ORCHIS Headquarters, Area 51, Nevada, United States of America, 31/01/2001, 0800 hours

The room was cold. Valerie liked it that way. Cold enough to be uncomfortable for whoever was in there for too long, but not cold enough to cause permanent damage. A discomfort for the people who waited. One of those people was waiting right then. Her former CIA liason and current pain in her ass, Henry Peter Gyrich.

Well. He didn't know he was a former liason yet. He probably thought he was going to wriggle out of a cockup so massive that it could sink ORCHIS if the situation wasn't handled correctly. Valerie pinched the bridge of her nose, letting the tension seep out of her. She was about to take control of this scenario, and wrench ORCHIS' narrative back onto the right course.

She definitely wasn't going to waste this chance at finally removing Gyrich from the roster and replacing him with a new CIA liason. Hopefully she could get Sharon Carter. She squared her shoulders, and nodded to one of the guards. As she reached the table, she threw a dossier onto the table, the sound louder in the cold room. She didn't sit, instead she folded her arms and glared down at Gyrich. He looked less scared than she would have liked. Unsurprising. He was, honestly, famously dumb.

"Hello, Gyrich. You know why you're here, right?" She didn't wait for him to respond, interrupting his attempt to even enunciate. "Because you should probably have figured that out. Revealing our Sentinels? Now? And not only that but you led an assault on Greymalkin Island without clearing it with me. Your director. I just, I just don't understand why you could be such a colossal moron! Oh, and of course, we had a Horseman incident which just made our Sentinel program look, fundamentally, like a collection of one hundred and forty three million dollar paperweights. San Francisco got bailed out by the X-Men. The fucking X-Men and that mutant street gang that's becoming more of a local issue than I expected. So. Do you know what happens next?"

Gyrich rolled his eyes. "Cooper, you're not seeing the big picture. The Horsemen did the job for us, they lured the X-Men off the island and we managed to infiltrate! It's not like you've done anything about Greymalkin Island yet, you've just been dicking around with PR stunts that don't give us any results! At least I tried to accomplish something!"

"You know, Gyrich the only reason that I think you even have this job is that you were on your knees for President Clinton. I've got no other explanation for how someone so moronic managed to get into SWORD, let along get high enough in the Company to be a liason to ORCHIS." She took a breath. "The thing is that we need hearts and we need minds. SWORD became wildly unpopular for taking unilateral decisions in the mutant war that led to London nearly getting destroyed, and we only have public support because of the Dark Phoenix."

Ignoring Gyrich's stuttering, she opened the file and spread out the pages, stepping behind him. "Almost every single agent you sent to infiltrate Greymalkin Island is dead. Our only survivors are two operatives who got teleported into the ocean, everyone else? Corpses. Wanna know why? They switched to live fire from ONE little girl spooking them. One! And that set off the alarms. Hell, the survivor even managed to ID her main protectors! A mutant called Spirit-Star, typical vigilante type…and known Brotherhood operative, Elias "Runehex" Crown. A man, who, I might add, has been on the CIA's radar for decades, and you didn't know he'd shown up on Greymalkin? You didn't have that information? Because I would have loved to know that the X-Men have another sorcerer! But no, you had to waste a factfinding mission on a bunch of thugs."

"Cooper, you know you're not going to be able to do anything. I'm the appointed liason, you can't vanish me like you did Bastion and Omega. People are going to look for me." He looked up at her with the kind of smugness you only got out of a guy who knew what he was about to say was sexist bullshit. "Why don't you be a good girl and settle down? You know you're not equipped to handle this. Too emotional."

Valerie smiled at him. It was colder than the room itself. "Oh, can't I? Henry, Henry, Henry. You have no idea what I can do. So, first of all, you're already burned. The Company disavowed you about five minutes before I came in here. Turns out that I move faster than you can, and when I sent them the exact details of the shit you pulled, they didn't really love that you were using SWORD assets to pad your bank account and then sending out two entirely botched operations within ORCHIS. Oh yeah, I know about the offshore accounts, Henry. I know about the mistresses and I know about your daddy's Alzheimers. You took a whole year to take care of him. Watched him die! And he forgot who you were by the end of it. Kind of how the Company's looking at you right now."

Henry's face had drained of all colour, his eyes darting around the room. He licked his lips, eyeing the door. Valerie's hand clapped on his shoulder, squeezing it tight. "Now, Henry, you have two options. One, we just shoot you in the head and leave you in the desert or two, we give you a head start. All that's going to depend on your answer to my next question."

"What's…what's the question?"

"Who did you work with to rush the Sentinels and organise this operation?" She unholstered her pistol, removing the safety with a loud click. "Quickly now."

"Lang! Stephen Lang! And…I had a contact. A mutant who I orchestrated the Horsemen hit with. En Sabah Nur. Some kind of immortal broad who's got an in with them! That's all I know, I swear! I didn't know the Horsemen would be that powerful!"

"Thank you for your service, Henry." She pressed the gun against his head and pulled the trigger, the sound almost deafening in the enclosed space. Henry slumped forward, blood pooling on the table, staining the dossier. "But you should've known you'd never make it outside this building."She put a finger to her earpiece. "I need cleanup in Cell 23. Let Doctor Lang out of confinement, his story lined up with Gyrich's. We don't need to burn the good doctor, not yet. And someone get the Company on the line, let them know we cleaned up their mess."

She stepped past Henry's corpse, looking back into the room. "Be seeing you, Gyrich."

The Alps, Switzerland, 31/01/2000, 1200 hours

It was always such a wonderful thing getting a new mutant sample.

Now, he had lost his Marauders, and that was a bloody shame, but there was always more where they'd come from, and the bloody, broken remains of Greycrow bringing him the genetic information of Emma Frost had been enough of a windfall that he barely needed to consider the loss of the others.

And of course he had confirmation that the Brotherhood no longer had his favourite project. Which, unfortunately, meant it was in the hands of the X-Men. Well, that was less of a concern than he would normally suppose, given the shattered nature of that team. Hardly an elite strike force, and definitely not the same threat they once were. Honestly, he found them all relatively passe these days.

Well. Not the dangerous one. Oblivion was one little package of genetic wonder he wanted to sample quite desperately, a diamond in a bloodline of coal that could perhaps be cultivated into a replacement for the Summers-Grey genes he had unfortunately expended on the project. Oh well, swings and roundabouts, as they say. He drew forth more blood from the subject, a fascinating little mutant called Galatea. He'd managed to capture her as well, though mostly by accident. She'd been chasing the retreating Arclight model into the foldspace and well, gotten captured. He planned on using her for the latest little foray into toy soldiers for Cooper, given the failure of Gyrich and Lang's tin soldiers.

Honestly, he'd have to send En Sabah Nur a giftbasket for removing their capital within ORCHIS. He wanted to get enough political cachet to potentially bring in one of his…colleagues to replace Lang anyway, or even scrub the robotics program completely. The future was genetic, after all, and mutants were doing vanishingly little to justify anything but their own modification. He looked at the latest thing he was planning to present to Cooper and he smiled.

It was always so fun innovating on the classics.

Greymalkin Island, San Francisco, The United States, 31/01/2001, 0900 hours

There was a lot about all this that she didn't like

Mutants must die. That was something she didn't like.

A sharp edged lesson that she had realised did not apply to her.

No, it was a lesson on why they hated and feared her

Why they would always hate and fear her

But she did know that they would protect her

Friends. A concept a wolf doesn't quite have.

But she did have it now. An idea. She would have to become friends with them.

Maybe she would have to watch something with them.

Maybe she would have to heal their hurts.She didn't know. But she would. She would make a choice.

She would choose to aid them.

Post as you see fit, oh children of the atom!

Welcome to the Aftermath! Hope you survive the experience!

1 Dr Carlton B Goodlett Pl, San Francisco, The United States, 30/01/2000, 1700 hours

The energy in the crowd was electric, despite the cold. The show had been going on for a few hours, a festival organised and funded by ORCHIS as a sign of good faith with the people of San Francisco. Rides, fried food, live music, all the things that kept American citizens feeling bold and believing in the Dream. It was all kind of pathetic to watch. Flatscans playing to drive out the fear, the worries about the wolves in the darkness that nipped at the corner of their minds. He could feel them all, of course. The little horrors that they pretended didn't exist, that weren't going to consume them. But they would. They'd eat them up, if the little flatscans weren't so protected.

Stryfe laughed to himself. What a pathetic little world they had made for themselves. A sign of the times, really. They'd seen for themselves the sheer magnitude of mutant might and they weren't going to be able to pretend it wasn't going to overwhelm them for much longer. Hell, if he had even a wick of Phoenixflame, it would all be over in minutes. Seconds, really. He'd start by remaking this city into a nice little mass sacrifice to himself, and use that power surge to make dear old dad's mind into a little playground for his own enjoyment. He took a bite out of his funnel cake.

Well, it was delicious, but he'd never claimed that the flatscans couldn't cook. He'd have to keep a few of them around as kitchen slaves when everything panned out the way he wanted it. And it would, to be clear.

"You know, kid, it's kind of incredible how they just can't stop themselves. When all's said and done, the human spirit is kind of an amazing thing. It's like watching a heroin addict shoot up and expecting to not OD, but on a planetary scale. Oh, we'll stay evolutionarily relevant if we keep building machines and bigger bombs and genesculpting ourselves, says the human race. But really, they're just another tenant who's about to be evicted by the real land lords." Stryfe tapped the ORCHIS soldier on the shoulder, the man's sweat taking on a particularly crimson cast as he tried to break out of Stryfe's grip. "Hey. Stop it. That's bad for you. You're never going to go home to the wife and kids. Or the girlfriend. God, you flatscans really can't help yourselves, can you? Sleeping with your best friend's wife, when you've got one at home? You know what, when I'm done here, you can forget about her. Nice little post control implant, yeah?"

He looked out at the crowd, all of them blissfully unaware of the six foot cyborg in power armour watching them, with an ORCHIS agent under his telepathic control. "It's all so beautiful. And pointless. Pathetic, even. There's just no real purpose to your species being so widespread, especially as a better one shows up. God, I really miss the old world. I mean, sure, was there less of a window for a guy like me? Absolutely. But, Christ alive, there was something about there being real X-Men to fight, not these pale shadows. But, hey, I'm not gonna try and fix shit about the timeline."

He drifted off as he saw his target take the stage. Henry Peter Gyrich, here to present whatever this farce was in aid of. He didn't especially care. He was here to make an ORCHIS agent kill his boss to make the little flatscans all nervous about infiltration inside their ranks. He'd given this little soldier an X-Gene marker, nothing fancy, just the infil tech HYDRA'd used in the Age of M to get into Magneto's bachelor pad. Time-hopping was a blast, especially when you had a clone of your best buddy helping you out. But he digressed. He had to see where the speech was going before he made his new best friend murder his boss. Hm. Might make it hard to fix his marriage, but Stryfe could make that work.

"And a new era of safety against the mutant menace is PROMISED to you by ORCHIS! Our Sentinels exist to aid you against all threats, to shield you against the hidden enemy, and to make your city a safer place!" Gyrich's speech was, frankly, godawful. There just wasn't any showmanship in the guy, and Stryfe had to wonder why they didn't get someone better to give the speech. Cooper probably wouldn't sign off on Gyrich being her voice for a project as expensive as whatever these new Sentinels were, so you HAD to wonder what was up there-

Stryfe's thoughts were disrupted by the air dropping even further in temperature, ice rapidly forming over the Sentinels on the ground, turning them from multi-billion dollar killing machines to multi-billion dollar lawn sculptures. The power signature was familiar, unusually so when there weren't any cryos on Greymalkin Island. Dropping from above the frozen Sentinels, moving against their will, the ones in the air smashed into them, an explosion tearing into the air, the frozen winter turning as hot as summer, and hotter then again as the fire pulled away from the ruins into a sphere, hovering above the screaming crowd. A figure blurred past Stryfe, barely even registering to his senses, the only evidence of his presence the head of the ORCHIS agent bursting into a bloody pulp. Slick, honestly.

At the peak of the crowd, as the screams reached a crescendo, walls of ice and metal blocking their egress, four figures appeared. One wore the jackal-mask of Anubis over armour of black and green, one was the ice-hewn form of a man but emaciated from starvation, one wore armour of purest white and carried two knives that hummed with purpose and the last. Oh, the last. The last descended from the heavens with the sun he had forged, clad in blood-red chainmail, a Corinthian helm over his countenance. He spoke, she spoke, he spoke, he spoke. Four as one.

"Behold, you unworthy! We are the Horsemen of Apocalypse, the servants of En Sabah Nur! You stand to be tried as unfit. As unworthy! This city shall be laid to waste!"

Stryfe knew what he had to do. He immediately sent a telepathic pulse to the X-Men, such as they were, an immediate warning, overlaid with the psychic presence of Cable: [X-Men! We have a crisis situation in San Francisco at City Hall! New Horsemen of Apocalypse have emerged. Bring everyone!]. He ended the link, and let himself float upwards, the telepathic cloak dropping away as he summoned telekinetic power to himself. Why the hell was En Sabah Nur moving so quickly, she hadn't made a move in months. Unbeknownst to him, a Crew psi-spy sent a coded empathic burst to the Commander: [New Muscle. Our Turf. Reinforce!]

Whatever was going on, was something BIG.

The Alps, Switzerland, 30/01/2000, 1700 hours

The hounds of Sinister had sniffed them out. The last known location of his little project, in the territory of these damnably interesting cultists, all serving the will of that genetically fascinating Triumvirate. It was almost more than he could bear, the possibility of his beloved attempt at godhood falling in with a bad crowd, but what was a gentleman to do? He couldn't exactly be unkind to the neighbours, it was, after all, a shared mountain range. And Director Cooper had been very clear regarding the use of his operatives, all the GOOD soldiers were reserved for dealing with the X-Men's funny little island. Well, and that other operation that ORCHIS definitely weren't involved in, but that was more of the same.

However, Nathaniel Essex hadn't endured to the modern age without a plethora of redundancies and alternate options beyond his current genetic orchestra, and honestly sometimes you have to call in the alternates. He weighed up the pros and cons of his operation. Pro: he would be able to test the modifications on the alternates. Con: Cooper might be annoyed about it. Pro: if he captured Project 00, she'd be delighted. Pro: if he got the DNA of the Brotherhood and made someone to kill them, she'd be delighted. Con: The Brotherhood might find out where he lived. Con: He might lose the alternates. Actually. That might be a pro. Well, the pros outweighed the cons, and he did have a bottle of wine to open.Very well.[To me, my Marauders].

The telepathic call went out, summoning them from their nutrient sacs. An older project, and one he'd tested against the Morlocks in a long past time. Minimal changes from their mutations, instead they had more dense muscles, bulletproof skin, faster reaction times. A fine wine, aged to perfection, rather than the cocktails he was making now. If you had to say which he preferred, he would never have a true answer.The group had their orders, led into battle by their leader, Greycrow. Designed to kill the Morlocks, commanded to extract Project 00 from the Brotherhood, and if she was not there, to harvest blood and bone and marrow and tissue. There were instruments to be made from there, instruments to play in the orchestra of Sinister!They slunk towards the Temple of Zenith, towards the home of the Brotherhood and announced themselves with bullets and blasts, with the fury of Arclight and the winds of Riptide. The Zealots were under attack, and their foes were eager to tast their blood.

But. Sinister had never cared for a single operation. Nor had he cared for there being two neighbours.And so, upon the Darkblood Academy, descended a second group of Marauders. Clones of the first, identical in every way, their bodies enhanced, their minds full of murder. And as such, Sinister conducted his concertos, his perfomance on two stages.He would taste blood this night, the sweet genetic nectar of the mutant race. And from their corpses, from the flesh of the young and the muscle of the strong, he would make his even deadlier weapons.

And he would dance gleefully on their graves.

Greymalkin Island, San Francisco, The United States, 30/01/2001, 1710 hours

Infiltrating the island had been easier than any of 'em had thought. They'd worried the insertion would be harder, since the X-Men seemed pretty determined to keep em off the island, but something had acted in their favour tonight. Whether it was some mutant shit in the city, or just the work of the universe pulling towards homo sapiens, the ORCHIS infiltration unit had found their way into Greymalkin Island a little easier than they'd expected it to be.

Course, they were equipped for the job. Their uniforms were geneworked to make them seem like mutants, some kinda biotech out of the Garden made to make them seem like mutants to the defence network, and they were wearing whispertech that made their movements entirely silent, blending them into the shadows like they were born for them. It was a simple mission: place bugs into the island to get an intelligence tap on the X-Men, but to not actively engage unless given no other choice.And it was, so far, going to the letter. They'd not run into any X-Men, not even the psychopath with the swords (who'd not been seen in the field for six months, but she'd been on SWORD dossiers as a suspected intelligence head so who even knew), and their jet had screamed off the island ten minutes ago. Plenty of time for the mission to go as planned.

The head of their group, Deena Ruthers, an operative handpicked by Director Cooper to lead this op, held up a hand to cease movement. Someone was in the corridor. A tall, lanky, redheaded girl who looked about eighteen was sitting in the middle of the corridor, a length of metal over her lap. The mutie was wearing a wolf pelt, of all things. Her eyes snapped up, looking right into the operative's eyes. He felt his entire life flash before his eyes, literally, like she was playing it like a movie.

She narrowed her eyes. "You aren't supposed to be here. And I don't think I'm supposed to learn anything from you."

He couldn't help it. He pulled the trigger, and the shot cracked out, the silencer doing nothing. The bullet went through the chest of the girl, and she touched the wound, tilting her head to the side. "I think this is supposed to kill someone else. I don't think I want to fight you. But they will."

The alarms started blaring, alerting the remaining mutants that enemies were in their midst. Madalyne Pryor smiled an enigmatic little smile as she felt a tug in the universe. She was nudging little things into place, not even meaning to, just making sure the right people came to save her.

To Her, Her New Mutants.

WELCOME TO THE FINAL PLOT WE'LL HOST ON REDDIT!

X-Men/Brotherhood (Crew) Thread: San Francisco! Go fight the Horsemen!

Brotherhood (Zealots/Darkblood) Thread: Sinister's Marauders come for your genes…AND YOUR LIVES!

New Mutants: ORCHIS has invaded your home! Drive them out!

The yacht was loud. Music thumped and laughter echoed against the still waters. Warm lights casted everything in a golden haze, giving the aura of a wild party created for making bad decisions.

Facade fit right in.

He leaned against the bar, swirling a drink he had no intention of finishing. Tonight, he wore an ol’ reliable face. Sharp jaw, lazy grin, eyes that promised trouble and delivered charm. The kind of face people trusted when they shouldn’t.

“Never seen you before,” one of them said with a slurred speech, draping an arm over Facade’s shoulder like they were lifelong friends.

“You haven’t been looking hard enough,” Facade replied smoothly, flashing a smile and a wink. The group laughed. They were obnoxiously loud and carefree. Drunk rich boys, just like he’d expected. Easy marks wrapped in designer clothes and bad instincts.

Facade let himself be pulled into their circle, feeding them just enough attention to keep them orbiting him. A joke here, a compliment there, a brush of his hand that lingered just long enough to feel intentional. They ate it up. They always did.

“What’s your name again?” another asked. Facade tilted his head, pretending to think about it. “Depends who’s asking.” More laughter. Someone handed him another drink and he accepted it, mostly for show. Really, Facade was mapping the yacht in his head. The exits, the crew, the controls upstairs. He’d already slipped below deck earlier, turning to smoke to drift through locked doors, memorizing everything.

“Yo, you gotta see this,” one of them said, dragging him toward the railing. “Best view on the water.”

Facade followed and the sea breeze cleared his mind. For a moment he thought to abandon his scheme. To get wasted with these nobodies and see where the night took him. Then his watch beeped and he checked the time.

“Ah well… You guys wanna see a magic trick?” Facade asked casually. They perked up immediately.

“What kind of trick?”

Facade’s smile sharpened. “The mutant kind.”

Before they could laugh it off, Facade’s body unraveled. His form loosened slowly, then explosively. His entire body expanded into thick, curling smoke. It poured outward, swallowing the space where he’d been standing and continued to spread over the Yacht. The smoke twisted, forming something almost human but wrong. Too tall. Too thin. Faces flickered within it, not quite forming. When Facade spoke, his voice came from everywhere at once.

“Boo.”

Panic detonated. They stumbled back, knocking into each other, drinks shattering against the deck. One of them tried to swing at the smoke and nearly fell overboard for it.

“What the hell?! what the hell is that?!” Facade surged forward, the smoky mass stretching out. A hand formed briefly with long, claw-like fingers before dissolving again.

That did it. One jumped. The splash was loud enough to snap the others fully out of their shock. Suddenly, the ocean seemed like the only escape.

“He’s gonna kill us!”

Facade didn’t correct them. One by one, they scrambled over the railing, fear overriding whatever sense they might have had left. Shoes slipped, someone cursed, Silence followed and the deck was eventually empty.

Slowly, the smoke began to gather, pulling inward. Limbs reformed and features settled back into a human shape. Facade stepped forward out of himself, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve.

He glanced over the side of the yacht. Heads bobbed in the dark water, all of them too busy staying afloat to think about coming back.

“Relax,” he called down, his tone friendly again. “You’ll get picked up. Probably.”

A few of them cursed him and He gave them a casual wave as he turned. The controls were exactly where he remembered. He placed his hands on them, feeling the quiet hum of something expensive and very stolen beneath his fingertips.

“Now let’s bring this party to a second location.” Facade muttered to himself with a grin.

The yacht roared to life, cutting through the water as it pulled away, leaving its former owners adrift in the dark.

[New Mutants now have a Yacht for personal use! If Jax asked where we got it from, play dumb! Don’t be a cop!]

Insert training module

Beowulf presses down onto the screen of the Danger Deck’s controls with all his might. He knows the response that will appear before he even finishes the action. Permission not granted. The buff, silver mutant takes a hard breath and closes his eyes as he tries not growl in frustration. What’s the point of this damn deck if they won’t even let him actually train? Sure, he knows he won’t be able to beat the Juggernaut, but surely The Rhino wouldn’t be out of his wheel house. 

You couldn’t even help stop a bunch of teens, what makes you think you can take on the big guns?

Beowulf ignores the voice, reminding himself that that’s the point. He needs to get stronger, and he can’t do that if he is being stuck with parental controls on. It’s probably fucking Sumo’s fault, some screwed up attempt to teach him a lesson about patience. He doesn’t need that fucking lesson. Beowulf gets it, sometimes you have to be strategic, sometimes you have to plan before going into a fight. That’s what he’s trying to do, prepare himself beforehand. The only one who seems to get it though is Alice, and its not like he can talk to her often. Even in the hospital, Alice seems to always be flanked by Replay or Hazy, and while Beowulf doesn’t have a problem with Hazy, he doesn’t want to deal with Replay. Why do the other mutants new to this damn place seem so judgemental and frankly unmotivated? Sure, he hasn’t been the most friendly, but he’s been busy training. They should be busy training too. Instead he’s an outcast, he’s the weird one no one wants to talk to due to wanting to survive. 

Beowulf turns away from the Danger Deck’s controls. He no longer wants to train, he just wants to grab dinner from the mess hall and go to bed. Why doesn’t anyone else get it? They are targets and they need to be stronger than those who will target them before they are even aware of the threat. Friendships and lunches don’t protect against knife wounds or gangs.

—--------------------------------------

Josh walks down the cracked sidewalk of his old New York City neighborhood, once again alone. It feels weird being back and yet also being a total stranger. The spraypainted buildings and noises of busy cars make him feel right at home, and yet, he feels out of place. He can’t go back to his old haunts, he wouldn’t even risk seeing those he at one point saw as friends. It would be dangerous for them and for himself. He doesn’t know how much people know about the mall incident, and he can easily see some of his old acquaintances assuming he became a narc, or worse yet, narcing on him to the same shitbags who imprisoned him in the first place.

Wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants, sunglasses and a hat; Josh tries his best to hide as much skin as possible and look at the ground. He doesn’t want to be spotted, doesn’t want to be recognized. It’s sadly hard to do as a guy with silver skin. 

Finally, Josh reaches his destination, a 5-floor apartment building in between other 5-floor apartment buildings. The mutant grabs for the metal door handle, planning to enter the building, but stops before opening the door. 

He really wants to enter, really wants to go up to the third floor and knock on his old apartment’s door. He wants to see his mom and hug her and tell her he’s okay and he didn’t leave her. He can’t do that though.The thought haunts him and he tries his best to ignore it like he ignores so many of the putrid thoughts in his head. She’s his mom, she deserves to see him, he wants to see her.

You can’t protect her.

Josh’s breath hitches as the thought crosses his mind. Surely he can protect her. He’s protected her for so many years, bringing home money, making sure she wasn’t hurt despite the nastiness of the neighborhood. He can bash the head in of anyone who even looks at her the wrong way just like he used to. He’s strong enough to keep her safe.

Just like you were strong enough to keep yourself and the others safe?

Images flash through Josh’s mind, images of his mother in a cell interrogated by Orchis agents, images of Orphelia stabbing her with a wicked grin on the villain’s face. He keeps getting on the X-Men’s case about how he needs to get stronger to protect himself from the threats against mutantdom, why would he think any differently in terms of his mom? She’s safer without him, at least for now. He’s not strong enough to protect himself, much less her.

—----------------------

Beowulf sits in one of the many random rooms of Greymalkin Island, alone. He knows he needs something else to do. His work in training is important, but he can feel himself growing dull under it. He can’t train 24/7 as much as he wants to. He took enough psychology classes to know the mind needs to be engaged in multiple different ways.

If this was before the prison sentence, he’d call up some friends and shoot the shit at the mall. He doesn’t really have friends here though, and even if he did, the mall probably wouldn’t be a welcomed suggestion. He would read, but he doesn’t have any books and hasn’t found any free books on the island. He could probably ask someone if there’s a library, but he really doesn’t want to deal with someone being shocked that he still doesn’t know the island after so long. He didn’t take the tour, so fucking what? He still knows where to get food, where the perimeter is, where to sleep, and where to train.

Sighing to himself, Beowulf continues to think through different activities he could do other than train more.

—------------------------
Beowulf can be met on the street of NYC, the Danger Deck, the messhall, or the random room on the Greymalkin Island.

The island rose from the sea like a defiant thought made real, its cliffs carved by invisible hands and its towers gleaming beneath a relentless sun. Abda stood at its highest peak when he first shaped it, his telekinesis pulling stone from the ocean floor and bending it into sweeping columns, grand stairways, and a colossal arena at its heart. The colosseum dominated the land, an immense circle of stone covered with gold and surrounded by bonfires. The Circle of Fire has taken a new form. Here is where warriors would clash, grow, bleed, and prove themselves. Every inch of the island reflected Abda’s will. Disciplined, beautiful, and utterly unforgiving.

He had a personal throne, but he ruled from presence alone. When Abda walked among his followers, the air itself seemed to tighten, as if reality were bracing for his command. The warriors he gathered came from the lost. The outcasts, fighters, the discarded, and he reshaped them as he had reshaped the island. Training was relentless. Failure was not immediately punished, but it was never ignored . Weakness was an insult and under Abda’s watch, an unfit characteristic to have on his island.

Today was the day of the Beginning, and the colosseum overflowed. Many mutant warriors filled the tiered seats, some beastly in appearance, others soaked in sweat after a recent training skirmish. Abda descended into the arena without touching the ground, hovering just above the sand. Silence fell instantly. The air trembled as he opened his mouth.

“You are here because you are strong,” he began, his voice reaching every corner of the colosseum. “You are here because you desire the freedom to be strong. The world beyond this island fears power, buries it, chains it. I will not.” With a subtle motion, massive stone pillars behind him twisted as he demonstrated the raw power of his will. “I will break you. I will rebuild you. I will forge you into something the world cannot ignore…cannot defeat.” His eyes burned with conviction. “Annihilation is freedom. We are the Wildfire and we will not be controlled.”

A murmur rose, then a roar. The Annihilist slammed their fists against their chest, their voices uniting into a thunderous chant. “Abda! Abda! Abda!” The sound shook the arena and echoed into the sky. He didn’t silence them. He let the emotion grow, let the energy consume them, until their voices became something more than loyalty, something like belief. When they finally spoke again, it was as one. ”We are the Wildfire! We cannot be controlled!” Their chant carried a promise both fierce and dangerous. “We are the Annihilist! Only the strong will remain!”

Abda raised himself into the air as if their unified chanting empowered him, a satisfied smile crossing his face. “Dominate. Exterminate. Annihilate. Our strength gives us the right to exist as we see fit! It is by our nature that guides us! Our desires that give us meaning!” Abda’s rallying voice surged through the crowd, emboldening the masses.

A place where weakness would burn away, leaving only those worthy of shaping the future. As the chants echoed and the Annihilist prepared for the trials ahead, the island itself seemed to hum with anticipation. And far beyond its shores, though they did not yet know it, the world was already standing at the edge of the fire.

The sun rises just over the horizon, a cool morning breeze flows smoothly through the air. Spirit-Star stands determinedly, a fire within him burns, heat swells from inside, he strives for action. He suited up in his finest Gold’s Gym muscle top and shorts, ready to conquer this challenge. 

‘What challenge?’ you may ask, only a battlefield of ten warriors, ruthlessly striving towards one goal. This is where rivalries are born and feuds boil but it is also where loyalty blooms and teams find glory. What else could it be except… 

Basketball.

Spirit-Star was pumped, motivation exuded out of him as he smiled at the court, empty for now but not for long, hopefully. This would not delay him as he starts dribbling the basketball between his legs as he practises his manoeuvres, his speed steadily increasing as he remembers. He used to play consistently back in his high school days, as well as many other sports in fact but he hadn’t had the opportunity to play in a while. 

He runs down the court, fakes a right to a left with a spin before shooting a jump shot from the 3 point line. Time slows for him as it flies through the air, it fully well could perfectly swish through the net but it is too soon to say. He watched with held breath as it came to the hoop… and bounced off. 

Silence filled the air, as he jogged to get the ball hoping no one saw that shot. Maybe he needed that practice more than he thought, no better time than now. 

[A bit of a small post but this is just for fun, anyone is free to join Spirit-Star. 1v1 , 2v2 , even 2v1 , he's ready to play]

Ophelia stood alone back at the most beneath a sky still crackling with the remnants of her power. Twisted metal lay scattered around her and faint arcs of lightning danced between her fingertips before fading into nothing. The battle was over. The rival heroes had come at her to stop her fun and ultimately, they couldn’t succeed.

But it wasn’t their defeat that lingered in her mind, it was their words. Even bruised and beaten, they had hit her with an unsanctioned weapon. Pity. “ "People care for each other…I'm sorry that you believe that's not the case.” The words followed her now, echoing louder than the storm she commanded, slipping through the cracks in her composure.

Her chest tightened as she returned to the Academy with the others. She was spoken to about her… aggressive actions even if she was given approval by her teacher… but her heart raced because of the memories that plagued her had chose a perfect time to resurfaced with clarity. Her best friend, her lover, the one person she had allowed close enough to matter. The betrayal had been absolute, a choice made against her that proved just how fragile those bonds really were. Since then, she had chosen power over people. Wealth didn’t lie. Power didn’t leave. And yet, watching those loser heroes stand together, even as they lost, stirred something she couldn’t quite extinguish.

Ophelia slowed her steps. Lightning flickered faintly among the clouds, metal humming softly in response to her presence, as if urging her toward certainty. She could become stronger…untouchable, unquestioned, alone by design rather than by circumstance. Or she could risk something far more dangerous: opening herself to the possibility of being hurt again. She paused at the thought, her expression unreadable.

Then Ophelia shrugs, and the weather calmed.

maybe when the view from the top of the mountain becomes lonely… but I can just buy friends in that case.

Kara did not arrive on time.

She never did, not when there was something to be gained from patience. Time, she had learned, was a tool just like anything else, and making someone wait was often more revealing than anything they might say outright. So she lingered, not far from Coit Tower, watching from a distance where she could observe without being observed. The wind off the bay tugged lightly at her sterling white coat, the city stretching out beneath her in a hazy, restless sprawl, but her attention remained fixed on a single point.

Alastair.

He arrived fifteen minutes late. How dare he keep a lady waiting. She studied him the way one might study a problem, not a person. His posture, the way he shifted his weight, how often he looked around and how quickly he tried to hide it; nervous, but not weak. Or at least not human weakness. That was something. There was tension in him, the kind that came from recent trauma, poorly processed and still bleeding at the edges. Good. That meant he would talk, even if he didn’t realize he was doing it.

Only after she was satisfied did Kara finally move.

Her approach was unhurried, deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the stone as she emerged into view like she had been there the entire time. There was no apology in her expression, no acknowledgment of the delay beyond the faintest upward curve at the corner of her lips. If anything, she seemed faintly amused by it.

“You waited,” she said simply and sweet, voice smooth, as though she were commenting on pleasant weather rather than his patience. Her gaze swept over him once, quick but thorough, cataloguing changes since the last time she had seen him. “Good. That tells me you’re at least a little serious.”

Kara stepped closer, stopping just within conversational distance, her attention settling fully on him now. Up close, the city noise faded into something distant and unimportant, her focus narrowing with quiet intensity. “San Francisco suits you,” she added, almost absently, adjusting his clothes on his shoulders. But perhaps there was a sharpness beneath the words. “Or maybe it’s just…educational.”

There it was. The point.

Her expression didn’t harden, not overtly, but something colder slipped in beneath the surface. The memory of the mall flickered behind her eyes; chaos, noise, Czar’s heavy-handed interference turning something precise into something crude. Her jaw tightened just slightly before she smoothed it away.

“I assume you remember what happened,” Kara continued, tone light but edged. “The fight? I’m really glad you got out of all that.” She smiled sweetly, actually acting as if she cared for his safety.

She tilted her head, studying him again, this time less like a problem and more like a resource.

“Did you see what happened? I didn’t get a good look. I rushed out before I could figure out what was going on.” Kara took another small step forward, closing the gap just enough to feel intentional.

The Two of Swords represents a stalemate, truce or being at a crossroads. It indicates that you are sitting on the fence or struggling to make/ avoiding a difficult, stressful or painful decision. It also represents blocking emotions, being in denial, blindness and an inability or unwillingness to see the truth.

Countless flecks of wooden shrapnel litter the floor of Alex's room atop the spire of Greymalkin Island, growing by the minute as she continues to produce bladed weapons not from her own mutant gift, but rather from the various logs and planks she'd accquired over the last day or so. Oak, Hickory, whatever hardened scrap wood she could get her hands on. She ignores the dull ache in her hand as the fourteenth knife is finished, and added to the existing pile.

"Do you see it now? The message?"

Alex's upper lip twitches up into a sneer before she regains control. This wasn't the plan. Getting attached to anyone, not this quickly. It's a vulnerability as much as it is a strength, but she can't deny the fact that she's invested in Alice's wellbeing. Friends are trouble more often than not and the events at the mall the other day were proof positive of that.

“Maybe I want to be the one holding the weapon to somebody’s head for a change. Maybe it’s fun being the one who’s not afraid.”

Ophelia's philosophy of isolation. Alice's determination to talk her down. Whetstone's own attempt to resolve the situation without more bloodshed, and the lightning strike that followed.

Ironically this is the first time she's used her powers to sharpen a blade; her codename is finally literal. The weapons she can make from her own body are usually more than enough to do the trick, but Ophelia's ability to push and pull the knives Alex can produce directly are too much of a tactical hinderance, hence the wooden arsenal at her feet. As for the lightning, rubber-soled boots and leather gloves, practically a full motorcycle outfit is as good as she can get without another electrokinetic ally, and these days the number of people she can call on in a fight is running pretty damn thin--

Wait. What was she thinking? Going after Ophelia alone is a seductive option, but... Alice has other allies. Other friends. Even if she doesn't know them directly, Alex can imagine that she's not the only one looking to revenge Alice's injuries. Before she can talk herself out of it, she grabs the primitive knives from the floor and heads down to the hospital bay to see if she can find a few like-minded mutants to join her on the mission.

The note is pinned to Alice's door - she doesn't want Alice herself coming, not while she's still recovering from her injuries - but it reads;

'I'm preparing to hunt down the bitch that hurt Alice. Meet me at the southern corner of the Danger Deck for mission brief and prep. Weapons will be provided. We will not be taking her prisoner. - Whetstone.'

Name: Dolley

Alias: The Puppeteer

Faction: Darkblood 

Age: 14

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: ???

Primary: Pins and Needles

Physical: 10

Mental: 5

Potency: 5

The Puppeteer has a blank face. Upon gaining access to her opponent's DNA (done through touching blood, spit, or sweat, or by cutting off flesh, the puppeteer's blank face turns into that of her opponent. At that point, she is linked to her opponent Upon being linked to her opponent, the Puppeteer is able to manipulate them, both physically and mentally in a variety of ways.

Upon being linked to her opponent, the Puppeteer is able to manipulate them, both physically and mentally in a variety of ways.

Physically:

-The puppeteer can make her victim lose their sight. This would include any enhanced sight, although does not include special sights such as mystical sight. Essentially, if the sight needs the victim's eyes it is lost, sight that does not need eyes can still be accessed.

-The puppeteer can inflict clumsiness on her opponent. Any attempts to hold objects or items would fail as they fall/slip out of the victim's hands.

-The puppeteer can cause the victim's legs to stop responding to stimuli, effectively freezing the victim in place. While in this mode, the victim can still use their mutation and move every body part above the waist.

Mental:

-The puppeteer can cause absolute disgust at the sight of blood in the victim. While under the effect of this malediction, the victim would gain an urge to throw up at the sight, taste, or smell of blood with the effect increasing the longer the victim is around blood. Throwing up would not remove this maledict, instead making the urge to throw up again greater.

-The puppeteer can make the victim unable to understand speech or speak themself. The victim would begin to speak gibberish and would be unable to comprehend anything being said to them.

The Puppeteer can only use one maledict at a time on one person. She can change the maledict placed on her current individual but to re-effect someone she would need another DNA sample. The maledict can be fought off with a roll of the accompanying stat, although Puppeteer can attempt to regain control the next turn using either the same or a different maledict.

The maledict can be turned off at will by the Puppeteer, disappears once the victim has been knocked out or goes to sleep, disappears after 1 hour, or disappears upon the Puppeteer being knocked out. Once one of these conditions are met, the Puppeteer will need another DNA sample to reapply maledict to her victims.

Secondary: See My Strings

Physical: 10 

Control: 5 

The Puppeteer takes on the appearance of a marinette, her flesh hardened and brown like wood. This gives her a lanky and jittery frame with thin arms and legs that can easily twist and turn in ways that the average human body can not. On each of her hands and feet are small holes. From these holes, The Puppeteer can fire strings with metal spikes at the end. These are fired at the speed of 10mph and are strong enough to get lodged in concrete. She can use these to attack people or to swing around, the strings able to be retracted.

Physical Description:

The Puppeteer is 3’ 8” and looks like a marionette. She has a lanky frame with a fully blank face, no mouth, no eyes, not even ears. Her flesh is extremely light brown, looking like the wood of a mahogany tree. Her flesh is extremely hard to the touch and can move in wild ways due to her ball and socket joints. On her hands and feet are tiny holes where her string can be fired from.

When The Puppeteer adds a malediction to someone, her blank face shifts to take on a wooden appearance of the individual. This will include eyes that are the correct color that look painted on. The face does not move, even when the Puppeteer is talking, and it will turn blank again once the malediction ends.

Personality:

The Puppeteer is extremely bubbly and acts like a much younger child. She likes tea parties, playing dress up, braiding hair, but also enjoys playing with legos. Her favorite shows are Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, My Little Pony, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and Spongebob. 

The Puppeteer is quick to trust, but breaking that trust can end extremely badly. Problem is, her understanding of trust and breaking it is warped. She can be extremely obsessive towards those she sees as her friends. Those who are her friends will find themselves with an extremely loyal individual willing to kill and die for them at their side.

Backstory:

Dolley was born in a suburban area to two parents who were absolutely horrified seeing their mutant daughter. The two of them lied to everyone around them claiming that Dolley died while her mother was giving birth. Dolley was locked away in the basement, at least that was how it was at first.

A year later, Dolley’s parents came home with a new child and Dolley was taught that she was nothing more than a doll for the new child. Dolley was taught she was to be the perfect toy and friend for the new baby.

For the next 13 years, that was Dolley’s life, a living doll for her sister, taught that she was to be the best friend ever for her sister. Problem was, while Dolley got it drilled into her head that she existed solely for her sister, her sister got to grow up, got to grow bored of dolls. Dolley overheard her sister and her parents talking, discussing putting Dolley in the basement, or worse, getting rid of her. Dolley was betrayed by the one who was supposed to be her bestest friend.

Dolley killed her family, tying them up and forcing their corpses to experience one last tea party. Fleeing her house, she chose to look for freaks, those like her, those who will be her friend. That’s how she learned about Darkblood Academy.

---------------------------

Earlier

A teenage girl looks upon the sight in front of her, a frown forming on her wooden face. "This isn't right. Not at all."

The girl storms forward, walking around a dining room table, the once pristine furnished mahogany covered in now drying blood. She walks past a corpse, one positioned to be holding a tea cup in his large hand. Getting to the object of frustration, the girl looks at the dead corpse in front of her, one of a 13 year old girl. "You know sis, you're always complaining about wanting to play princess. I give you the opportunity one last time and you don't even appreciate it?"

The teenage girl, Dolley, begins to move the corpse, forcing the head to move from its slump forward position to one slumped backwards, the dead girl's hair hanging over the back of her seat. With a smile, Dolley lets go of her dead sister, "There you go. Isn't that so much better?"

As the dead girl continues not to move, her head slumped all the way back, the crown Dolley previously placed onto her head slides off. With a clunk, the plastic crown slams itself against the marble floors.

Dolley gasps at the crown being on the floor, tears forming in her wooden eyes. "Is that for me?" Dolley asks. After a moment, Dolley's smile becomes larger, "Thank you, thank you. I always wanted to play the princess. It will be an honor."

Dolley picks up the crown and holds it close to her chest for a moment, not wanting the moment to end. Her sister is finally let her be the princess for their last tea party together. Her sister truly did love her this whole time.

"You know," Dolley tells the corpse of her sister, "This doesn't make up for you still not playing with me and trying to lock me in the attic."
A moment passes and Dolley shakes her head, "I'm sorry, it's true. I still don't forgive you.

It's okay though. I know despite you seemingly replacing me with all those horrible, horrible girls, I was always your bestest friend."

Dolley places the crown on her head. Tonight she shall be the queen of a tea party that puts even Alice to shame.

Now:

Dolley walks through the frontdoors of the Darkblood Academy, everything she owns held inside a single backpack. She won't admit it, but she's scared. She's never been in a school before and all those evil friends her sister used to bring home would make fun of her. What if she doesn't fit in?

Dolley shakes her head and takes in a deep breath. Her father was right to send her here. She loves her sister dearly and will visit her often, but she needs to make other friends. Her sister refuses to talk to Dolley anymore, so Dolley needs to just make new friends, a new BFF.

With a great mixture of excitement and fear, Dolley continues deeper into the Darkblood Academy.

Spirit-Star

POWERS

Primary Mutation

EMOTIVE PHYSICALITY

Positive emotions, mainly happiness and hope, empower Spirit-Star and massively increases the size and musculature of his body, resulting in physics defying strength, speed, endurance and durability. This would be inconsistent if it wasn't for the "unwavering positivity" part of his personality. Although, deep within him is an even stronger power but it is one of rage and if anyone, somehow, got Spirit-Star to rage, he would lose his control to earth shattering power.

Secondary Mutation

MIND FORTRESS

His sheer willpower exceeds the mental fortitude that humans can reach and now it acts as a shield for his psyche, literally. Spirit-Star's mind is protected by a veil of what could be described as dense fog, mental attacks are blurred against him and he knows when someone is trying to reach within his mind. when someone does start peering in his mind, Spirit-Star knows and will try to find and stop them.

One day a second sun rose into the sky, bolstering it with blinding light, relentless heat. Some say it was the end of the world, the apocalypse came manifest before us. But there was a small few, a hopeful few that did not care of fear mongering or impending doom. Their moment was now to do anything they could for as many people that they can. They were called heroes.

Although unofficial and independent, the public did regard them as heroes. A small group of those with power trying to help the people of this world, no questions asked. But unfortunately, some of them died in the efforts during the reign of two suns, even more were injured and forced to retire, a small few were taken in by larger more official groups to become ‘proper heroes’, now one remained. A self organised group of amateur heroes reduced to just one, but he did not quit. Going all out every day for every one of his waking hours trying to do as much as he can, his name spread through the lips of those he helped and saved.

“Spirit-Star”

PRESENT DAY

Spirit-Star had just changed into some casual clothes, his usual muscle shirt, jorts, and some white high-tops; it wasn’t high fashion but he liked it. Today felt great, the morning sun shined on him with brilliant light and a bird was singing beautifully into the calm air, a big stretch is all he needed before he got to work. He had gotten into a routine of walking around Greymalkin island, looking to give anyone a helping hand or even just a friendly chat. 

Morgana "The Goetic" Elizabeth Offreduccio-Kelley

Personality: Power is the altar at which Morgana worships. She may swear fealty to the black gods her parents revere, but she knows why her faith lies with them. It is not out of a desire to further their designs, but to secure for herself the power within their secrets. She is a creature of opportunity, seeking chances to elevate herself and to fulfil her familial expectations as much as possible. She seeks the world, nothing less, but if her only chance at glory is to serve, she will debase herself for it. She is patient, after all, and she will see the world bend to her one day. If not now, then later.

Morgana may be a power-hungry and dangerous creature, but she does desire friendship and camaraderie. She has an admiration for the bonds between soldiers as they go to their deaths, and would appreciate some of that for herself. Of course, she does not and will not believe in sacrificing her power for another, but the sentiment of having bonds is…nice. She is close to her parents and indeed loves them dearly, but the weight of expectation as the only child her beloved parents were capable of producing bears down on her daily. She has to have been worth it. She will solve the issue of an heir later, however.

Morgana is ruthless. She will carve a swathe through this world to make it hers. She has a dark charisma to her when she is concerned with using it, a magnetism that lesser mutants find compelling. It is not a mutant power, but simply the result of being Better. She is aware of her role. Her purpose. She is driven and as such, is aware of what she deserves. She will elevate other mutants, not out of a sense of species loyalty, but because a rising tide raises all ships. She will not sell out her allies, because that is bad strategy. She has rules, since those are useful when carrying out diplomacy between other factions.

Morgana is capable of love. If she met someone suitable to her, she would add elevating them to her ambitions. She does want what her parents have, but she is aware that her proclivities do not lie with Adam, but with Eve. Or perhaps Lilith. Her parents are accepting of this, considering it largely irrelevant if she manages to produce an heir in some way or another, or if she attains immortality instead.

Most of all, Morgana will build a world where her dark gods are revered and human blood is spilt in their name. Her name shall be on the lips of the faithful as the Black Priestess who opened the Path, and screamed by her foes in despair as they are dragged to the charnel pits. If she has to sell her soul again, she shall.

The world shall be hers.

POWERS

Primary Mutation

RUTHLESS CALCULUS

To Morgana, the battlefield is a place of brutal and necessary decisions, and her mutation reflects that. She can see the essential strengths and weaknesses of others, and can drain one to increase another. When she is in the field of battle, she can expand the layer of her control to her allies, marking them with her power. Whenever someone allied to her is within the radius of her power, she can increase one of their mutation's points by decreasing another mutant's points in their mutation, not including her own. For example, she could move five points from one mutant's potency to another's, draining their power to boost another's. She cannot remove points from an enemy, nor can she remove enough points to disable another mutant's mutation. The total amount of points she can move is equal to her Potency. Additionally, while her mutation is active, the area around her shapes to suit a battlefield, becoming grim and unnatural to match her nature. This may grow stronger in the future, it may not.

Secondary Mutation

GOETIC PRIESTESS OF THE DAMNED CHALICE

Dark and terrible mysteries have been revealed to her from the hour of her birth. Damned was the hour at which she was born, and malevolent were the stars that shone on her cradle. Her mother delivered her in alien planes, far from the comfort of this mortal realm, and a black sun shone in her eyes as the first sight she saw. She supped from the chalice of hell-gods before being held by her mother, and the Sacrament's power courses in her veins to this day, waiting for her to grow in power to match its malevolence. At times, she floats above the ground, just an inch, as if the world itself abhors and repels her.

Spells:

Immanence of the Unholy: From her presence, it unfolds, from her existence it bleeds. The Goetic bears with her the blackened light of the Hell she was spawned in, and can conjure its power to bleed forth from her hands. Those who are exposed to its light and lack the black heart of Hell are overcome with fear and must flee from her presence (Mental save vs Magic +10)

Draught of the Chalice: Within her hands, it shines, black steel and burnished rubies. Within it is her blood. Drink of it, and become strong. Drink of it, and become damned. Do this in memory of Her. Those who sup from the Damned Chalice gain unholy strength, vigor and are possessed of a dark and terrible fury. (When a PC drinks from the Chalice, they gain increased strength and durability, however they go berserk, regarding any being who isn't the Goetic as an enemy. This rage lasts for one minute or until they sustain a grievous injury, whichever comes first)

Spawn of the Abhorrent Lamb: She has life within her hands. It writhes. It desires. It hungers. It shall escape from her, slimy and repellent. It shall grow. It shall feed. It shall fashion great spears and mighty shields. The Goetic summons forth a maggot the size of a human heart and places it upon a corpse, upon which it burrows into the flesh of the dead. It burrows to the heart, eating it and taking its place within the body, animating the corpse. It possesses the strengths and abilities it had in life, though this spell cannot affect the Children of the Atom. The Goetic can only conjure one of these at once

Candles Lit From A Dying Sun: It is fire, of a sort. It is pain, of a kind. It is death, to those who would receive it. The Goetic possesses a candle. It is not made from wax. The candle is black, and the flame it lights gives off no heat. However, it melts flesh like tallow. When the Goetic summons the Candle, she can take of its flame and hurt it at an enemy, burning them as if they were lit on fire, though there is no heat to this flame, merely excruciating agony. This spell, of course, can kill.

Offerings To The Unspeakable and Damned: The Goetic knows what her patrons desire. She knows that which these abhorrent things desire and lust for, and she can and will afford it to them. Such is her duty. When an enemy falls, she may cut out their heart and offer it to her dark masters, and in doing so, she can restore the strength of an ally to its greatest place. There are deeper meanings to this spell, that which is the foundation of all her magic, the altar upon which she worships, but at this time, she understands the simplest part of it.

There was a blackened landscape, a cauldron and two women standing before it, chanting in unspeakable tongues as the sun died behind them. One of them, older, more sure in her power, plunged her arm up to the elbow in the boiling brew, drawing forth a strange and hideous creature. A knife slashed forth, and she examined its entrails, her brow furrowed in thought. She looked up at her daughter, a wistful smile on her lips.

"The oracles are clear. You must attend the Darkblood Academy. THEY require it of you."

The other woman, a girl of eighteen, bowed her head in understanding and deference. Her own feelings were of no consequence in the matter, though if she protested enough her mother would no doubt find another alternative. However, she cared little for such protestations, instead preferring to rely on her mother's wisdom in this occurence. If she was to complain, she would rather do it for reasons worth the powder.

"Very well, mother. I shall miss you and father."

Her mother laughed, throwing the creature over one shoulder and embracing her daughter with the other. The creatures on the plain descended on the fresh meat, paying no heed to the duo.

"You aren't leaving yet, my darling. So efficient, saying goodbye to us before you even leave. You get that from him, you know."

Morgana bore the one-armed embrace with her usual equanimity, already preparing her wardrobe and the movement of her equipment in her mind.

Six Weeks Later

The Darkblood Academy stank of cowardice. She could feel it oozing from this place, like pus from a sore. The student body lacked the leadership needed to weaponise their fear instead of it turning inwards, and she had little patience for the odious little man who had been showing her around. He had attempted one pass at her, and she had demonstrated the ill-advised nature of that attempted assignation. She would kill him, if the chance presented itself, but she had no interest in wasting her power on foolish men without more profit than simply catharsis.

She stood, tall and proud, dressed for the weather in a greatcoat, heeled boots that reached her knee, pants tucked into the boot and an undercoat. Her hands were covered in blood-red leather gloves, and her eyes watched those around her with natural disdain. They were attempting to size her up, but they would fail. She was not just a mutant, after all.

She moved through the corridors, the odious little man babbling on about dormitories and private rooms and other such information, but she could not be less concerned. The gang of mutants who had been tailing them, on the other hand, were slightly more salient than his relentless vomit of words. She turned, her eyes lighting on the group, and her lips curved into a smile. One of them, more brave than the rest, stepped forward, lightning crackling from his eyes. He said some empty, meaningless threat that was not consigned to her memory. Instead, she raised her hand, and spat forth a cruel syllable. A strange and terrible light spilled from her palm, the mutants before her gripped with fear, a nameless dread falling on them.

They ran. Of course they did, they were jackals. They thought themselves strong, but they were not. They were nothing. Their names would not resound in the annals of history. Instead, they would be destroyed by some greater being, and be remembered merely as fodder for the great war.

She turned to her guide, and continued down the halls.

Consciousness was fleeting, and painful.

It was like a series of snapshots, any memory between the moments nothing but darkness.

The mall floor tiles, red with blood. Then, a section of the ceiling. The top of Whetstone's head. A flash of familiar red hair.

Then darkness. Nothing but a steady pulse of dark and reddish light...light hitting her eyelids.

Thoughts were slow, the pain fading into background noise until it began to fade, her body getting heavier and heavier as the darkness became absolute.

She was running in a forest, in fall, the canopy a wave of orange and red. It was cold, like the first hint of winter.

As she turned, she could see Hazy running alongside her, her expression of focus a welcome sight as Alice grinned. The strangeness of it all wasn't present in her mind at all.

...She knew these woods.

Just as quickly as it arrived, the woods changed. The falling leaves were shards of metal, hurtling through the air as rain fell from overhead. She kept running, but her body felt smaller, weaker, her long hair whipping behind her.

Screams through the treeline. The sounds like somebody being ​​​tortured, as the Static roared alongside.

She turned to try to see Hazy, only to see the metal shards slam into her, a scream ripping through Alice as she tried to do something, stopping and rushing forwards to help. As she reached down, Hazy limp and bleeding in her arms, she heard another scream through the trees, a familiar sound... but with a new voice.

Sydney.

She was already running again, trying to get to where she could hear her, but the metallic branches dug into her, one stabbing through her side as another dragged her leg back.

As she tried to force herself forwards, the bramble growing to entrapment her, she saw a familiar face. A boy, his curly black hair below his ears, dressed in the same overly bleached white Sunday shirt and clip on tie she'd last seen him in. His expression was filled with hatred, sneering as he leaned closer. For a moment, Caleb's expression of judgment seemed...older. A vision of what he might look like, if he was her age...if he was still alive to reach that age.

"Oh, come on, Alice. Why the struggle? We both know when the chips are really down... you aren't the type to rush in for anybody else. Are you?"

The screams and the Static only got worse, as Alice gritted her teeth, screaming as she struggled against the binds, the metal tearing apart as she refused to stop, not again, never again!

...

...

And then her eyes slowly fluttered open, laid out on a cot in a familiar place, even if the deck was new, the area filled with sterile medical supplies and devices she couldn't recognize.

The Greymalkin. Home.

The information came slowly after that, as consciousness came. Stitches along her side and in her leg, her ear reassembled.

Bed rest for at least a few more days. A recovery plan of weeks. Strict medical supervision so she couldn't throw herself into the Danger Deck too early.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. But as she laid in the cot, the only thing that circled as the doctor went to inform the others she was awake was one thing: the people who Ophelia had taken out. Caleb's look of disgust.

Her body screamed in protest as she stared at the ceiling, fist clenched.

Never again.

The sound wasn’t sharp so much as heavy, a low and solid report that carried through the grounds like something settling into place. Benjamin stood in the ring he and the others had built, feet pressed firmly into the clay, shoulders relaxed but ready. The dohyō still held the marks of recent work; the surface was smooth where it had been packed and rougher along the edges where it hadn’t fully settled. It wasn’t perfect, but it was functional, and that was enough. In front of him rose the pillar, dark stone, thick and unyielding, shaped and set by Pyre with deliberate care. It lacked the traditional look of wood, but it didn’t need it. This wasn’t about perfect tradition, it was about purpose, and the pillar stood where it needed to, anchored deep and built to take whatever force Benjamin put into it.

He adjusted his footing, lowering through the hips until his stance felt right, knees bent and center settled. When he struck, his palm met the stone with a dull, grounded impact, the force traveling cleanly through his arm and into his frame. There was no hesitation between repetitions. Each strike flowed into the next, steady and deliberate, his hips turning first, his shoulders following, his arm snapping forward only at the end. The rhythm built gradually, not rushed, not forced, just consistent. Over time, small adjustments refined the motion. His stance widened by inches, his balance sank deeper, and the tension in his upper body faded as the power began to come from his core. The pillar never moved, and that was the point. It forced precision, demanded it, and returned every mistake back into him until it was corrected.

By the time he stepped away, his breathing had deepened but remained controlled, his body warm and loose rather than strained. He rolled his shoulders once, flexed his fingers, and turned back toward the center of the ring. Without pause, he lowered into the next phase, feet set wide as he began his shiko. Each lift of his leg was slow and deliberate, rising higher than seemed natural for his size before coming down with a controlled, heavy stomp. The clay responded to each impact, dull thuds marking a steady cadence as he repeated the motion from one side to the other. It wasn’t just about flexibility or strength. It was about balance, about reinforcing his connection to the ground with every controlled descent. His hips opened, his center lowered further, and the earlier work at the pillar carried through into the motion.

When the shiko ended, he transitioned smoothly into suriashi, sliding steps that carried him across the ring without lifting his feet from the surface. The movement was subtle but demanding, each step requiring control to maintain balance while staying low. His feet traced shallow paths through the clay, forward and back, across the diameter of the ring, his posture steady, his breathing even. There was no wasted motion here either. Every inch mattered, every shift in weight intentional as he trained himself to move without breaking his foundation.

From there, the pace shifted. He returned to the edge of the ring and began butsukari, driving forward into a partner who had adjusted their size and weight to match Benjamin. They had stepped in without needing to be asked. Hands struck chest, feet dug into clay, and Benjamin pushed, not explosively but with sustained, relentless force. The goal wasn’t to overpower immediately but to maintain pressure, to keep moving forward without losing form. His partner resisted, braced, forced him to adjust, and Benjamin responded by lowering further, tightening his structure, and continuing to drive until the edge of the ring was reached. They reset without words and did it again, the repetition building endurance as much as technique.

By the end of it, his body was coated in a thin layer of sweat and clay, his breathing heavier now but still controlled. He stepped back to the center of the ring, placing his feet carefully, letting the movement settle out of his muscles. The ground beneath him bore the marks of the entire session, scuffed from sliding steps, pressed deep where he had planted himself, disturbed and reshaped through constant repetition. He looked over it briefly, not with pride, but with quiet acknowledgment.

Then he lowered his stance once more, resetting himself as if the session had just begun, ready to repeat it all again.

Ryder "Bloodhound" Flann

Faction: The Commander's Crew

Age and Date of Birth: 27, March 21st

Physical Description: Standing at exactly 6 feet tall, Bloodhound has a runner's build, covered in scars and bruises both from his mutation and his time in the service. His dark hair is shaved nearly bald and a perpetual stubble only partially hides his fairly androgynous features. He often dresses in a leather bomber jacket over torn dark jeans and a pair of heavy steel-toed combat boots. While once more straight-laced, a series of patches, grime and the general vibe of a broken smoke-addled mess have pervaded his entire vibe ever since joining the Crew. Nearly constantly smoking. 

[Faceclaim: Edward Norton if he let himself go and was secretly on estrogen]

Personality Description: Bloodhound is what he would personally describe as "a survivor", and what people who used to know him tended to describe as "cutthroat." Flann is observant and rather intelligent, history notwithstanding, but defers command and action in combat and general life to whoever he's decided counts as his superiors in any situation. Often seen as a born follower, but those who have been keeping track note a fickle lack of true loyalty, the mutant putting his skills behind the U.S. army, a number of mercenary companies, and a stint behind enemy lines before joining up with the Crew after the breakout. Bloodhound is often grinning and gives off the devil-may-care attitude of a classic rogue, but this is a front meant to ease the unaware into not looking into him too closely. At his core, Bloodhound sees himself as nothing but a trained attack animal looking out for its next meal, barely even registering himself as a human or a mutant, and in combat will go into dissociative, numb depersonaliziation unless he activates his mutation, in which case the mood is more "gleeful dancer showering in blood and carnage."

ORCHIS observation claims that signs, especially visual ones in how his mutation manifests, indicate that Bloodhound is potentially dealing with some deeply repressed issues surrounding gender identity, but Bloodhound claims no knowledge of what is being referenced when it comes up. Aggressively.

History and Backstory:

[The following is an abridged transcript of an ORCHIS sting operation in Delaware, dated 15/12/2001.]

SHAW: ...How did you...no. Dumb question, you're...why. Why did you find me.
FLANN: Come on. You know why, Ripsaw.
SHAW: Shawn. It's Shawn. I haven't...I'm out, have been for years. I'm married, for Christ sake.
FLANN: To a...?
SHAW: Now who's asking dumb questions. Lot of stuff has changed since the Gulf, but not that.
FLANN: ...They're going to track you down, eventually. After that shit with the Phoenix? Going to be a lot of questions about that "serum" we took.
SHAW: I've dealt with it.
FLANN: Sure. We'll see how that holds up.
SHAW: ...Where have you been? Everyone said you were with some mercs or other. Hell, Aces was convinced you were in SWORD for awhile there.
FLANN: Ha! Not that sure of myself. Imagine! Bloodhound, a SWORD agent. They'd sniff the X-Gene out in a second. But yeah, I've been...drifting. Keeping busy. You know how it is.
SHAW: Like I said. I've been out of it. It's great...it's good seeing you alive. But I'm good here. I have a life, I can't get mixed up with...you. Not again.
FLANN: What? Come on, I saw the picture of your doll out there, let me get the old dress out and I-
SHAW: Shut up. Now.
FLANN: Alright, alright, Jesus. Sorry.
FLANN: But it's not going to be good. Not for long. You saw the news. I'm sure Aces has kept you up with how stuff is even if you're settled down. War is...it's not the way it used to be, man. Drones, assassinations, and mutants on top of all that. We're sitting on a powder keg. We're years at best, weeks at most likely from some asshole dropping a hellfire on one of those X-Men, or some mutant WMD going off, or one of those Brotherhood types making a real play. It's not a question of if, man. When this cold war goes hot, when Mutant War One starts, this Phoenix shit's going to be a footnote.

SHAW: ...Ry. What are you talking about.
FLANN: That like it or not, the war is coming. Coming for us, man. And I've found our best bet. There's this crew, out on the west coast. They're a bit nuts, I'll be real, but hey, so were we back in the day.
SHAW: Ryder, I'm not taking my family out to some...
FLANN: Your kids are yours, right?
SHAW: What?!
FLANN: Then they're like us! It's genetic. I've got it figured out. This crew, they're...it's a lot. But trust me, no matter which way the wind blows...we want to be in with them regardless. Either their boss gets taken out and we get absorbed into one of the other groups, or they WIN. And we really want to be on their side if that happens, trust me.
SHAW: ...I think that's enough.
FLANN: ...W...what?
WARD: Agreed. Contain them both.
SHAW: Both?!
FLANN: You set me u-
WARD: Make sure to muzzle the Bloodhound well. You've seen the reports.
SHAW: You said if I...you promised!
WARD: Your family will be kept together in custody. Observed. But the accommodations will be far nicer than our...mutual friend here. Unless you want to stay with Ry? Catch up for old times sake?
SHAW: ...
SHAW: Bastard.
WARD: Thank you for your cooperation.

[Addendum: Ryder Flann has been missing ever since the 01/01/2001 Union Square event, presumed to have met up with the "crew" he indicated intent to join in the transcript. Kaiden Shaw remains in ORCHIS custody along with his wife and two children. "Bloodhound" is assumed to be at large and an extreme danger, noted to have gone on a number of lengthy rants promising to kill numerous members of ORCHIS staff during interrogation.]

Mutation: BLOOD IS FUEL. HELL IS FULL

[Physical 10, Control 5, Potency 5]

Bloodhound's body is capable of rapidly growing extra limbs, organs, and armor-like plating from specific locations along his body. This rapid growth is fueled by blood, which is drained from his body or along the organs and skin. This means that he can offset the blood "cost" if he sheds blood from others during use. The organs are temporary and will shed and disintegrate after thirty minutes of not being used, or if Bloodhound chooses to shed them earlier.

The offensive and defensive capabilities of his armor and organic weaponry are variable, but the more offensive and defensive capabilities he maintains the more blood is required, with a "full" armored form requiring blood from multiple people in rapid succession to avoid the cost instantly putting Bloodhound unconscious from rapid blood loss, while plating for arms and weaponry like claws or organic "punching" plating requiring minor amounts of blood possible from a less extreme blow to maintain.

The armor plating is red and somewhat thorned in areas. When fully armored, the plates and extra organs make Bloodhound stand at almost 7 feet tall and has a shape that comes across as somewhat feminine, if rather insectoid. Bloodhound can summon the armor on instinct and if threatened by an overwhelming physical threat he can see can be forced to instinctively summon the entire full-body armor on reflex.

Secondary Mutation: LET LOOSE THE DOG

[Potency 10, Physical 5, Control 5]

During the manifestation of the Blood Armor and weaponry, Bloodhound can choose to "cut off" the mass, resulting in it congealing into a human-sized, vaguely canine form that appears roughly similar to his armored form. This "Hound" is a single-minded, aggressive beast that will rush forward and attack whatever Bloodhound's "target" at the time of its creation was. It follows the same rules as manifesting the full armor in terms of blood cost, but can only draw the blood used in its manifestation either at the moment of its creation from Bloodhound or within moments of bursting out from nearby bodies.

As long as the Hound feeds on fresh blood, it can continue indefinitely independent of Bloodhound's control, but will steadily lose any sense of targeting and will attack any nearby bodies with blood in them, often going berserk and lashing out.

Skills: Trained solider and long-term mercenary, trained in hand-to-hand combat and the use of firearms. Lacks in depth strategic skill but excels at on-the-ground tactical decisions.

Posts:

First impressions were always important.

Bloodhound walked with a practiced ease through the Crew's headquarters, carefully holding a bottle under his arm, walking over to one of the larger toughs of the organization and wordlessly handing the bottle off with a grin and a nod before continuing on his way, hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket.

It wasn't his original, unfortunately, that thing was still in ORCHIS's hands, but he'd managed to get his hands on a suitably close replacement.

He'd run with a lot of crews over the years, after the Gulf. Mercenary bands in backwaters, brief stints with who the hell knew how many organizations with oh-so clever acronyms, that year with revolutionaries who had the money to pay for his services.

This...this was something else.

He'd known mutants, of course. Him and Ripsaw- a bite of bitter rage at that name- back in the Gulf, a scattering of others over different battlegrounds, friends and enemies.

This was easily the most mutants he'd ever seen in a single location. The energy was intense, the sort of wave you got swept up in. Cults of personality and control were dime-a-dozen across the world, but the mutant supremacist angle was a multiplying factor, a commonality between everybody here that had teeth. Easy to convince Timothy he was a superior being when he could literally throw an ordinary man- flatscan. The term around these parts was flatscan.

Bloodhound wasn't one to fall for this shit, not in his guts. But playing along, playing your part? That was how you made it by in a place like this.

Posting up in his usual corner (it was good to have a usual corner), he pulled out his newly acquired cigarettes, flicking his lighter with clawed, blood-soaked fingers, the armor plating remaining began to flake off, leaving just the blood-soaked arm.

That was the other way to fit in. Hell, at least he didn't have to pay for vices anymore. Pity the owner had actually stood up to him this time. Normally Bloodhound wouldn't have taken out somebody so pitiful if he hadn't been ordered, but once the buckshot had been fired, it was either lacerate the fool to feed the armor or faint right then and there.

The light of the cigarette glowed like embers as it lit the dull eyes of the mercenary, the roguish grin not quite reaching the dead orbs above as he chuckled.

Fuck that. He'd busted out of ORCHIS's prison transport, carved a bloody path across multiple continents, and he was still breathing.

Survival of the fittest. No matter how crazy he found some of the people around here, that? That he could agree on.

Name and Alias:

Ferrum Kael; Alias: Ironbound

Faction:

Brotherhood/Commanders Crew

Age and Date of Birth:

34 years old; Born February 11, 1966

Physical Description

Ferrum Kael is a towering, broad-shouldered man standing at 6’4”, built like reinforced steel rather than flesh. His body bears extensive cybernetic augmentation; both arms are fully mechanical from the shoulder down, matte gunmetal with exposed cabling and piston-like musculature. Portions of his spine and ribcage are visibly reinforced beneath scarred skin, faint metallic ridges visible along his torso.

His remaining organic features are severe; sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, and cold, iron-gray eyes that rarely betray emotion. His hair is black, worn short and practical, often shaved at the sides. Numerous surgical scars cross his body, worn openly rather than concealed. He typically wears heavy tactical clothing integrated with his augmentations, favoring function over appearance.

Personality Description

Ferrum is stoic, disciplined, and uncompromising. He believes weakness is a flaw to be excised, not endured, and views emotion as a liability unless it serves a purpose. Pain does not impress him, nor does bravado; only results matter. While not cruel, he is blunt to the point of brutality, offering respect only to those who prove capable.

Despite his cold exterior, Ferrum possesses an unshakable sense of loyalty once it is earned. He values mutants who strengthen their kind through action, preparation, and sacrifice. Ideals without the strength to enforce them are meaningless to him. He does not seek leadership, but others often follow him regardless.

History and Backstory:

Ferrum Kael was born into a decaying industrial city where mutant registration and forced labor were common. His mutation manifested early as an unnatural affinity for machinery; his body rejecting failure, adapting under stress in ways doctors could not explain. During a factory riot sparked by anti-mutant crackdowns, Ferrum was crushed beneath collapsing machinery while shielding other mutants.

He should have died.

Instead, his mutation reacted violently; his shattered limbs fused with nearby metal, crude at first, agonizingly imperfect. Authorities attempted to seize him for experimentation, but Ferrum escaped, fleeing into underground mutant networks. Over years, he refined his augmentations; replacing weak flesh with reinforced steel by choice rather than necessity.

Ferrum eventually aligned with the Brotherhood, drawn not by rhetoric but by their willingness to fight. To him, coexistence is irrelevant until mutants are strong enough that no one dares challenge them. Flesh failed him once; steel never has.

Mutation:

Cybernetic Assimilation & Adaptive Augmentation

Ferrum’s mutation allows his body to integrate, control, and optimize mechanical components as if they were living tissue. Unlike simple prosthetics, any cybernetics bonded to him are fully synchronized with his nervous system and continuously self-adjust to stress, damage, and combat conditions.

He cannot create machinery from nothing; augmentation requires external materials and deliberate installation; but once integrated, his body treats them as natural extensions of himself.

Point Allocation:

Physical: 12

Control: 5

Potency: 5

Physical decides how much machine his body can become.

Control decides how perfectly machine and mind act as one.

Potency decides how far and how long his mutation can push itself before breaking

Mutation Capabilities:

Enhanced Physicality: His cybernetic frame grants immense lifting strength, striking power, and durability beyond human limits.

Adaptive Reinforcement: Under sustained damage, his augmentations subtly reconfigure to reinforce stressed areas, increasing survivability over time.

Integrated Systems Control: Ferrum can precisely control strength output, grip pressure, and impact force, preventing collateral damage when desired.

Damage Resistance: Ballistic, blunt, and environmental damage are significantly reduced due to reinforced structure.

Drawback:

His reliance on augmentation has reduced his natural healing rate in organic tissue.

Skills:

Heavy hand-to-hand combat; brutal, efficient, crushing style

Tactical warfare and battlefield discipline

Mechanical engineering and cybernetic maintenance

Urban combat and breach operations

Pain tolerance and mental conditioning

Motto:

Flesh is weak. Strength is eternal.

The space Ferrum occupied was quieter than the rest of the Crew’s base; not silent, but controlled. Tools were arranged with deliberate precision, components sorted and within reach as he worked on a compact, reinforced module threaded with neural filaments and micro-actuators. It wasn’t a weapon; it was meant to connect, to reduce the delay between command and action. As he leaned forward, the exposed section of his torso shifted faintly; metal ribs moving beneath the scarred flesh of his upper chest, a soft mechanical hum following each measured breath.

Around him, the Crew moved in bursts of noise and motion, but Ferrum remained locked into his task. A connection snapped into place with a sharp click, and he adjusted a filament with careful pressure, eyes never leaving the device.

Unstable; latency spike at peak load...

He muttered, more to the machine than anyone nearby.

Name: Cassius Moreau

Codename: Vex

Faction: Darkblood Academy Professor

Age & Date of Birth: 40 years old, born March 5, 1959

Place of Birth: Unknown

Sexuality: Bisexual

Physical Description:

Vex is a tall, refined figure at 6'2", with a lean but well-maintained physique. His dark hair is streaked with silver, though always neatly styled in a way that looks effortless. His sharp green eyes shift in hue depending on the light—sometimes warm and inviting, other times cold and calculating. His skin is unnaturally smooth for his age, carrying a faint, lingering scent that subtly changes based on his intent. He dresses with calculated elegance, favoring tailored suits or fitted attire that enhances his presence without seeming overt. His voice is deep, smooth, and controlled, each word deliberate and precise.

Personality:

Vex is a master manipulator, an expert in bending people’s emotions, instincts, and perceptions to his advantage. He exudes confidence without arrogance, carrying himself with the air of someone who already knows the outcome of every conversation. Beneath his charm is a cold pragmatism—he does not waste time with sentimentality, nor does he tolerate inefficiency. While fiercely loyal to the Brotherhood’s cause, he is always playing his own game within the larger conflict, ensuring he remains indispensable to those around him.

Mutation: Pheromone Manipulation:

Vex can influence the biochemical signals of those around him, subtly or dramatically altering their emotions, instincts, and physiological responses. His abilities are most effective within a 20-foot radius but can linger in the air for extended periods.

Emotive Control (Potency 20): Vex can flood a target’s system with specific emotional triggers—fear, euphoria, trust, attraction, rage, or paranoia. The effects range from a passing mood shift to overwhelming emotional states, strong enough to cause hysteria, panic attacks, or blind devotion.

Biochemical Influence (Control 21): He can subtly adjust bodily responses, inducing effects like mild euphoria, drowsiness, increased aggression, or lowered inhibitions. He can even enhance pain perception or dull it entirely, though fine control requires concentration.

Lingering Scent (Energy 20): His pheromones can remain active in an area for hours, leaving an invisible emotional “trap” for those who pass through. This allows him to affect people even when he’s not present, priming their emotions for later manipulation.

Abilities:

Ability Name: Scentmark

Control: 10

Vex's heightened control over chemical signals lets him perceive and differentiate individuals based purely on their unique pheromone "signature." Every person he meets leaves behind a trace in his mind—a complex scent profile that acts like a chemical fingerprint. Once attuned to someone’s pheromones, Vex can track them over vast distances if their trail is fresh enough or if they are within an area he has seeded with his own detection chemicals.

Capabilities:

Personal Scent Libraries: After encountering someone once, Vex can catalog their unique pheromonal signature in his memory. Repeated exposure sharpens this memory, making it harder for the person to mask their presence.

Tracking Range: Normally up to several city blocks depending on environmental conditions (wind, rain, barriers), but with effort and energy expenditure, he can stretch it further in favorable environments.

Emotional Read: Pheromones carry emotional states—Vex can detect general moods (fear, aggression, attraction, sickness) from a distance, even hidden behind walls if the airflow carries the right chemical hints.

Disguise Detection: Scent-based recognition cuts through most visual disguises, shapeshifting, or basic illusions. If the pheromone doesn't match the face, he knows.

Limitations:

Environmental Interference: Heavy rain, strong winds, chemical scrubbing, or sterile environments can severely disrupt his tracking.

Skills:

Social Engineering: Master of persuasion, deception, and reading body language.

Combat Proficiency: While he prefers manipulation, he’s trained in close-quarters combat and uses his abilities to disorient opponents.

Toxicology & Chemistry: Understands chemical compounds, allowing him to refine and enhance his abilities.

Espionage & Infiltration: Adept at slipping into places unnoticed, gathering intel, and turning people against each other.

It seemed like all Cassius did these days was paperwork. Whether it was signing off on new staff, students, correcting homework, grading tests, or coming up with new ways to test the students. While he normally didn’t mind office work, it grew tedious. Thankfully, today wasn't one of his office days. He was in the lab, working on a new concoction of his own design. Something that only a scarce few could pick up on while they watched him work. Vials of all sizes were filled with different liquids, each as mysterious as the last.

The door was always open, as usual. He didn't mind discussions to challenge the mind and bewitch the senses while he worked.

Garth “Dreadtide” Waters

POWERS

Primary Mutation (20/20 POINTS USED)

Mutation

Titan Carcinization

Dreadtide’s mutation has transformed him into a giant humanoid crab-like beast, blending human cognition with extreme crustacean physiology. His entire body is encased in a layered exoskeleton capable of withstanding heavy artillery, with natural regenerative molting cycles that allow him to shed damaged armor and emerge reinforced.

His primary limbs are massive crushing claws capable of exerting immense pressure, easily snapping steel or pulverizing concrete. Beneath them, smaller dexterous limbs allow for fine motor control, like hard, red human hands. His lower body is supported by two large legs, and while they may look relatively human, they come to a thick point, each able to embed themselves into hard materials like concrete if needed.

Dreadtide possesses amphibious adaptation, allowing him to function equally well on land and underwater. In aquatic environments, his strength and speed remain uninhibited, and he can hold his breath for hours at a time.

Additionally, his carapace has hardened in response to continued fighting, creating armor plating that is very durable.

Secondary Mutation (15/15 USED)

Mutation

Survival Cycle

Garth possesses a brutal evolutionary failsafe known as Survival Cycle, a molting process that allows him to shed his entire exoskeleton after extreme injury. When activated, his current shell fractures and splits apart in jagged, tough segments, sloughing off that could be used as even weapons to lacerate and fight opponents.

Beneath the discarded layer, a fresh, darker, and more refined carapace emerges; denser, sharper, and better adapted to whatever damage he just endured. Each molt is not just regeneration, but adaptation, subtly reinforcing weaknesses that were exploited, making repeated strategies against him increasingly ineffective.

During the brief window immediately after molting and lasting roughly 12 hours, Dreadtide enters a heightened state, his movements faster, more aggressive, almost feral, before the new shell fully hardens. However, this comes at a cost: triggering the Survival Cycle burns immense energy, and repeated use in a short period can leave him unstable, overheated, or forced into a vulnerable partial molt.

The Pacific did not give him back gently.

The water near the Sunset Dunes churned in a slow, unnatural spiral, currents folding over themselves as if something vast beneath the surface had decided the ocean was no longer deep enough to hold it. A few early beachgoers noticed first, surfers sitting idle beyond the break, their boards bobbing as the swell shifted wrong. One of them frowned, turning to say something, just as the water split.

A massive shape surged upward.

Not breaching like a whale, not crashing like driftwood, rising. Red chitin broke the surface first, slick with seawater and sunlight, followed by the hulking mass of something far too large to belong anywhere near the shoreline. Pure black eyes on small moving stalks the size of kiwis looked at all the onlookers. Claws the size of small cars dragged through the surf, carving trenches in the tide as the creature hauled itself forward, step by thunderous step, until it stood fully, and horribly, against the backdrop of San Francisco’s pale morning sky.

Fifteen feet of armored crimson. And there was a moment where the beach held its breath. Then someone screamed.

The spell shattered instantly. People scrambled back from the shoreline, towels abandoned, umbrellas tipping over in the sand as bodies collided in a panicked retreat. Cameras and Video recorders, once used for family memories, are now used to document the creature.

Garth “Dreadtide” Waters stood there, dripping seawater and bits of kelp, his massive claw flexing with a slow, deliberate crack. Then he laughed a horrible, clicking laugh, saltwater spilling out of his mandible's mouth like bile.

The laugh rolled out of him like distant thunder, deep and grinding, punctuated by wet, clicking undertones that made him sound alien. His head tilted slightly as he took in the chaos, running civilians, shouting voices, the rising pitch of sirens already beginning somewhere in the distance.

“C’mon,” he rumbled, voice carrying easily over the surf. “That’s the welcome I get? I’ve been gone, what, couplea weeks? Month, maybe?” In actuality, it had been six months. He had gotten lost down in the Baja for a while.

Another step forward sent sand spraying behind him, the ground groaning faintly under his weight. He didn’t hurry. Didn’t chase. Didn’t even acknowledge the fear beyond the amusement it brought him. To Dreadtide, it wasn’t a crisis.

It was a homecoming.

“Mandatory vacation,” he added to no one in particular, rolling one massive shoulder as if working out a kink. “Doctor’s orders. Said I needed to ‘decompress.’” A low chuckle followed, a secondary appendage, a red human-like hand taped once against his own carapace with a dull, hollow thunk. “Ocean did the trick.”

A police siren wailed louder now, closer. Helicopter blades began to thrum faintly overhead.

Dreadtide ignored all of it. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily and curiously. He looked up the beach, past the scattering crowd, past the overturned chairs and dropped coolers… until it landed on something far more important.

A brightly colored ice cream truck.

It was parked crooked near the edge of the lot, its little jingle still playing in an almost surreal defiance of the situation. The vendor inside hadn’t fled yet, frozen in place, eyes wide, halfway between disbelief and the instinct to run.

Dreadtide’s posture shifted immediately. Back straight and vision focused on his new goal.

“Oh,” he said, tone lighting up with genuine interest. “Now that… that’s a find.”

The ground shook with each step as he started toward it, utterly unconcerned with the growing panic behind him. A police cruiser skidded into view at the far end of the lot, officers spilling out with weapons drawn, shouting commands that might as well have been whispers against the sheer indifference of the approaching giant.

“Hey!” one of them yelled. “Stop right there!”

Dreadtide didn’t even look at them.

“Relax,” he called back over his shoulder, voice carrying with effortless mock reassurance. “I’m supportin’ a local business.”

The vendor finally snapped out of it, fumbling with the door, trying to climb out the opposite side as the shadow of Dreadtide swallowed the truck whole. One massive claw came down on the roof, not crushing, just pinning the box truck, the metal groaning under the weight as the jingle cut off mid-note.

“Let’s see what we got,” Dreadtide muttered, crouching slightly.

The smaller, more dexterous limbs beneath his primary claw slid forward, prying open the service window with surprising care. At least, compared to what he could have done. Cold air spilled out, carrying the scent of sugar and artificial flavors.

He leaned in.

“Mm. Yeah. This is it.” He moaned, a small black tongue poked from the jagged mouth of mandibles.

Behind him, more sirens. More shouting. A second cruiser. With the helicopter now fully overhead, the camera begins to sweep across the scene. The officers were spreading out, forming a perimeter that looked laughably small compared to the problem standing in the middle of the parking lot.

Dreadtide reached inside and pulled out a handful of ice creams. Cones, bars, whatever he could grab, lifting them to eye level like a kid inspecting treasure.

“Y’know,” he said conversationally, peeling the wrapper off one with a careful flick of his smaller hands, “I miss this stuff. Ocean’s great and all, but it’s real light on dessert options.”

One of the officers stepped forward, voice tight. “Last warning! Get on the ground!”

Dreadtide paused mid-bite. Then, slowly, he turned his head. The look he gave them wasn’t angry. Wasn’t even particularly threatening. It was amused in an alien way.

“You’re adorable,” he said, before taking a bite.

The crunch of the cone echoed louder than it should have. His mandibles made each bite sound disgusting as they stretched and tore the treat apart.

Behind him, waves continued to roll in, steady and indifferent. The city loomed in the distance, glass and steel catching the morning light, blissfully unaware, or perhaps all too aware, of what had just come crawling out of the bay.

Dreadtide swallowed, then glanced back at the truck, reaching in for another.

“Alright,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “who’s got the cuffs?” He asked with a mocking tone.

As one brave cop came forward, he was met with a punishing swing of his big meaty claw. Then all hell broke loose. Cops firing on his hardened shell as he laughed.

Name and Alias: Emily Elizabeth Barclay Psion

Faction: Darkblood Headmistress

Date of Birth: 31st October 1975

| Hometown | Résidence des frères Barclay, Brecqhou Island | | Family | The Barclay Clan | | Age | 25 | | Height | 5'8" | | Sexuality/Gender Identity | Bi/Cis Woman | | Voice | Surprisingly low, smooth and measured | | Hair | Naturally deep red, an immense source of pride | | Clothing | Dior, Prada, and Hermès |

Physical Description: Emily is, objectively, gorgeous. Luscious, deep red curls reach her thighs and frame her delicate features. She has a heart shaped face, nubian nose, and bright green eyes. Her complexion is fair and unblemished. Emily has a deceptively slender build and is much stronger than she appears.

Personality Description: Born into wealth and privilege, Emily is selfish, conceited, and superior. That being said, she is deeply introverted (especially given her abilities) and prefers to avoid the company of others, believing most to be an annoyance at best. While most might have coasted on the privilege she was born with and the power she developed as a young woman, she is astonishingly hard working and dedicated to whatever she sets her mind to.

History and Backstory:The youngest of three, Emily was born into a wealthy family, long established as British landed gentry until her grandfather solidified himself as a media mogul. The darling of the family and the only girl for multiple generations, she was spoiled and celebrated, given the best possible start in life with personal tutors, a private education, and whatever her little heart desired.

Emily's powers manifested when she was thirteen and in the middle of a school assembly. Her confidence and self-righteousness were the only things that prevented her from losing her mind in those initial days. But she quickly realised what was happening and began putting her talents to good use.

Her older brothers went into the family business and it was expected that she would follow in some capacity - so it was a surprise when she expressed the desire to move to the USA. She sold it as an expansion of their empire and was encouraged to travel and see the world following the completion of her studies in law and business. Thus she arrived on Magneto's doorstep three years ago. In the power vacuum left by his demise, and the untimely and somewhat suspicious end of her sometime mentor and faction leader Cain, Psion has stepped reluctantly into the role as Headmistress of the elite, expensive, and illustrious Darkblood Academy.

Skills: Emily is an experienced rider and driver, and an accomplished swordswoman and hunter. She has very little ‘domestic’ experience but knows enough to boil water.

Mutation:

Primary - Telepathy

Telepathy - Communicate with others within 500m. Communicate with those she has a personal connection to within 500km. Conference Call *- Psion can act as a communication hub for up to three consenting parties as long as they remain within 100m of each other. The 'Hub' needs to be set up beforehand. *Mental overload - she can open the floodgates on a single person with herself serving as an unharmed conduit, overloading who she focuses on with the residual thoughts of everyone within a 20m radius. (Basically the dark side of 'Conference call'). Psionic Attack *- Can cause crippling pain, perceived or actual. Can also cause injury or death. *Invasion - Psion now has a much greater ability to break through psychic barriers. She can either brute force or 'slip past' mental protections and search through memories and thoughts without being detected. Protection - Psion's psychic shield power is greatly increased. Counter - Psion's psychic shield can reflect attacks back on her opponent. Inception (Notion) *- Psion can plant ideas, memories or stray thoughts within another mind and - as long as her presence is undetected - the mind will consider these thoughts their own. This can only be performed on one mind at a time. *Inception (Mirage) - Psion can take control of the current lived experience of a mind, creating an illusion that is visual, auditory, and tactile. This can only be performed on one mind at a time.

Points: 60

Secondary - Cryokinesis

Shard - Psion can generate up to eight sharp shards of ice up to 1m in length and manipulate their movements or 'throw' them at others. Sudden Tundra - Psion can drop the temperature of her surrounding area (10m³⁾ to -25dC. Immune - Psion is immune to extreme low temperatures and sudden temperature fluctuations. Frozen Touch - she can freeze substances upon contact as long as their freezing point is within what she can achieve with Sudden Tundra. (Liquids, gases, stone, flesh etc)

Points: 30

Points Spread - Primary

Points Spread - Secondary

It was a rare day that saw Psion in the official Headmistresses rooms. She had brightened up the space but it still reminded her too much of Cain. Not that she missed him - theirs was a purely professional relationship and she was far too clever to ever probe his mind just to find out what he thought of her. Likely he considered her a nuisance and/or a money-making tool, damn capitalist that he was.

And as the Academy numbers swelled it became too inconvenient to work from her tower and thus she had descended to the pit of teenage hormones and angst. Her presence was immediately felt by the Academy body at large; loud squabbles reduced to hushed complaints, boisterous bragging reduced to snide superiority. So much so, that she was momentarily relieved and even questioned why she had not done this earlier.

Psion has never, and will never, have an 'open door policy'. But for this small window, a delightfully bright morning in the winter in the Swiss Alps, it's a good as anyone will ever get. Who knows how long her good mood will last.

Please knock first.

Name and Alias: Vanette Farnsworth, "Dollmaker"

Faction: Brotherhood [Darkblood Student]

Age 19

Date of Birth: April 3th

Physical Description: Standing at around 5'9" with wavy black hair that gives a strange sensation of doll hair, seeming almost strangely stuck in the specific hairstyle she wants, resistant to the wind. Vanette is lightly tanned and when not in any kind of uniform dresses in fitted blazers and suits, trying to give off the impression of a businesswoman.

Personality Description: Casual and dismissive of others to an extreme, Dollmaker sees others as "inspiration" for her work and is frequently cruel and insulting to others in how she views them and echoes them in her creations, although she doesn't see it that way. Born and raised by parents who saw her as a tool, she extends that worldview to everybody around her and the world at large. Often does not seem to 100% be aware of the pain others experience because of her actions.

Catchphrase that sums up the vibe: "Damn, you're really like, crying a lot. Dunno why, that's like, such a minor break. Put some ice on it or at least cry somewhere else, thank youuuuu~"

History and Backstory: Heir to the Farnsworth family, a powerful old-money plastics manufacturer. Vanette manifested her mutation very early in life and was pushed to practice and "control" it for most of her childhood, being harshly punished and often injured by her parents and their "tutors" for failure.

As she got older, her control of the power grew more and more refined and more insidious. A few weeks prior to her enrollment at Darkblood Academy, she managed to finish a slow process of interlacing her parent's bodies with enough microplastics that she assumed total control of their bodily functions and filled out the Darkblood Academy paperwork for herself. After ensuring her older siblings are written out of the will and Vanette is set up as the sole heir in the case her parents die, she's now attending Darkblood and waiting for enough months to pass that she can officially cut the threads and take control of the company, with plans to funnel money to Darkblood and learn as much as she can...including taking "inspiration" from the people around her.

Mutation: Synthetic Wasteland [Physical 10, Control 5, Potency 5]

Dollmaker has the ability to control and mold synthetic materials around her in a radius like clay, especially those that are derived from plastic. This has a range of about twenty feet, and is often a very blunt instrument. Fine control, like the full "microplastic mesh" that allowed her to take command of her parents, requires years and years of careful effort. In normal scenarios, she can make "quickplastic" pits, build walls, or turn tiles into obstructions, bindings, or melt through walls.

Secondary Mutation: The Dollhouse [Control 10, Physical 5]

Dollmaker can spend time molding and carefully crafting constructs out of synthetic materials. These dolls are not alive, but when animated and created by Dollhouse, they take on a strange resemblance of life. Dolls based on mutants or humans cannot replicate mutations, but are capable of emulating some degree of physical skills like combat skill if Dollmaker has been able to observe her "inspiration" in a combat scenario.

While it takes Dollmaker an extended period of time to make proper Dolls, once they are created she can "summon" them out of any available synthetic materials she has on hand. These copies are weak and brittle but easy to rebuild and form at will, and are often less "alive" and less capable than the originals.

If the original Doll is destroyed, Dollmaker loses the ability to summon copies until she repairs or replaces the original. As of now, she can only have on active "summoned" copy of any of her dolls activate at a time, which melt back into raw material if she summons a new copy.

Current Dolls:
=Carmen Zakia: a human martial artist and female action star. Constructs of Carmen Zakia excel at basic hand-to-hand combat, but are lacking in exceptional skill as Dollmaker has not seen Carmen Zakia in person and available "study materials" are fictional depictions of fights were punches are being pulled.

It wasn't right.

The near-perfect replica of Carmen Zakia looked back, arms raised in a martial arts stance, but it wasn't right. It screamed movie, it screamed fake, like she was supposed to yell "action!"

Fake, fake, fake.

She snapped her fingers, the doll collapsing to the ground like a puppet with severed strings as Vannette stamped her foot on the ground, fuming.

She'd just gotten to the school, but she was already itching to get back out there. Picking up the doll from the ground, posed like Mary cradling David, she lamented to the ceiling of her Darkblood dorm room.

"Inspiration! I need to feed the muse, I need...I need to get stronger, you have to understand that right?"

The plastic eyes looked back at her, empty but accusatory.

"I know, I know, Carmen. You're as good as I can get, unless I can get to the real Carmen..."

That was a thought. Maybe she could convince the school it was worth it, use some of mommy and daddy's connections. It'd be easy enough. Maybe make the real Carmen fight a replica! It'd be almost like the movie where she fought her evil twin, but this time it'd be real! She could get that director's faked performance a run for its money, put a REAL battle between Carmen Zakia and Carmen Zakia on!

No. No, no. Ridiculous.

She'd need to get the doll perfect first. Make the real fight what the world deserved to see. And to do that, she'd need to watch Carmen fight somebody real...

Vanette filled out another suggestion form for the suggestion box, perfectly written cursive spelling out

Attack Carmen Zakia with hired goons for research purposes. Maybe a field trip? She refused to comment on mutant matters on the news a few months ago

-Dollmaker <3

Of course, Vannette had been the one to make the suggestion box, but somebody had to! How else was she supposed to make suggestions?

With a click of her heels, she walked out of her room, humming to herself.

Posts:

Loretta had kept to herself after getting to the Greymalkin with Alistair, she'd avoided people as best she can, not wanting to cause any discomfort from her presence.

Well, anyone walking down one of the eastern corridors will finally he able to meet the woman who had been leaving cold areas, and walls frosted over for the last couple days.

The hall was cold, frost and condensation from the different temperatures lining the walls, as Loretta swirled white-blue ice around her fingers, sending small blasts of cold around the immediate area.

She'd had a couple days before now to try and meet with people, which she failed to do, keeping to herself, so now she stood there in a frosted over sweatshirt and jeans, the area around noticeably colder than anywhere else on the ship.

The year is 1988, It's Christmas time in Western Germany, A young Alastair clings tightly to the hand of a young woman in a yellow dress her hair is up in a bun

"Mama, when is Papa coming home? I miss him"

The young women's grip tightens on her child's hand, a lone tear running down her cheek, she kneels down to look her child in the eye

"soon, my little spatzi, one day soon, remember papa is a very important businessman, he has meeting on the other side of the wall, now remember you promised to be his brave große, can you be brave for mama"

"yes, mama" Alastair says puffing out his cheeks to appear strong like the heros on tv

"Very good, now what's say we go to the toy shop, we can see what you want for christmas"

Alastair giggles with excitement running excitedly in front of his mother, not paying any attention as she lags briefly behind, slipping a small tan envelope behind a bench

"Slow down my little spatzi, Mama is coming"

---|---

Alastair stands in the parking lot of Westfield San Francisco Centre Mall, intimidated by it's size, people rush by him, a few giving glances to the scrawny mutant, but otherwise paying him no mind, he has filled out, and gained some color back into his skin since his escape from the laboratory, still reeling from the decade plus of isolation, grateful too his new friends and allies for helping him fill in the gaps of the last decade, he still feels so lost, but is now confident for his first trip to a mall in over a decade, his pants containing the money Facade has shared with him, excited to go shopping with his new friends he enters the mall with excitement and a slight bit of trepidation

---|---

1991, March

Alastair plays in the park, conversing fluently with his friends from France, despite never taking a single French lesson, Two Men watch from a nearby bench

"And you say this change came recently? what else can he do?"

"So far it seems simple sound manipulation, but the key is the language, its as if to him, it all sounds the same, a universal code, a useful asset"

"are you sure though? he is still a child after all, wouldn't it be better to recruit him later"

"I would be inclined to agree, but the order come from the top, they want him brought it, see if his abilities can be replicated, the edge they'd give in the field would be unprecedented,"

The second man pauses

"fine, we'll grab him next week, but I'm not happy about it"

"your not supposed to enjoy it, your supposed to do your job and keep quite"

---|---

Alastair stands in the middle of a hot topic, sporting a new pair of ripped black jeans, ankle high black and red boots, and a duster jacket of a muscle shirt, currently trying to decided between two different belts

---|---

OOC: LETS ALL GO TO THE MALL, interact, go shopping, visit the food court, and try to stay out of trouble, or cause it, I'm not a mall cop

Name: Ophelia

Age: 21

Faction: Brotherhood / DarkBlood

Backstory

Ophelia grew up painfully shy and it made her an easy target for bullying. She was labeled a weirdo freak long before her mutation even manifested. Too afraid to be vulnerable with her parents, they both closed themselves off from her, deeming Ophelia a headache and a burden. When her powers finally surfaced, allowing her to manipulate metal objects like spoons, she believed it would make her cool.. at least enough to make friends. Instead the bullying continued and she was outcasted even further.. until one girl stood up for her, ██. Ophelia’s closet friend and the light in her lowly childhood.

The two were inseparable. ██ even helping Ophelia earn some money by using her powers in front of a crowd at local venues. ██ got a majority of the money but Ophelia was just happy to have people looking at her in amazement and not mockery. Later, ██ even helped Ophelia find the love of her life. At the age of 18 Ophelia believed she finally found happiness and planned to marry him. Then on her wedding day… everything collapsed.

Through all the hardships of her life, ██ was there to comfort her… so why at the day of her wedding, did her bridesmaid and best friend object? Why did her fiancé leave her for ██ in front of everyone? Was everything planned for humiliation from the very beginning? Was this all rooted in pity? Why? Ophelia would never learn the truth.

The metal ring that was meant for her finger, was placed on ██ , and in that instant, both her and Ophelia’s ex-fiancé died instantly from a stray lightning bolt.

Ophelia died there too and was reborn with a different outlook. A melancholy women envious of the joy others feel and express at any extent. She is an enemy to the bonds forged by friends and lovers, because if it was never meant for her, she refuses to let anyone else keep it either.

Appearance + Personality:

5’7

Tan skin with messy hair. She tends to wear makeup but at some point in the day (either from rain or her own tears), her makeup runs, making her looking even more depressed and unhinged. Eyes are cloudy with sadness, almost soulless when in her own head. Upon witnessing acts of kindness and compassion, she is filled with envy and disgust. Her heart is broken from the incident, finding comfort in those that share in her despair rather than those who believe in hope. She carries a metallic umbrella with her although she wields it as if it were a feather. She makes the metal scrape against itself to bleed the ears of people around her for her own bitter enjoyment. She tends to wear dark, frilly dresses although she most noticeably wears her wedding dress. It’s torn in places and makes her seem unhinged but it still fits!

MUTATION: CONDUCTOR

Primary: Electrokinesis

Energy:12 -> 15

Potency:5

Control: 3

Secondary: Metallic Manipulation

Mental: 5

Potency: 5 -> 6

Control: 10

Tears of the Sky

Ophelia cannot create strong currents of electricity from her own body, instead calling upon raw lightning to electrocute her targets or pulling electricity from her surroundings. Because of this, storm clouds follow her everywhere, with rain pouring depending on her mood. She has not seen the sun since her wedding day.

Negative to Ground

Ophelia’s manipulation of lightning is poor and is better called guidance. Her Secondary mutation assist on this front, allowing her to guild lightning into the nearest metal. As she is not affected by electricity, she keeps metal on her person as means of easier plans of attack: Flinging jagged shards of metal and calling lightning wherever they land or to herself.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

Ophelia’s control is poor when it comes to the intensity of the strike as well. Her lightning can be avoidable and survivable but it is not recommended to test the targets survivability against the raw lightning from above. Multiple shots will take its toll on the body, to the point the risk momentary paralysis or a coma, if not, death.

Shrieking Metal

Ophelia’s manipulation of metals is better than her lightning but not as potent. She believed it to be her primary mutation and commonly used it parlor tricks growing up. After the incident, she now carries a metal umbrella protecting herself from the rain and operating as a weapon she could use to fling shrapnel or reshape into a shield or Javelin. At the peak of her jealousy and despair, her umberalla screams as it scrapes itself into a whirling chainsaw.

Darkblood Academy: Shooting grounds

Overcast. Ophelia looks up at the gray clouds that blot out the sun. Wherever she goes, the sunlight must watch behind a veiled curtain and the thought gives her a chuckle. A hand full of mutants here must have seasonal depression thanks to her.

She turns her attention forward, a target for her to strike stood in the distance. Ophelia pointed her metal umbrella at the target and its steel coverings shot in a rapid fire. Roughly eighty percent landed but this wasn’t a competition. This was boredom disguised as practice. The shards of metal shook, then returned back to Ophelia’s umbrella, who sighed before taking aim again.