus]

    [npc]Where is your friend, Mr. Morrison?[/npc] The captain asked, keen eyes scanning the deck. There was only one way to exit the ship and he was surprised he hadn’t noticed the man, or that he had gotten past Mason for that matter.

    Atticus momentarily hesitated in response, distracted by Mason’s odd affliction.[atticus]Yeah, well, he’s not much one for goodbyes.[/atticus] he apologetically explained, [atticus]He kinda found his own way off the ship.[/atticus]

    Chuck frowned. Unorthodox, but then, these were not normal people so he let it slide, as he apparently had with the strange veiny pattern on Mason’s arm. [npc]Extend my thank you when you see him next, then.[/npc] He then threw his duffle bag over a shoulder and exited the ship after final goodbye to Mason.

    He accompanied Mason down the gangplank. It felt good to be on solid ground again, the crunch of snow underfoot. Atticus really didn’t know what else to say to the woman besides offering a, [atticus]Thanks again.[/atticus] they were pretty much strangers, for all he knew they were at completely opposite sides of the spectrum, but he wasn’t sticking around of his own accord. Rather, he felt he owed it to her to explain a few things and there was really no other way to bring it up and rather than start babbling on and rambling round the usual social protocols Atticus just cut to the chase.

    [atticus]Before we left the continent I was trying to help Slate with a condition resulting from his Metahuman nature. It effects his memories and so to put it bluntly he forgets things… permanently. As his doctor and friend I have to inform you that if the two of you had something it’s gone. I’m really sorry.[/atticus]

    Atticus hated going behind Slate’s back like this but it was in the man’s best interest that he provided Mason with some closure. He had to move on, instead of dwelling on things he’d never get back otherwise Slate would just continue on in a downward spiral.

    A chilly November wind tossed Atticus’ pale hair, the swirling gust turning warm as it swept across his body.

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    She had just vouched for a cop. Not a cop in their pockets, but a bonafide, believes in the law, cop. There was an absolute ominous certainty in her chest that this would catch up with her. She was also absolutely certain... she would do it again in a heartbeat.

     

    She had always had a decided lack of emotions. Her mother a slave driver for perfection, friends left unmade over the fact that she was "damaged" and her mother didn’t want them close enough to know, she had never learned to feel affections towards others. She held strong affections for her equipment, for playing, even for Caesar, but not for people. The Family had given her loyalties and loyalties were a powerful thing to a watchdog. But "he" had given her something no one, not even the family had. Where she had had to prove herself even to Bakkhos, he had trusted her to have his back from the very beginning, he hadn't once seen her as less than whole, on the contrary, he had seen the assets her condition had given her and fell comfortably into a complimentary relationship as they battled the demons of the world around them. He had drawn out an affection in her that left her weak, vulnerable and she had been cursing him ever since.

     

    She heard him leave. He couldn't hide that from her. Hyper sensitive ears could "see" every fall of weight like a fingerprint. Everything inside her felt heavy and yet he had done exactly what she had told him to, she couldn't be angered by that. Could she?

     

    Could she…?

     

    Chin turned slightly as Chuck started to move, recognizing their second flounder was not as ready to just walk away as Jersey had been.

     

    [npc]Mr. Gale[/npc]

     

    Gale? had that been his last name? She had not caught that he had given a last name. Faint curl of her brows whispered something disconcerting as she realized Jersey might have given his last name as well. If anyone on board the ship did some research..... her reckoning for her voucher might come sooner rather than later. Who was this guy anyway? And what was his relationship to the cop who had just abandoned him here among the mob family?

     

    [npc]Where is your friend, Mr. Morrison?[/npc]

     

    Chest tightened instantly. Chuck, at the very least, had his full name. Question was, would he go so far as to look into their catch of the day? Would he rat her out to Gaspari if he found out the man was a cop?

     

    [atticus]Yeah, well he's not much one for goodbyes.[/atticus][derrick].....never was.[/derrick]

     

    Soft reply came without much thought as head was turned faintly towards the direction the cop had left in. It had really not even intended to be spoken aloud but the affect was instant and unfriendly. Chuck's brows dipped hard as he looked in the direction he could tell she was listening. He now knew which one of the two she had meant when she had confessed "he meant" something to her. It was not like Gaspari's guard dog to have any emotions, ever. She missed the captain's reaction, but he was clearly etching the missing man to memory.

     

    As the men said their goodbyes she found herself walking beside the Mouse, wondering what else it was he wanted. Why hadn't he just wandered off already? She just wanted to be home with a bottle of expensive rum, maybe more than one. She drank a lot, her tolerances far beyond most every Bakkhos family member. She had been a musician since her teens after all, if you were good enough to bring in the crowd, you were good enough for the owner to keep the free drinks flowing all night. But this was different. She wanted to...drink. To drown in it until the world was shut out. To cleanse the feeling she couldn't shake as she was left behind once more by the only person that she had ever not wanted to leave her behind.

     

    [atticus]Thanks again.[/atticus]

     

    Faint furl of her brow came as she "glanced" towards him.

     

    [derrick]…ya well….. kinda even as I see it.[/derrick]

     

    It was her version of a thanks. There. They were done and….He was still walking beside her. Why?

     

    [atticus] Before we left the continent I was trying to help Slate with a condition resulting from his Metahuman nature. It effects his memories and so to put it bluntly he forgets things… permanently. As his doctor and friend I have to inform you that if the two of you had something it’s gone. I’m really sorry.[/atticus]

     

    Steps had frozen. Breath forgotten to release from her lungs. He may as well have shot her.

     

    …."You got someone waiting for ya Mason?" "…Jersey. No one waits up for me."

     

    …… no one ever would. The realization broke something inside. Loyal dogs were loyal to the end, breaking again and again. Muscle through her cheek flinched as the cords through her neck tightened. Lips pursed slightly as the head faintly nodded. It explained things. Air sucked through nostrils as the nod came again.

     

    [derrick]Ya well….He wants a skirt anyway......Needs....a skirt.[/derrick]

     

    Chin turned slightly towards the giant beside her as the "indifferent" shrug came.

     

    [derrick]And in case you hadn't noticed Mighty Mouse... I aint a skirt.[/derrick]

     

    As if to make the point she turned to face him, her shielded eyes barely below his as the Amazon stature that had often been accused of being "unfeminine" yet too often was watched from afar drew itself up. Whatever she was, she was no shrinking violet. Even as the memory pulled from somewhere dark to form a lump at the back of her throat. The steam of the shower, two bodies so tired they completely missed the other was there, until they couldn't miss it anymore. A name on his lips that didn't belong to the Amazon, but to the more petite woman that had once worn the clothes he had loaned her.

     

    A skirt. A skirt that lingered in his memory despite whatever condition the doctor was claiming he had. Perhaps Mighty Mouse was just trying to "let the girl down easy" because Slate was being an ass.... if so, she didn't need anyone's handouts either. Air pulled abruptly through the nostrils as if it all meant nothing to her, but there was a redness to the features around her opaque shades that said perhaps it was more than nothing. Or perhaps it was just the cold.

     

    [derrick]He needs some pretty thing that he doesn't need to remember but can just enjoy, who waits for him at home in her ridiculous heels and bakes cookies or something…[/derrick]

     

    Duffle was adjusted with a faint wince, legs trembling again before muscles tightened to keep her upright, unlike the "gods" of men, she still was a mere mortal completely bereft of strength. Pride and stubborn will alone were keeping her up.

     

    [derrick]He doesn't need a combat partner....someone to eat breakfast with while patching up each other's bloody wounds. He needs gentle understanding..... not sarcastic humor that keeps up with his own......[/derrick]

     

    She wasn’t meaning to, but she was offering glimpses into the past, of what they had been to each other. Shrug feigned indifference badly. Hand rubbed the bare strangely inked bicep, it was warm inside, a strange sensation. Releasing it abruptly she instead adjusted the big duffle on her shoulder once more, starting to move again as if the conversation was over. Several strides fell with a silence between the two. Then quietly...

     

    [derrick]….we took down a transformed werewolf together…by hand no less……. took down an entire rogue Vanguard squad too…….. we prevented a damn fae invasion of New York....[/derrick]

     

    Soft words were distant. Why the hell was she even talking to this guy. Maybe because she didn't know him from Adam and they would likely never cross paths again. Though more likely so that, if what he said really was true, if Slate really didn't remember, then there was someone other than herself in the world who knew what had happened. Even the Family didn't know any of their adventures. They couldn't.

     

    Wind whipped through the buildings as they reached the sidewalk, the frigid chill boldly caressing bare arms to pale them further even as the ink got darker. No one else would have noticed, but she did, he was close enough that highly sensitive skin registered the shift in temperature around his. "Glance" his way held a quirk in her brow.

     

    [derrick]…that is you I am feeling….isn't it[/derrick]

     

    It was a declaration more than a question as the left hand lifted into the air, bruised fingers lightly "strumming" the wind to feel the warmth more directly.

     

    [derrick]…pretty neat trick…..and the wards on the ship…..not your typical doc there Mighty Mouse..[/derrick]

     

    She was changing the subject more for her own comfort than his. But it was a valid observation, one that started a strange wheel turning. Bakkhos didn’t have a doctor they trusted since the last one had been killed by an upstart gang thinking they could encroach on Gaspari's territory. There was some indebtedness here, though safe to say it existed on both sides. Still, didn’t hurt to talk if he was insisting on walking her way, it was a distraction until she could drink everything else away.

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    Atticus didn’t quite know how to react. Slate had this effect on women, he’d seen it more times than he cared to remember. Of course the man was oblivious to it, Atticus supposed that’s just the way it was for ‘charming people’. He wouldn’t know but watching Slate in action, the way women fell for him, was mind-blowing. He wasn’t about to relay that Mason, though. That would simply be cruel and perhaps suicidal on his part. Sounded like they had some history, though. Atticus had known Slate for well over six years but he was the first to admit that the guy was an enigma. The only time, though that he’d ever seen Slate truly care for anyone was Aislin. Her disappearance devastated the man. The Faerie Invasion? He wasn't sure of the exact event but how many could there have been? Atticus recalled that part of the reason Slate had journeyed into the Fae underworld was to look for his Water Horse.

    ’Did she know?’

    Atticus didn’t pretend to know Slate. He could never tell if he was confiding in him or just shooting the shit. Everything seemed to be relayed in the same casual tone. Maybe she knew, maybe she didn’t. All he knew was that she seemed to be making a helluva lot of excuses concerning the two of them, and Atticus could only recall him mentioning her a few times in the past. In defence, though, they were both under a lot of stress this past year. ’Shit. There he went again, defending the guy.’ Slate should have been here, manning up and explaining all this to her but Atticus was pretty certain that he’d never had to own up to a broken heart in his life. Well, that wasn’t fair. There had been Aislin. He’d have done anything for her and hell if she was what Mason referred to as a ‘skirt’, although, when she wanted she could be as radiantly feminine as a faerie-tale princess.

    Atticus couldn’t help but feel bad for Mason but once more it certainly wasn’t his place to judge. So, diverting his mind from the topic Atticus’ eyes fell to the distracting markings on the woman’s bare arm.

    ’A tattoo? No! The veins in her arm were black!’

    One didn’t have to be a doctor to know that discoloured veins was bad. He began to visually assess her for poisoning symptoms and fortunately she changed the subject to the protective wards on the ship. Obviously she was done talking about Slate, a good move on her part. Dwelling on a guy that literally forgot you didn’t do much for one’s self esteem. Atticus loved the guy but she could do better.

    [atticus]Yeah, not your typical doctor by a long shot.[/atticus] He admitted, a weak smile following, quickly turning to a mischievous grin as he lifted his arms to draw her attention to his black and red checkered coat, [atticus]More of a lumberjack, don’t ya think?[/atticus] He really had no idea what Mason was actually able to 'see' and the joke would be an utter fail. Maybe she wasn't able to interpret the subtle discolourations of her skin.

    The air around Mason grew warmer.

    [atticus]Over in Europe we met some people who were rather gifted in the art of ritual magic and the creation of charms and wards. It’s different over there.[/atticus]

    Atticus couldn’t tell whether or not she was suffering any symptoms so finally he just came right out and asked.

    [atticus]How are you feeling? You’re arm..  could be poisoning. Do you feel nauseous or light-headed?[/atticus]

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    She had never been like "other" women. She didn't swoon at a suave character or a bit of handsome charm. Her brain was different, wired different from birth to compensate and "see" the world the way others did not. She had an internal bullshit detector that was accurate 99.9% of the time which made it impossible for a "line" to work on her. What had imprinted with the cop had not been over a smooth line and a glass of wine, it had been over bloody knuckles and tag team combat. If he had gotten by her, clearly something in her own "wiring" had gone horribly wrong here, and she didn't want to discuss it further with the good doc. He seemed as eager to move on.

     

    [atticus]Yeah, not your typical doctor by a long shot....More of a lumberjack, don't ya think?[/atticus]

     

    Her weight had shifted slightly backwards as the broad movement of his arms registered. She had hair-trigger reactions to movements that might become hostile but the instinct to deck him tempered when the warmth tickled over flesh that already suffered heavily from goose-pimples in the cold. Brow lifted quizzically over the dark shades at him.

     

    [derrick]....not really sure I can appreciate the reference there Mighty Mouse.[/derrick]

     

    Lumberjack was what? Someone that cut down trees right? Did he look like one? What exactly did one look like? The reference was completely lost on her other than it seemed to poke fun at his own size.

     

    [atticus] Over in Europe we met some people who were rather gifted in the art of ritual magic and the creation of charms and wards. It’s different over there. [/atticus]

     

    He was an oddity. Faint curl of brows was quizzical over the dark shades as she studied him. People didn’t understand that talking to her was like taking a polygraph. She saw through the words. Every breath said something, every vibrato in the throat, every shift of the weight betrayed intent, honesty, lies.

     

    With him, and his odd boy scout approach to the world she could tell he didn’t give all the truth, but he didn’t give untruths either. He seemed rejuvenated already despite the battle that had raged on the ocean waters. He hung out with the cop that cared for nothing and yet he had genuinely wanted to help the injured crew.

     

    An oddity.

     

    [derrick]You don't make any sense to me Mighty Mouse.[/derrick]

     

    Head shook as fingers on the left hand flexed unconsciously.

     

    [derrick]Him I get....I mean whether he does have your vouched for condition, or just selected memory loss, or is just a guy like every other damn one and can't face his own messes… I mean, my name did come awfully easy upon first hearing my voice for one with amnesia,…..[/derrick]

     

    The flaw in the story exposed she was clearly in no mood for further explanations about the cop as she continued.

     

    [derrick]….any way you cut it…. he is still an ass. But you….. you are a strange one. Where he acts the boy scout but isn't, you don’t act it but are one at the core. Right down to being polite and thanking your hosts for a wonderful evening….[/derrick]

     

    He could have slipped off like Jersey, of that she was completely certain. But the big guy had purposely waited his turn to be sure and show a little gratitude. Who did that in this day and age anymore? Head shook again, corner of dry lips lifting into a rare lopsided grin as the fingers continued to flex at the internal warmth.

     

    Polite boy scout, but could he be trusted with dark secrets. Probably not. That boy scout nature was ingrained. She doubted he would accept a position patching up the family and keeping his mouth shut about it.

     

    [atticus]How are you feeling? You’re arm, it looks like a sign of poisoning. Do you feel noxious or light-headed?[/atticus]

     

    [derrick]…huh?[/derrick]

     

    His words made her suddenly aware of the reflexive clenching and unclenching of her fingers in that hand. Lifting it she consciously paid attention as she moved them. Heat. She would say it was just a reaction to the cold but it was only the one arm and clearly he saw something she didn’t. Was something going wrong?

     

    [derrick]….warm is all…[/derrick]

     

    Frown was thoughtful as he was studied once more. There he had gone being genuinely concerned again. If Slate truly didn’t remember, then the only living person who knew what the wound was, was herself. She had never even had it looked at after it was incurred because it had healed itself, by the time her sparring partners noticed it in Bakkhos she had shrugged it off as an old injury and it was left alone. Words were a bit cautiously chosen as she decided it might be too early to write off the good doc as an asset.

     

    [derrick]….what if I told you….that what is happening was likely aggravated by what happened out there in the storm….. but the source is actually an old injury.[/derrick]

     

    There was a pause. The final piece felt like confessing a filthy sin. Why was that? She had no control over what had injured her, yet it had remained some dirty little secret. Perhaps because there had never been a report, that she was aware of, that spoke of a person being harmed by a piece of the Nevus scar. Fingers had returned to unconscious flexing as the attention was riveted on the doctor. Waiting for the first sign she might need to take him out. Could she? Not likely. Especially in her current condition. She really didn’t know what sort of reaction to expect.

     

    [derrick]…..an old injury caused by a piece of the broken sky….[/derrick]

     

    Breath curled white in the cold air as her attention remained fixed.

     

    [derrick]...would you still diagnose poisoning?[/derrick]

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    ’Was he that transparent?’ Perhaps he was, Atticus didn’t think much of her observations other than the fact that they were accurate. He blamed being born back during a time when manners counted for something. It wasn’t anything that he needed to dwell on, especially not when Mason proposed a reason for her condition that was extremely intriguing.

    [atticus]The scar on your back.[/atticus] He ascertained, hand raising to a hip while the other pensively stroked his chiseled chin. Doing his best to maintain his composure.

    Atticus’ studies of the Nevus phenomena had yielded many strange and otherworldly tales, often relayed from a third party. He had little evidence to support the claims other than people’s words but here was living, breathing case standing in front of him. He could barely contain his excitement.

    [atticus]No… [/atticus] he calmly replied to her question, [atticus]I would definitely have to reconsider my initial thoughts. So what lead you to this conclusion?[/atticus] he had to ask. He’d come across a lot of quacks in the past. The last guy he ran into was certain that the grape lollipop he found was a piece of the Nevus. He assured him it was just a sucker but he was pretty convinced.

    [atticus]I’m not doubting you, I just need to make sure.[/atticus] He reassured her. [atticus] The scar on your back is representative of extreme trauma. Honestly, I’ve personally never seen the remnants of such an injury on a living person before. Not that people haven’t survived such things but I’m suspecting that you never received medical attention for it, did you?[/atticus]

    Pure radiation of the Resonance manifested on Earth was not a widely accepted theory. In fact, Atticus made sure to never speak too loudly about this ‘holy grail’ else the very association discredit him. Of course he’d seen it before. Back before he ever worked for Pharos he had helped a member of the organization contain a sample of the energy. A sample that eventually went missing, no doubt archived away somewhere, far from foolish scientists like himself. He convinced himself that it had been for the best but he had always been curious of just what kind of effects ‘the stuff of creation’ would have on a living organism.

    [atticus]Sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you.[/atticus] Atticus then quickly apologized, realizing that his sudden acceptance and interest in her condition might be regarded as a little fanatical. [atticus]I’ve been studying the Nevus phenomena for many years now. It’s ended up being a major part of my research and cases like yours are extremely rare.[/atticus] he explained.

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    [atticus]The scar on your back.[/atticus]

     

    Brow lifted. How did he………? It took a moment to recall she had changed while they were in the room. Modesty had never been one of her strong suits, visual stimulations completely lost on her. Words were quiet.

     

    [derrick]….that is only the entry wound.[/derrick]

     

    The implication was ominous, clarifying that she had indeed been skewered. There was something in his calm tone as he "reconsidered" his initial thoughts. Excitement perhaps? Assuring her that he was not doubting her drew a smirk on her lips.

     

    [atticus] The scar on your back is representative of extreme trauma. Honestly, I’ve personally never seen the remnants of such an injury on a living person before. Not that people haven’t survived such things but I’m suspecting that you never received medical attention for it, did you?[/atticus]

     

    Twitch ran through her cheek as the brows dipped. It was definitely building excitement tingeing the vibrato in his deep tones. Telling her secrets was dangerous. What if the good "doc" was looking for a new experiment? A guinea pig? Fatigue had made her careless and yet she had been living with her secrets in silence for so long, the thought that she might share it with someone who could potentially decipher it was a hard temptation to pass up.

     

    [atticus] Sorry, I don’t mean to pressure you. I’ve been studying the Nevus phenomena for many years now. It’s ended up being a major part of my research and cases like yours are extremely rare. [/atticus]

     

    Silence lingered, the wind fighting to chill what he was working to warm. Jaw tensed several times before turning and starting to walk down the sidewalk.

     

    [derrick]Careful Mighty Mouse….. your giddy is showing.[/derrick]

     

    Foot nearly missed the drop of the curb to the street, growling faintly under her breath she crossed over the snow, too early for cars to be on the road in this area anyway. Limbs had started to go numb as she continued…

     

    [derrick]….get one thing straight…. I aint a lab rat.[/derrick]

     

    The larger distance from the human heater made the sting of cold more pronounced, hand unconsciously going to her unscarred abs where the wounds were still seeping. She wouldn’t be upright for long.

     

    [derrick]… you want your questions answered? Then you need to find us a nice warm place where I can sit down and offer me a hot cup of damn coffee…..and not somewhere in this district.[/derrick]

     

    It was a cautious invitation. One she offered so long as they stepped out of watched Bakkhos territory.

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    [atticus]Well, no better time than the present, eh?[/atticus] Atticus laughed, [atticus]Cup of coffee? Might be able to do one better than that.[/atticus]

    A cab was parked just up the street. It was early, so Atticus couldn’t be sure if the guy was on duty or not so he lightly rapped on the window. The man must have been dozing off and the abrupt sound jolted him awake.

    [atticus]So sorry. On duty?[/atticus] Atticus mouthed the words.

    The cabby nodded and thumbed to the back.

    Atticus opened the door for Mason and followed her into the warm backseat.

    [npc]Where to?[/npc]

    [atticus]1522 Amsterdam, Ballantine Place.[/atticus] Atticus directed, then explained to Mason, [atticus]It’s the address for my Manhattan apartment.[/atticus]

    The cabby stared at Atticus through the rear view mirror and frowned. He definitely wasn’t dressed like the kind of person who kept an apartment in Manhattan, especially on Amsterdam. [npc]Hey man, how you gonna be paying?[/npc] The cabby asked, just to make sure the guy had the means.

    [atticus]Credit card.[/atticus]

    [npc]Uh huh, yeah. How’s about you show it to me, for argument’s sake.[/npc]

    Atticus couldn’t believe it. ’Did he really look that destitute? Catching a look of himself in the mirror answered his question. Yeah, he kinda did.

    [atticus]Look, my card’s in my apartment.[/atticus] He told the man.

    The cabby wasn’t budging.

    [atticus]An extra hundred.[/atticus] He cooly offered without batting an eye.

    They were on the move.

    [atticus]Hope you don’t mind?[/atticus] He mentioned to Mason, [atticus]There’s an excellent cafe right around the corner from me. Have you ever been to Omenwich Square?[/atticus]

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    [atticus]Cup of coffee? Might be able to do one better than that.[/atticus]

     

    She was suspicious, she was always suspicious. She had wounds that still seeped, no abilities at all to speak of at her command, and her unnaturally keen mere mortal senses were exhausted; her throat could easily be slit trusting the doc. But, this also might be her one chance for answers. She had no intention of seeking him out once they parted ways so it was now or never.

     

    She frowned as she heard him rap on the window of what she could only assume was a taxi. As the faint creak of the door hinge came and he clearly waited for her to enter, she remained still, the dip of her brows scowling at him a moment before finally resigning herself to get into yet another steel coffin.

     

    Sliding over she left the duffle between them, as he gave directions, fingers slid the zipper down enough to slide her hand in. As the car shifted right and then left with his weight there was a very ominous click in the bag, the tell tale sign of a gun cocking. The glock was still in its holster but easily pointed at the good doc. He wasn’t hostage, it was merely a reminder that there were no tame lab rats here, especially after hearing they were headed to his apartment.

     

    Brow quirked at the back and forth regarding payment, faint tickle of a grin hinted at the corner of her lips as she figured they both looked a bit worse for wear and now in the confines of the cab they carried the distinct scent of fish.

     

    Money always talked. And just like that they were on the move. Doc would fit right in with the family in that regard.

     

    Hand remained in the bag on her gun as he talked about the café. [atticus]Have you ever been to Omenwich Square?[/atticus]

     

    Brow quirked at him as they bumped through a dilapidated section of streets, finally recognizing from the feel of the road about where they were.

     

    [derrick]…ya… couple times. Not really a normal hang out spot for me but been through.[/derrick]

     

    Mind was ticking off miles and turns. Force of habit. Elbow rested on the door handle, chin resting on her hand as she "watched" out the window in deceptive inattention to him, yet the hand in the bag maintained its hold.

     

    [derrick]…Amsterdam huh? Pretty swanky for a drowned mighty mouse.[/derrick]

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    Atticus had just shrugged off Mason’s comment alluding to the ‘price tag’ associated with an Amsterdam apartment. [atticus]Keep’s the rain of my head.[/atticus] he replied with a boyish grin. A little bit more than that, he knew. Always sensitive to those who would try and dissect his past he mentioned little else about it. Much older than he appeared the sum of his life simply didn’t add up and Atticus had to remain ever on guard of a loose tongue.

    He didn’t quite know how to take it that she was familiar with Omenwich and had frequented it’s corners a few times. Atticus never expected ‘mobster-types’ to haunt his beloved New York gem. The area had a sinister side to it to be sure but such was the darkness of the arcane not the back-street politics of organized crime. Old Angus wouldn’t stand for it, and here, on this ‘hallowed ground’ his ‘will’ be done. There was definitely more to Mason than met the eye.

    [atticus]Right here’s fine.[/atticus] Atticus told the driver as he swung around to the westside of Amsterdam and pulled up in front of the gothic, nine story building that was one of the iconic landmarks of Omenwich Square.

    [atticus]Be right back.[/atticus] He told the driver who threw him a leery glare to which Atticus was quick to thumb to Mason and explain, [atticus]Don’t worry. If I stick her with the fare I’m as good as dead.[/atticus] The statement was followed with a slight, low rumbling laugh as he closed the door and headed toward the main entrance.

    The driver wasn’t amused but so long as the woman remained as insurance he was fine with it, and true to his word Atticus was back with his card a little more than five minutes later.

    [atticus]Had to wait for the doorman.[/atticus] He explained for his tardiness. He’d lost his keys some time ago.

    Atticus plopped himself down in the passenger seat beside the cabby and slipped his card into the interac device. It was only then that the much smaller man took note of Atticus’ size and figured him to be a bodybuilder or something along those lines.

    [atticus]There ya go and a hundred extra for you.[/atticus] Atticus mentioned as he added the agreed upon bonus to the man’s tip. He then tossed a glance behind him to Mason, [atticus]Shall we?[/atticus]

    Atticus figured Mason might like to drop off her duffle bag in his apartment and maybe freshen up. It’d a been a long haul and irregardless of what she wanted he was definitely going to change out of his ‘lumberjack’ attire.

    The interior of the apartment block surpassed it’s exterior. Pale marble stone work contrasting the building’s dark exterior but these were details that Atticus felt probably escaped the woman’s senses. Colour was after all represented by the play of light upon a surface. Of course Atticus wasn’t one to dismiss even the most minute of possibilities so he didn’t immediately presume the decor to be entirely lost.

    [atticus]The building was built in the late 1800’s and remodelled in the 40’s. The Neoclassical architecture has been preserved throughout.[/atticus] He mentioned as he lead the way to 40’s era elevator.

    Atticus pressed the button for the ninth floor and the heavy doors smoothly slid closed. They opened to reveal the same polished marble floor as on the main floor, the apartment doors framed in classical reliefs of grecian-style arches. Down the hall and at the end of a left turn, his was on the northwest corner of the building.

    The jingle of metal, the grind of a key in the lock and the large heavy door swung open with a slight creak revealing a spacious front hall with the same twelve foot ceilings as the hall.

    [atticus]Please make yourself at home.[/atticus] Atticus warmly invited, [atticus]If you don’t mind, I’m gonna quickly change before we go. Feel free to leave your bag here, oh, and the bathroom is at the end of the hall to your right there. I put out some clean towels.[/atticus] Which he had done when he first came up to his get his card.

    There, he’d played the good host. He paused for a moment, hands on hips, mulling over any details and social niceties he might have missed. Often distracted, Atticus usually had to go over things a few times, especially when they dealt with the mundane happenings of everyday life. He had to constantly remind himself that the world didn’t revolve around his work and that this woman simply wasn’t some test subject; a means to yet another plateau in his research. It was difficult though, especially since she might just represent the missing link between the manifested form of the ‘resonance’ and matter itself!

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    She was suspicious of everything by nature. Of the "good doc", she was extra suspicious.

     

    Left in the cab with a jab at her killing him, the growl in her chest caused an unease with the driver that she could feel. Sliding the duffle towards the door she slid along the seat, the driver barely making a "hey" audible before the gun still in the holster was pulled and pointed in his direction forcing a gulp as she listened to him try to slowly reach for his glove compartment.

     

    [derrick]….dont be stupid…[/derrick]

     

    Grunting softly as her abs pulled she pushed the door open and was sliding the duffle out and on her shoulder just as the big Nord returned to pay the cabbie. She let them handle it as she slammed the door shut, duffle on one shoulder the harness of the holster loosely draped on the other as she paused in front of the building waiting for the doc.

     

    She huffed softly at the Nord as he led the way.

     

    Every step and turn from the door was mapped as they made their way to his apartment, escape route set to memory. The floor was slick tile, perhaps stone. She would need to remember that if she had to run on it. Chin was slightly dipped as they moved, ears on point as no amount of "sheer will" was turning on her abilities without rendering her unconscious.

     

    Brow quirked as he prattled on about the remodeling of the "neoclassical" building. Sited people were weird that way. They always felt she was missing something, they didn’t understand just how much they missed in her world. The sounds, smells that they were oblivious to, the nuance of touch so completely lost on them. She could tell exactly where a thrown knife or fired bullet was going to strike the moment they left a hand or gun and they thought she was the one missing things.

     

    Soft ping of the elevator told her nine floors up, sensitive ears popping before the doors opened again. The headliner took only a single step past the threshold of his door, instead letting him walk forward, each step reverberating in the space, telling her information about the width, height, even the density of the floor and walls.

     

    His voice interrupted her assessment of the space, head tilting slightly as his voice added another resonance to the picture. As he mentioned the hall to the right, an ear turned in that direction, listening to his voice echo locate through the space. She was marking. Every depression that betrayed a door, every vacancy that betrayed an open space. She was mapping his place.

     

    Head glanced towards him, frowning as he left her in the hallway, unsure what to make of this move. Odd damn duck.

     

    Heading towards the bathroom she found herself in a space far too large for her taste, making a point of locking the door. She much preferred her little loft, sound didn’t get lost in the space, it echoed off the more contained surfaces which kept the outside world at bay. In a space this large the sounds lost momentum which let the noises of the outside world in. The sited didn’t understand what it was like to be bombarded in sound your whole life. Holster was set on the counter, duffle following suit so she could rummage in it. Chuck had left her folded tees together which let her find one that was still clean. The leather jacket was…warm? What the hell had he done? Put it on a radiator to dry? Well he could have fucking told her while she was standing in a tee in the damn snow!

     

    Grumbling, fingers tugged at her own shirt, wincing as it pulled away from the bandage, moisture had bled through both. Fucking fish bites.

     

    Fingers played over the counter, searching for the faucet which was snapped on. While the water ran she rummaged hoping he had dumped her first aid kit in the bag as well. Bless the old fart. Peeling the wrap off she wondered if there was a trash. Most people kept it near the toilet. Tongue snapped against the roof of her mouth the sharp sound resonating in the room to help her locate the toilet, foot tapping around it until she located the metal trash can and dumped the old wrap. She frowned as she grabbed one of his "clean" towels. Fuck it.

     

    She spent a good twenty minutes wiping down her wounds. She growled quietly at the ones over the old wound which seemed no longer to exist. Most of the ones on unmarred abs were relatively small, one however was deep, it was the culprit for the soaked bandage.

     

    [derrick]….damn fish…[/derrick]

     

    Thickened crimson wiped clean, she wrapped the wounds up fresh before tossing the blood marred towel on the floor and used a fresh one to soak and wipe down her face and arms. It felt good to rub warm water over skin that still prickled from the chill outside.

     

    By the time she was zipping up the duffle she was mildly presentable. Hair had been brushed out, the silk tail pulled back at the nape of her neck to drape down to her hips, the heather gray tee tucked into her black jeans unstained for the time being, custom holster gloved over her shoulders to tuck the gun under her arm so tight that it nearly vanished under a blazer though for now it was under a cop's old leather jacket, and several good swigs of bourbon left her belly warm and took some more edge off the pain.

     

    Fingers ran over herself once more to "see" if all was in its place before hoisting the duffle back on her arm. Door unlocked once more she moved into the hallway, back close to a wall as she waited.

     

    She didn’t trust…but she wanted answers.

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    Atticus simply couldn’t resist jumping through the shower in his en-suite bathroom, he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed the sensation of warm water running across his skin. The cleanse, through brief, was every bit as rejuvenating, as were clean clothes; faded jean, black T, and a weathered leather jacket.

    He apologized for keeping her waiting when rounded the corner to find her waiting. Guess the shower wasn’t as quick as it felt, but he had needed it. Mason appeared more vibrant. She had that get-up-and-go gym type look, although he figured the comparison would most likely be taken as an insult so he kept it to himself. He offered his best and safest compliment; a smile and a nod before leading the way out of the apartment block.

    Ballentine Place stood where Amsterdam intersected 82nd, the southeast corner of Omenwich. The Macabre Café lied at the opposite corner of the square. They could have just as easily walked up to the corner and cut down 83rd but it had been too long since he’d walked the narrow alleyways and delighted in the old English ambience of cobblestones and aged brick. As soon as he could Atticus cut down narrow passage, navigating his way through the familiar labyrinth.

    Trinity Market was vacant, the small permanent structures utilized by the various venders to sell their wares coated with snow, abandoned ’til the Spring. It looked a like a miniaturized ghost town backed by the gothic spires of the old Holy Trinity Catholic Church on it’s southwestern side. Atticus loved the market, it was his haven, a place where society was at it purest, it’s most honest, because one’s success relied on reputation. In such a small community word traveled fast and so the rare standard of fairness and quality prevailed. Pride in one’s trade was yet very much alive.

    [atticus]I don’t suppose you frequent markets that often?[/atticus] Atticus had made the assumption while he followed a beaten trail round the drained fountain at it’s center, emerging behind the famous Oak & Henge. From their he wove his way northward to the building that housed the cafe.

    From the outside it was nothing special, but once one passed through the black painted oaken door their senses were pummelled by the various memorabilia tributing the works of Edgar Allan Poe. A sculpted raven sat above the archway of the door and furnishings and decor were modelled after the seventeenth century with hints of steampunk thrown in. No matter how many times he set foot in the place Atticus always marvelled at the care the owner took in his ode to the dark author. All of it, Atticus suddenly realized, know doubt lost to Mason. Glancing over at her there was no sense of awe or wonder, her world was, he considered, visually bland, a mosaic of grey. Perhaps it was not unlike perceiving this plane through the monotone pressures of the air gathering round matter. A realm of textures, lost to two dimensional representations. One that he could choose to peer into, but one that she was trapped within.

    [npc]Atticus?[/npc] A black haired man in his mid thirties called out, smiling as he stepped out from behind the coffee bar. His hair was long, tied back in a pony-tail, his dark clothing bearing a sort of retro look to them of which Atticus wasn’t sure how to define. [npc]It’s been a while.[/npc]

    [atticus]Good to see you Christopher.[/atticus] Atticus greeted, shaking the man’s hand, [atticus]How've you been keeping?[/atticus]

    [npc]Oh, you know, ‘…insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity’.[/npc]

    He always tossed in a quote or line from a poem when he could. Atticus just smiled unsurely. He could only assume the strange line was from Poe.

    [atticus]This is Christopher Vines, the owner of this establishment.[/atticus] Atticus introduced to Mason.

    [npc]Pleased to make your acquaintance.[/npc] Christopher nodded, his brow curiously furrowing as he studied the tall woman’s features, [npc]Y’know,[/npc] he added, waving a finger, trying to place her face, [npc]You look very familiar.[/npc]

    Atticus paused for a moment, pondering how Christopher could possibly know Mason. He was a musician, classically trained from what he remembered, but the guy also played mainstream music. As a result, that combined with his passion for antiques, he really got around the city. Maybe they’d crossed paths in a shop? Not knowing that Mason used to perform on some of the trendiest stages in the city, he was hopelessly in the dark, and very curious of the connection. Unfortunately Christopher’s memory seemed to be failing. It was on the tip of his tongue but not yet unable to spit it out. Maybe after he had some to think on it he'd recall the where and when.

    [atticus]Shall we?[/atticus] Atticus interrupted, gesturing to a secluded corner of the café where two high backed mahogany coloured leather chairs flanked a low, round table.

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    Behind the dark opaque John Lennon shades, exhausted lashes were closed. The last rhythmic drum of water on tile penetrating through the walls lulled awareness into a dull muffle. The world was tuning out so quickly she might very well fall asleep standing up. Dangerous in a place she was unfamiliar with.

     

    Steps on the tiles barely caught her attention before he was near, warm masculine scent magnified by the damp on his skin was rich against the scent of old leather. Nostrils huffed softly. With that scent so accentuated he would have a hard time ever again being near her without the woman recognizing him instantly.

     

    She simply nodded at his apology. He likely wouldn’t be as sorry when he saw his other bathroom. She had rinsed the counter and sink but had no idea how much blood lingered on the stone surface, or on the couple towels she had used to clean up.

     

    His fault for taking her to his house.

     

    As they headed out, she was feeling less and less guilty every moment she tracked the heavy steps. What was he, the fucking energizer bunny?! She was ready to drop dead following him and he was skipping in the damn snow. It was all she could do to keep up. Hidden behind the calm exterior of the cop's old jacket and her boot cut jeans, muscles trembled with every gentle glide along the pavement. She got mistaken for floating across the floor when she maneuvered like this, the steps looked normal but a piece of the sole of her boot never left the ground so she could tell when the terrain lifted and lowered before ever stumbling over it, sensitive ears listening and following directly behind him. In the dark the other senses magnified, problem was, the other senses were damn tired.

     

    A bottle to drown in and her bed to collapse in. That was all her body wanted in the world at the moment. But mind was still clinging to the desire for some tidbit of knowledge that the Mouse was hanging over her head as he tortured her with the long walk.

     

    Scents lingered in the market area. It had been some time since she had ventured into Omenwich but the linger of fragrance was familiar. She had wandered through once because unusual music had floated out of the region. Ethereal…different.

     

    [atticus]I don’t suppose you frequent markets that often?[/atticus]

     

    Brow quirked over the dark shades.

     

    [derrick]…. not exactly.[/derrick]

     

    Steps paused as she brushed a bit close to a brick wall in the alley, giving herself a moment to lean her weight against it. Upright was getting more and more difficult. She needed to be sitting. Three weeks of human radar followed by an all scale shadow war, not to mention the complete wrenching of her….. she deserved a damn rest not a 10 mile hike through the Omenwich jungle. Just where the hell was he going?

     

    Hand pushed from the wall to keep up with him before he could notice she was lagging, steps again working to keep up while feeling the terrain. This fatigued, the darkness was oppressive.

     

    Head tilted slightly as they finally pushed through a door, the sound distinctly heavy. Wood. Nostrils flared to "read" the room. Perfumes, colognes, coffee, wood, old paper… the cacophony on her senses almost too much. Lips parted, deep breath taken to steady her wits. Fingers lifted to pinch the bridge of her nose, dark shades lifting slightly off closed eyes as though she were fighting a migraine before her fingers fell away once more.

     

    She listened with only half an ear as he chatted the server up until she noticed he was making an introduction, head turned towards the voice of the man, his height betrayed by his words allowing her to target the right place with her "gaze". Chin nodded with a "nice" smile.

     

    [npc]Y'know, you look very familiar.[/npc]

     

    Brow dipped instantly, working hard to sharpen her thoughts and try to figure out who he was. First thought didn’t go to music. A hit from Bakkhos? Enemy? Ally? The tone of his voice wasn’t even remotely familiar. Head shook at him, dark mahogany tail rippling down her back as the "smile" came back.

     

    [derrick]…don’t think so. Never been in here before.[/derrick]

     

    Hairs on the back of her neck quivered as the recognition set her on edge. She found herself wondering if going with the good Doc who was so "excited" to talk to her might lead to her damn dissection.

     

    [atticus]Shall we?[/atticus]

     

    Snort was soft as head turned faintly, delicate hearing inspecting every inch of the place for potential attackers as she murmured to him.

     

    [derrick]….after you Mighty Mouse.[/derrick]

     

    She didn’t know him well enough to pick up his cues. Gaspari could say something like that and based on the position of his body and dip in the tone in his voice she would know exactly where he was intending them to go. With Conan here, instincts said go right but for all she knew he was gesturing backward and she wasn’t one to risk humiliation in public. He clearly didn’t grasp that her abilities exhausted just like everyone elses.

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    A thin trail of steam rose from Atticus’ milk and tea as he lightly blew a cool stream of air across it’s surface. Some acts of human habit, thankfully, would never change.

    For a long while they had sat in silence, he taking in the ambience, Mason dealing with the effects of extreme fatigue. The signs were obvious and she was wasting little energy in an effort to conceal her state. He felt bad making her navigate the alleyways of Omenwich, it wasn’t until they were past the Henge that he really began to take notice of her condition. Of course, she wasn’t displaying the typical signs of physical exhaustion. If he had to guess, Atticus, would say she was suffering from a migraine.

    [atticus]Do you get them often?[/atticus] He inquired before taking a sip of his tea, [atticus]The headaches.[/atticus] he clarified.

    It was far from Atticus to dwell on a person’s overall health when they weren’t openly broadcasting a need for help. After a few minutes, however, of the woman obviously struggling to concentrate, Atticus couldn’t help playing the doctor. It was inherent to his nature. He’d always been overly empathetic but he wouldn’t go as far as describing himself as ‘motherly’, although Slate would. Good thing for him too, else the man might have died on more than one occasion.

    [atticus]Sorry for prying. If you’d rather do this some other time I’d more than understand. It’s the…[/atticus] he tapped his temple in a quickly manufactured gesture to represent her unique ability, [atticus]… isn’t it?[/atticus] He was already nodding in agreement to his assumption before she could answer. [atticus]They take their toll on us.[/atticus]

    While Atticus was physically energized due to the excitement of finally being home, he was in fact quite drained. After this he planned to sleep for the better part of the afternoon, possibly into the evening. He’d check in with Pharos and settle things up with the NWSI tomorrow.

    [atticus]Care to try one?[/atticus] Atticus offered, lightly tapping his finger on the plate before him upon which were four small black coloured cinnamon rolls, [atticus]They’re famous for them.[/atticus]

    The black dough had the slight taste of molasses, creating a gingerbread-like flavour to them which Atticus could honestly take or leave. He was kind of a traditionalist but he forced himself out of that bubble whenever he got the chance, that, and he was hungry.

    Christopher strolled by. [npc]How’re things going?[/npc] He inquired.

    Atticus smiled and nodded. [atticus]Everything’s great.[/atticus]

    [npc]Good, good.[/npc] His eyes slipped over to Mason. [npc]I finally figured it out.[/npc] he whispered, as if trying to keep it a secret. [npc]The Cutting Room. It was a few years ago, but you were great! Are you still playing?[/npc]

    Atticus sat back, intrigued, arms folding across his chest. She was a musician. Obviously a notable one by the way Vines was fawning over her.

    [atticus]What’s the ‘Cutting Room’?[/atticus] Atticus inquired, [atticus]Sounds kinda sinister.[/atticus]

    Christopher just scowled curiously at Atticus not making the leap. To a musician, or anyone who loved live bands the name was brilliant. The comment pretty much pegged Atticus as an outsider, and he knew it.

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    Black triple espresso proved to be a fair bit better bean than most she drank. The aroma was smoother than she was used to. When they sat, she had made a point of reversing the chair, straddling the seat so she could lean slightly forward, arms folded on the top of its back. It gave an incredibly aloof and relaxed appearance, but it was a habit born from conditioning, she could launch herself off it quickly in the event of an attack.

     

    [atticus]Do you get them often? The headaches. [/atticus]

     

    Chin lifted abruptly, brows furrowing over the dark Lennon shades. Fingers reached to the table, adjusting position slightly as the heat billowing from the mug told her exactly where the opening was and where to reach for it. It was a slight thing but at the level of exhaustion she was fighting she hadnt been able to precisely pinpoint the object simply from the server having set it down like she normally could. The cup was drawn to her lips before the acidic response could escape them. Tongue snaked them as she set the cup down once more, this time carefully measured by the reach of her arm. Her thoughts had been allowed to become measured than the kneejerk response.

     

    [derrick]…listen Mighty Mouse….I don’t know how exactly your Nevus aberration works, cuz you seem to just take a "lickin' and keep on tickin'". But for the rest of us, having it turned on for weeks at a time, days of no sleep and wounds that continue to bleed, all sort of take a toll.[/derrick]

     

    Words were hushed for their table only as the head tilted faintly, listening to the world around her. The darkness that instilled fear in others was calming to the one that had only known darkness all her life. Fingers this time reached with exact precision for the cup once more, pausing to dangle the half full mug from her fingertips as the arm remained on the top of the chair.

     

    [derrick]….it would be a grave mistake to make assumptions about my strength based on what you think you see in front of you at the moment.[/derrick]

     

    [atticus]Sorry for prying. If you'd rather do this some other time I'd more than understand…..[/atticus][derrick]….not exactly the chummy type. Not sure what sort of next time there will be Mighty Mouse so best to sate that eager curiosity of yours now.[/derrick]

     

    The sweet scent of the rolls had betrayed them the moment the plate had been set down. Food wasn’t really high on her diet at the moment. Something she wasn’t about to admit was she had spent the entire trip faintly sea sick. It didn’t help that the headliner too often skipped meals in favor of a "liquid" diet. Head shook at the offer just as shoulders stiffened slightly at the approach of the barista.

     

    [npc]I finally figured it out.[/npc]

     

    Hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end, shaded eyes "glancing" up to where she had heard his voice in the perfect mimic of the sited. His lowered voice only set her further on edge, left hand sliding off the back of the chair to slide ominously inside the front of the leather jacket.

     

    Just what had he figured out exactly?

     

    [npc] The Cutting Room. It was a few years ago, but you were great! Are you still playing?[/npc]

     

    A brow lifted slowly before the hand fell out of her jacket, gun still in its holster hidden. Shit. That was more than a few years ago, last time she had played Cut had been easily four years ago. She didn’t have the time she once had for venues outside the Bakkhos realm. It hadn't been her better performances because she was backing up a band on a favor to an old bar owner who had done right by her after the Nevus event. Lead singer had been a diva who didn’t want her on a mic and wanted the guitar as background and never to outshine him. Trouble was, she didn’t take orders well from "artists" that didn’t have her talent. She had taken solo spots in the songs constantly on the guitar, never in rehearsal but always live on stage. If he didn’t want to look like a total ass he couldn’t throw a tantrum on stage. Afterwards however, well he definitely knew how to go on a tirade, one often unheard as she never stuck around after a show.

     

    Man that felt like a lifetime ago.

     

    Lips parted to answer only to clamp shut and quirk a brow at the doc's words. She hadn't thought anyone in New York wouldn’t know about Cut… even if they weren't into live music.

     

    [derrick]…you're worldly ignorance is showing Doc.[/derrick]

     

    Mug was retrieved as she shook her head a bit at Christopher, he didn’t seem the type to frequent Bakkhos club anyway.

     

    [derrick]On occasion only these days.[/derrick]

     

    At least it seemed he didn’t know her from before the Nevus. The few times people had recognized her from that far back they had been fanatics, kowtowing to her and her "brilliance". There was a reason she didn’t go by D.G. anymore. The name had died in the apocalypse.

     

    Shaded "gaze" went to Atticus, faint quip upward of her brow as if to say "I thought you wanted to talk somewhere quiet".

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    [npc]Well, it was nice to meet you.[/npc] The proprietor replied to the curt response, taking the hint. [npc]Anything else?[/npc] he inquired of Atticus, who answered with a quick shake of his head and an apologetic smile.

    The faint traces of an audible sigh swallowed with the sip of his hot beverage as Christopher trailed away. It was more for his own poor judgement rather than a reckoning. He had placed his own needs for social contact and reaffirmation ahead of Mason. She was tired, irritable and injured and the pleasant trappings of the café offered her little comfort.

    [atticus]Shit. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.[/atticus] He humbly apologized.

    Therein lied the difference between the two. While the loss of Mason’s enhancements made her vulnerable Atticus stood euphoric upon the sloughed shell of his godliness. He never felt more ‘human’ than when his abilities were spent. The crunch of snow beneath his boot, the chill of the wind upon his flesh, the mundane sensations were intoxicating. That, coupled with the return home had blinded him to the reality of the woman’s condition.

    They weren’t here to swap astrological signs. It was time to get down to business

    [atticus]How’d you know?[/atticus] He inquired, the severity of the seriousness in his voice deepening his tone; the amiability of his sparkling eyes gravely subdued. [atticus]Nevusian Fragments[/atticus] a term he used to describe the rare splinters of the fractured sky, [atticus]are extremely rare. Some venture to say they’re nothing but a myth.[/atticus] He posed.

    Of course Atticus knew better but before they could proceed he needed to know if Mason was misinterpreting what she had encountered. The scar on her back was indeed proof she had survived astronomical odds but had she actually happened upon what could be termed as a ‘fragment of creation’?

    [atticus]I know it may be difficult to recount, but could you describe the event to me? Please.[/atticus]

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    She frowned at his sigh. If he didn’t like her company he should have left her to walk home alone rather than geek out over her skywound.

     

    [atticus]Shit. I'm really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.[/atticus]

     

    Brow quirked as she swirled the expresso in her mug.

     

    [derrick]…you strike me as one that does that often Mighty Mouse. Not think I mean.[/derrick]

     

    Mutter was soft as she added.

     

    [derrick]…your excitement runs away with you.[/derrick]

     

    His silence was apologetic. Least he seemed to finally recognize that not all the warriors on the boat had been gods.

     

    [atticus]How'd you know? Nevusian Fragments are extremely rare. Some venture to say they're nothing but a myth.[/atticus]

     

    The swirling stopped as she seemed to freeze. It was strange, she was so eager for answers but now that they were about to really "talk" about it, she wanted to crawl in a hole and forget it. His plea to recount the event only drew the brows faintly down as the mug came up to her lips, heat burning down her throat finally beginning to chase the shivers away. Long fingers tipped down to set the cup on the table, fingertips tracing the lip thoughtfully before finally breaking the silence.

     

    [derrick]…they are definitely real…. and alive…..[/derrick]

     

    Fingers fell from the cup to dangle freely off the back of the chair. Brows puzzling downward as she searched for words, head shaking slightly.

     

    [derrick]….sorta.[/derrick]

     

    Chin moved slightly over her shoulder, listening for where everyone else in the café was, making sure they were out of earshot before finally pushing her story out into the ether.

     

    [derrick]…happened in the monster invasion. When that spire showed up in the harbor. Got caught where the three headed dog appeared, had climbed out of the belly of the earth to attack. In the chaos of the fight, I got a little "help" falling down the tunnel it had made.[/derrick]

     

    Hint of a frown whispered across her features recalling the cop's "attempt" to save her which landed them both down the hole. She decided to leave that part out of the telling, and his boy scout ways down there, and his playful banter, and his offer for dinner and a movie. It wasn’t important. Not anymore. Hand left the back of the chair to rub her neck, everything was stiffening up.

     

    [derrick]Fall was…. fifty yards… maybe more. A death fall.[/derrick]

     

    Fingers hanging off the back of the chair had begun minute ghosts of movements, music forever seeped into her being when emotions skewed, the tips of deft instruments faintly stroking up as the thumb stroked down, unconsciously playing.

     

    [derrick]When I hit the rock ledge it was on my back, I have only seconds of memory before the black consumed me. Bones had broken but it was the pressure through my gut that delved past the pain. When I reached for my abdomen there was a rock speared through it that I had fallen on. It had gone clean through from the back, protruded feet above and was wide enough that my fingers couldn’t encircle it.[/derrick]

     

    Strumming fingers paused to reach for the mug, espresso imbibed as though it might heal some broken emotion. Tongue snaked over lips as she set it down again, breath deep before continuing.

     

    [derrick]Was out for two days apparently. No care. Bleeding out. Should have been dead.[/derrick]

     

    Shrug of her shoulders seemed to dismiss it as no big deal. It was weird to talk about it. Even Jersey had never asked what happened and when Boss asked, she had shrugged it off as a mere "fall" and everyone was too afraid to ask her specifically about the grotesque wound that seemed to be inked over in ebony.

     

    [derrick]When I woke up…. nothing was broken anymore and the rock was gone…. or so I thought. [/derrick]

     

    Fingers were ghosting over "strings" again as she shook her head a bit, looking for words to explain it.

     

    [derrick]Where the hole in my gut was supposed to be was a healed scar, the twisted ridges were coarse, like rock dust had absorbed into the wound. Best I can figure….it became a part of me.[/derrick]

     

    Shaded "gaze" lifted towards the man, as though waiting for something before adding quietly.

     

    [derrick]….and it protects itself….[/derrick]

     

    She fell silent and waited, looking for a hint of being seen as insane.

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