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Lieutenant Cyrus Njeri // “Janhari” // Age 30 // Interdimensional Messenger // Former Privateer
Cyrus Njeri’s brain felt swampy, his thoughts all sticking together. Every inhale was as sharp and raw-edged as a paper being ripped in two. Sleep beckoned him, lured him under the surface as the anesthesia that had been injected into his veins dutifully did its job, but he fought it off. At least, he attempted valiantly to fight it off. He was curled on his left side, his ropelike dreadlocks splayed across his face like the various knotted coils that adorn a mast, and he unfurled his limbs slowly, with a Herculean effort of will. However, every time he applied pressure, braced his muscles to support his weight as he clambered up off the cold concrete of the Pit, he invariably slumped back to the floor, exhaustion overcoming him. Several hours passed in such a pattern.

Finally, Cyrus cracked one eyelid open. His gaze was bleary and shapeless in a way that told him his contacts had been knocked askew. He darted his eyes around in an attempt to recenter the lenses. Shadows collected in corners and where iron bars met floor in the jail cell he was in, clumping together like dust bunnies in a room untouched by human occupancy. His tired brain perceived a flash of motion, and Cyrus flinched, readying himself for some fanged, feral creature to tear itself from the shadows and embed its talons in his chest. Nothing of the sort happened, and his body reluctantly untensed. A soft, mocking snicker seemed to float on the air toward him as he imagined the amusement of the well-dressed scoundrel who had tormented Cyrus with living figments of night before locking him away.

Cyrus had been raised not to hate anyone. Hating others went against the beliefs of the Agaciku tribe. Hatred festered in the heart, shriveling the soul, making one’s body more accessible to the demons who prowled this mortal plain in search of a host. Even when he had been taken from his family and sold to a Somalian duke, he had not hated the noble family who had housed, clothed, and fed him without charge. Even when Dawit Elya, Cyrus’s son-of-a-bitch brother-in-law, had beaten Makena dead in a fit of rage and the local authority had not batted an eye, Cyrus did not resent him for long. Because he’d paid a visit to the drug lord’s grounds and had a conversation with him that would become Elya’s last conversation with anyone, and Cyrus had uprooted the seeting pool of malice from his heart. While killing the source of his enmity might have been cheating slightly, yes, Cyrus believed that dealing with the problem for once and for all was a better alternative to letting his hatred consume him and turn into dark obsession. He found that, with Elya dead, he’d thought of the man much less than he had when Elya was alive and his sister was not.

These thoughts circled in his head as he lay with his cheek pressed into stone. Cyrus was sure that there had been some point to them, but he couldn’t remember what. The slime enshrouding his senses was too thick. He summoned his strength yet again, expecting to maybe get an inch or two off the floor before flopping back down, unconscious while he was still midfall. The world tilted as if Cyrus had a belly full of liquor, but he forced his eyes to stay open. Finally, miraculously, he achieved a sitting position, his legs bent under him awkwardly in a way that probably would have elicited some discomfort if he could feel them. Cyrus groaned, a sound that produced a ghostly echo amid the desolate hallway. His only halfhearted source of illumination were the pale, waxy nubs lodged in the wall in generous intervals, so that only a handful of cells had any real light by which anything productive could be accomplished.

He half-crawled and half-dragged himself toward the metal bars at the front of the cell for support. Grasping them as tightly as he could (which was much more fruitful with his cybernetic hand than with his biological one), Cyrus gradually coaxed his feet beneath him. He pushed into a standing position. The world spun like a carousel, and there was a dangerous moment where his vision went black, but Cyrus clung to the bars with a literal iron grip until the dizziness passed. There was a parasite with unknown intentions on the loose in Belle Reve, and it was his duty to crush it. Cyrus no longer had family and he no longer had love, and there were some days he questioned whether he had any more freedom than the hundreds of inmates he presided over, but he had a job to do. A responsibility. A calling, and it was important because it was the one that his Kikuyu saints had bestowed upon him.

Now came the even more skilled, coordinated task. Cyrus looked down at his tall, Kevlar work boots grimly. The otherworldly prince had taken his coat, and with it, the fob key that would cause the scanner on the cell door to flash green and unlock for a two-second window. But Cyrus was no fool. Within only four months of working at Belle Reve, he knew a guard without powers, such as himself, was a walking target for inmates who desired to bust out of their cells and rabble-rouse for a fraction of an hour until they were inevitably caught and moved to more secure lodguings. He’d been divested of his fob key twice, and after the first occurrence, he’d seen to it that he carry a backup in a more discreet location. Mumbling to himself incoherently, Cyrus pawed at his right shoe with his left one, kicking and scraping until he’d finally dislodged it. He crouched down, swaying a little, and rooted around until he found the small, hard piece of plastic. He closed his fist—the left, organic one that had a greater sensitivity to texture—over it.

There was a small electronic buzz! as the cell door briefly unlocked. Cyrus pushed against it, hard, before his window vanished. It clanged open, striking the stretch of wall next to it with a metallic noise that resounded endlessly within the gloom, until he wondered if it was just the ringing of his ears. He stumbled into the cold passageway beyond, clutching at things for balance. His hips bumped against the adjacent cell door. Strength was returning to him in tiny increments, yet Cyrus still felt like a shipwreck, so full of gaping boards and fallen walls that it was only a matter of time until he sank and was united with the ocean floor.

At first, he was convinced that it was just the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. But as the rhythmic thudding grew louder, Cyrus held his breath. No; there was definitely someone else down here, and they were moving fast. Faster than any guard had reason to be racing to the Pit, where Cyrus was currently the only occupant. Unless of course someone was running to his aid? However, Cyrus had no delusions of his perceived importance in the eyes of his coworkers. He was still the new hire around these parts, and Warden Hollows and her immediate subordinates were the only ones aware of his true function as an interdimensional traveler. No one would break their ass to come to his rescue, unless it was to deride him for allowing a dandy with monogrammed handkerchiefs to pull a fast one on him.

Having been apprenticed to a warrior in his village’s militia at the age of eight, Cyrus had been fighting for all his life. He felt a shift inside of him. It was the kind of shift that sent a tingle down his spine, alerting him that something was not right and that he best prepare for combat. Cyrus changed his breathing, holding each inhale and exhale as long as he could, increasing the flow of oxygen to his brain. His gloved hands curled into fists—one noticeably more loose than the other—and he pushed himself upright, so that he was standing unassisted. By now, the drumlike beats of running footfalls were almost on top of him. Cyrus carried most of his weaponry in his coat or on his belt, both of which he’d been divested of, but he wasn’t without a few tricks up his sleeve. Well, within the deep breast pockets of his denim shirt, more accurately. Mindful not to cut himself, his gloved hand withdrew several bladed snowflakes with a variable number of points. There were those that had six, those that had four, and those that had three—the most deadly of them all. Cyrus hastily unbuttoned and peeled back the clear sheaths on all of the shuriken.

Feet pounding so hard that they created ghastly echoes in the abandoned cavern, the runner rounded the final corner. Cyrus focused, willing his eyes to sharpen, and gave a flick of his wrist so precise that it would have been the envy of even the world’s best surgeons. There was a cry of pain, and then an angry chime! as the shuriken struck the steel of another cell. A glancing blow.

Clutching her shoulder, a figure stumbled into the half-light. Actually, stumbled was the wrong word, because even wounded, she moved gracefully, like a bird flying into formation. As if this world were made of smoke and she was just passing through. A normal foe’s fingers would have been slick with blood from trying to stanch the ruby flow, but the only indication that not all was right with Liling was the glint of silver beneath the hole in her orange jumpsuit, where synthetic flesh would be if she were whole.

Cyrus had thrown a nonpoisonous shuriken at her, unwilling to break out the ones coated in platypus venom—which would have an ordinary foe rolling on the ground and shrieking in excruciating pain—or octopus venom—which would have the aforementioned effect in addition to neurotoxins shutting down their respiratory system in a way that, unless counteracted with antivenom fairly immediately, would prove fatal—until he’d ascertained the identity of this newcomer. His heart sank. He did not want to have to administer deadly or excruciating force, but doing so was no longer an option. He was familiar enough with Liling’s files to know that venom would have no effect on her, an automaton with cold eyes masquerading as a human. She was a knife wrapped in velvet. Apparently, though, she did have pain receptors, because a beat passed before she removed her unbloodied hand from her shoulder. Liling appeared to steady herself until she was again standing in that very erect, almost bouncy way that acrobats carry themselves.

“Prisoner Eighty-Four Fifty-Three." Cyrus’s voice was as rough as a serrated blade, but he ground the words out. Liling was no stranger to causing trouble, and he knew her number by heart after having to write it in multiple reports. “What are you doing unaccompanied in these parts? There’s only one way inmates get escorted to the Pit, and it’s rarely on their own power.”

A soft snort. The machine in the shape of a girl glided another two steps forward, and Cyrus tensed, automatically readying another shuriken. “Do you really ‘ave to ask, you unsteady lug? Wha’ does it look loike I’m doing?” came the reply, in an accent that was somehow insolent before it was British. Normally Liling’s accent was thick but understandable, but right now Cyrus really had to strain to catch her words. “Moi, but you look like you’ve a ‘ell of a ‘angover. Tryin’ to drink yuhself to deaf, Jan’ari? I guess I’m pre’y shi’ ou’ o’ luck if tha’s the only way ou’ o’ ‘ere.”

Liling took another step forward. Mentally cursing the British’s general unintelligibility and unwillingness to adapt to new ways of thinking, Cyrus flung another shuriken. With a deft twist of her torso, Liling dodged it, and it clattered off the wall behind her. He only had four left, and she was closing the distance between them. Cyrus normally wouldn’t have worried about an advancing little girl—even if said little girl had thighs that looked like they were regularly worked out by crushing a man’s skull between them—when he was an accomplished martial artist. But said martial artist was still reeling from the influence of a powerful anesthesia. If it had taken him, most likely, several hours to stand up, Cyrus did not want to find out how long it would take him to execute a proper roundhouse kick. But it seemed as though he was not getting a choice. “Prisoner Eighty-Four Fifty-Three. Liling,” he added beseechingly. “Please halt. I do not wish to hurt you, not least because your unique physiology evades my medical understanding, as it does the medical understanding of most of our trained surgeons. I ask you to reconsider your approach before you become the modern-day Humpty Dumpty no one can put back together.”

Liling paused and cocked her head. In the semi-darkness, Cyrus could not see her face clearly, but he heard a staccato of laughter. “I like ih when men beg. Really, I do. But now’s nah the toime for talk.” And then, like a knife flipping end over end, there was a handspringing blur cutting toward him.
 
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Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary; Lousiana
Prisoner #10792
[ redacted ]
JUPITER

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The sound of a hundred inmates storming down the hallway clashed with the shriek of the alarms, and it all mixed with the stale air of Belle Reve’s corridors. Inmates clamored like barbarians, scrambling for anything that would secure a moment of freedom or vengeance. This kind of raw, volatile frenzy was Belle Reve at its most predictable — blood and brute force over strategy and subtlety. But that didn’t mean Jupiter couldn’t find a way to make it interesting.

As the mob surged, Rodrick stopped dead in his tracks in front of a large metal door with a circular window, fixated on what was inside. He planted his hands on the cold steel and peered through the glass like a kid gawking at a candy shop. Jupiter sighed, crossing their arms, catching Rodrick’s not-so-subtle grin as he turned back to them.

“Alright, change of plans!” he declared with a crooked smile, jabbing his thumb toward the door. “Escapin’ prison is so overrated! How ‘bout we have some real fun and commit the first heist in Belle Reve history?”

Jupiter’s brow shot up. A heist?

Rodrick’s theatrics were enough to grab some attention, but Rachel wasn’t biting. She cut him off with her disapproving look and muttered something about his short-term thinking, before strolling away. In a matter of seconds, her expression became one of intense focus, her footsteps steady and purposeful, the soft scuttling and buzzing of insects following in her wake. She was off to spread her swarm, redirecting inmates like a shadowy puppet master. The whole prison could fall into pandemonium for all she cared, but Rachel had other things in mind.

Rodrick called after her, trying to rile her up with taunts and clucks, but Rachel didn’t flinch. The second her footsteps faded, Jupiter shot Rodrick a warning look, aiming a solid jab at his arm that earned them a disgruntled glare.

“So much for a smokescreen, huh?” Jupiter mocked, recalling the unicorn plan he’d seemed so enamored with earlier. But they could tell he was already sold on the idea of ransacking Belle Reve’s “royal bank.”

“A little side action doesn’t hurt!” he replied with a quick shrug. “Besides, who knows what kinda attention those Sheilas have drawn to themselves? And look—betcha there’s somethin’ in there that could help with your ‘grand escape.’”

Rodrick’s voice dripped with cheek, but Jupiter couldn’t deny there was a thread of reason buried in his wild suggestion. Breaking into a commissary wasn’t a bad idea; it had resources and items that weren’t exactly accessible in the prison block. Jupiter’s curiosity was piqued, albeit reluctantly; but, everything in there had some use. They couldn't let the opportunity go to waste.

They nodded and studied the door, spotting the black sensor box by the handle. Of course, maximum security meant electronic locks—no cheap padlock to brute-force their way through. Typical. Rodrick rolled his eyes, already halfway to a rant before realizing that his nostalgia for simpler locks was irrelevant in a place like Belle Reve.

“We’ll need a digital key. Check those guards back there. Someone’s gotta have one,” Jupiter said, jerking their head in the direction they’d come from.

“Where’s Violettin?” Rodrick muttered, noticing their smallest companion’s absence.


Before Jupiter could answer, a triumphant cry rang out behind them. Violettin waltzed over with a bloodied rectangle in her hand, grinning like a kid who’d won the world’s grittiest treasure hunt. She held up the keycard, ignoring Rodrick’s cheers as she moved to swipe it. Jupiter gave her a bemused look.

“Really?” they muttered, crossing their arms. “Why not pick an unconscious guard?”

“Didn’t have time for picky,” Violettin shot back with a grin.

After a few swipes—and a quick wipe of blood from the card—the sensor finally chimed, and the heavy door slid open. A blast of air conditioning washed over them as they stepped inside, leaving the bedlam outside momentarily muted. They took in the gleaming shelves stocked with everything from basic necessities to rare prison contraband: rows of candy bars, potato chips, hygiene items, and a small electronics section glistening like a treasure trove.

Rodrick whooped in delight, already filling his mental grocery list with the kind of dedication one might reserve for a sacred ritual. Honeybuns, beef jerky, soap, whatever he could fit in his arms—all soon-to-be currency in Belle Reve’s twisted economy. Jupiter, meanwhile, focused on the electronics aisle. In a place like Belle Reve, something as small as a pair of headphones or a damaged tablet could become a valuable tool if used right.

Without another second to lose, they jogged to the electronics and ran their fingers over a row of cheap earbuds, chargers, and a small radio. The possibilities filled their minds—ways to rig or repurpose them for escape or trade. They tossed a couple of items into their pocket and glanced over to see Rodrick, arms already laden with snacks, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“Hope you’re fast,” Jupiter quipped, their lips twitching with a smirk. “We’re on borrowed time.”

Rodrick shrugged, unbothered, rifling through shelves with abandon. “Mate, with this loot, I’ll be eatin’ like a king!”

In the background, Violettin, despite her petite frame, had already amassed a surprising haul of her own, eying each item like she was making strategic investments.

The blond couldn’t help themselves. After securing what would sustain them, they stuffed a couple of small, individually wrapped pastries into their jumpsuit — simple, sweet, and worth a hundred times their weight to any inmate looking for a brief escape. There was a thrill to tasting them on their own terms instead of bartering their way through Belle Reve’s black market of cigarettes and paper money.

The prison’s klaxons wailed louder, reverberating through the walls. Time was running out. Soon enough, the super-guards would be out of their holding cells, and they’d be no match for the firepower those agents would bring. But that was fine. Jupiter thrived on tight timelines and impossible odds.

“Alright, that’s our cue.” Jupiter nodded toward the door, eyes flashing with adrenaline.

The three slipped out of the commissary, slipping back into the thrumming chaos of Belle Reve, goods in hand and ready for the next phase. Jupiter’s mind was already mapping out the next steps. Seizing the opportunity that the commissary provided was a great plan — serving as a valuable stockpile if, no, when they made their escape.

“Alright, two rules now,” Jupiter muttered as they neared the door. “Stick together, and don’t get greedy. I’m not hauling either of your asses if you decide to loot the furniture, too.”
 
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Captain Levina Noe/ Maelstrom
Location - Hallway
Mood - 🧐

Levina listend to Dread Rocket, thinking. At least she now knew after her announcment who was truly loyal to Belle Reve, which was a small bonus. She smiled slightly under her hemlet before speaking back to her via the link. <Dread you have full authority to do what you can to supress this. The same goes to the rest. Full lockdown, code Black and all that.. If you come across any hostiles, supress them. Try not to kill anyone if it can be avoided... but if it is needed then do so. I would like to try and avoid any deaths but in this situation it may very well be unavoidable.. And Roger that. Nearly there myself>

When the one she was guarding spoke and mentioned that he was involed unwittingly that peaked her interest. Invaded.. so that means they had invaded this person's planet as well.. and now they were here.. It did not take long for Levina to put two and two together. This person who had not long ago had been impersonating Lieutenant Cyrus Njeri, who jumped dimensions, must of been from another one. She was about to speak again but that is when the inmates rounded the corner and she had to get them in line. One of the inmates, Keezy however began to get a tad bit rowdy with the mystery man. Levina slowly turned her helmeted gaze to him and watched as he made his way towards them. The other inmates froze in place watching also. Levina's hand gripped the handle of her Katana, the tip of it pressing into the floor as she leaned upon it slightly watching. Keezy suddenly flung himself forwads and pinned the man to the wall, grabbing their neck. Before Levina moved however Keezy reeled backwards, screaming in pain as blood spurted from his head. The mystery man had suddenly struck him in the forehead with the butt of a hangun. Struck again in the face Keezy crumpled to the floor, whimpering softy, but not before howling in pain again as his hand was stepped upon.

“Anyone else want to flirt with me?”

Levina looked at the man then to Keezy. She slowly walked forwards, her towering frame casting a shadow over the man. She slowly knealt down and placed a hand upon Keezy. "Did you really just try that when I am right here?" Her usual relaxing voice was no more. It wad cold and unforgiving. "Now.. you know that I am unlike a good a portion of the guard here at Belle Reve. I actaully try and treat the inmates fair despite their crimes or who they are. I won't beat them or hurt they if they look at me funny. I know what goes on in here and trust me I've been putting a stop to it but I can only do so much... however." She slowly pressed her hand into Keezy's spine. "Even I lose my paitence.. and that Keezy was a stupid move..." Her gauntleted hand suddenly crackled with Lightning as she pressed it hard into the poor man's spine. Lightning fizzed and crackled through Keezy as his body was wracked with it. Nothing to kill him of course, infact it was quite low voltage, just something akin to being tazed. "Now then.." She took her hand off Keezy and then gripped him hoisting him over her shoulder carrying his slightly smoky body. "Anyone else want to try doing someting so utterly stupid?"

She looked towards the mystery man who was wielding the handgun. "Shall we continue..?" She eyed the gun. "You can keep that out as well.. you may be needing it in the future, just don't get any ideas of using it on me. It won't work nor will it end well. I never did get your name did I?"
 

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Rodrick Unger

Belle Reve Penitentiary

"...Do it for the buns...the honey buns..."

All those blonde rich girls in the movies were right! Sometimes, shopping was the best medicine! When Rodrick finally emerged from his hunt for prepackaged treasures, he was a changed man. It seemed like he had gained 20 pounds in the span of a few minutes. His stomach was now lumpy and bulged outwards like he was in his second trimester of pregnancy. As for his rear, it looked as if he had gotten a BBL. His butt was sticking out so much, there was a good chance you could see it from the front. The truth was that in lieu of a backpack, he had filled his jumpsuit with his ill-gotten gains. Heeding Jupiter's call, Rodrick hustled to the door leading out of commissary, a honey bun sliding out of the left leg of his jumpsuit.

"Ooh, that's a good one!" Rodrick replied to Jupiter's comment about looting furniture, bending down to retrieve his fallen snack. Miraculously, nothing else slid out. "I could use a coffee table in my cell! Liven the place up when I have visitors!"


When Jupiter opened the door, the smell of the unwashed masses hit Rodrick's nose hard. The inmate already missed the fairer smelling and climate-controlled commissary. The noise hit his ears just as hard as the riot raged on. However, there was more whooshing, banging, and cries of pain audible, implying that the specially enhanced guards were taking back order one bruised inmate at a time. Rodrick looked down both ends of the hall and patted his enlarged belly. "Time to sneak back to our cell block. We can wait out the rest of the riot there."

Suddenly, the intercom crackled to life, a single sustained vocal note ringing through the prison. Rodrick narrowed his eyes in confusion and looked up to a speaker hanging on the wall. Then, the note was accompanied by a variety of sounds, including a drum, creating a rhythmic beat that worked well with the vocals. Rodrick's toothy grin popped out of his beard. "No bloody way! Some bloke broke into the comms room and is jammin' out! Warden's probably shakin' in her boots as we speak!"

Despite the sugary weights smuggled inside of his jumpsuit, Rodrick slid his head and shoulders side to side in tune with the beat. "Right on, mate! This heist could use a victory soundtrack!"

The Australian was about to hit the running man when his dance session was interrupted by a spectacular sight at the end of the hall. A wave of multi-colored auras burst from around the corner, screaming and shouting just like the inmates around them. The auras greedily gorged themselves on the living, surrounding their bodies and bringing them to a complete stop. Then, as if nothing had happened, the possessed inmates sprung back to life, moving in tune with the music that blasted over the intercom. Today was a day of firsts for Belle Reve. It was the first time a unicorn tore through the halls, the first heist executed within its walls, and now the first flash mob in the prison's history. The crowd of inmates charging through the halls was being sent back where they came, and in style to boot. Everybody was dancing and clapping. At the front of the mob, four inmates were dancing in complete synchronization as they boogied down the hall. Another was twirling a guard's baton, the weapon caked in blood. Rodrick was shaken out of his stupefaction when he saw more spirits burst out from behind the possessed, hungry for more unwilling victims.

"Crikey!" He yelped, dropping to the ground to avoid the cheering auras. They whooped and hollered overhead, eager to spread their gifts throughout Belle Reve. Peeking a cautious eye upwards, Rodrick rose to his feet and found himself staring the mob down the barrel. Gwen Stefani's Sweet Escape had just turned into Elvis' Jailhouse Rock, and if Rodrick wanted to get away, he would have to employ one of his most important skills: he would have to pivot. Now leading the pack, the Australian found himself using his body not for combat, but for dancing. Jupiter and Violettin were treated to a hilarious sight as Rodrick's lumpy body jiggling as he swayed his arms from side to side overhead.

"Forget an inmate, this music gimmick reeks of guard work!" Rodrick shouted over the commotion, now doing the disco finger. His left hand rested on his hip while the right switching between pointing diagonally up and down. The inmate's age was clearly showing, none of his dance moves thus far having passed the century. "And if that's the case, these blokes are gettin' danced back to their cells! We need to blend in!" At this point, Rodrick ran out of dance moves to use, so he simply flexed his muscles and performed poses to the music. He prayed to God that whoever was manning the cameras was away from their station so they wouldn't bear witness to the embarrassing sight.


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???

Central City

"It doesn't add up. None of it does."

It was raining heavily in Central City, the pitter-patter of rain serving as white noise for a woman hunched over a desk. An intimidating stack of manila folders threatened to topple over as she reached for her fourth cup of coffee in the span of three hours. Despite the caffeine intake, it was more so pure determination that fueled her body. Her focus alternated between two filed filled with walls of black text. Then she looked up to a picture framed above the desk of a man in military uniform, the American flag flapping behind him. She averted his smiling gaze and pounded the desk lightly in frustration. One year. It had been an entire year since Marcus' death and they were still no closer to the truth than they were a year ago.

The mission was going smoothly up until the end. All of the whistle-blower's information had lined up. Location, security system, everything. It was only when they had retrieved the necessary data to prove Project Genesis' existence when every single alarm in the facility went off. She and Marcus fought their way back through the way they came when the opposition became too fierce at the entrance. It was then that Marcus made the call to fight his way out and through the desert instead of waiting for their extraction. He insisted that his abilities would give him an edge against pursuers. The table received a second, more firm pound. She never should have let him go, never. Because the last time she would ever see her partner alive, he had delivered himself into the hands of the enemy. Grabbing a paper from the second file, the mugshot of a battered and bruised man was given a cold hard stare. This was the bastard who tracked Marcus through the desert, who defeated him and was responsible his execution. Who insisted he was working under the orders of Interpol, despite none of the names he was referencing existing in any database. Who was currently rotting in Belle Reve for the rest of his miserable life. Rodrick Unger. Disgraced police officer turned criminal.

Marcus was unrecognizable when his body was finally recovered. She had been the one who insisted on delivering the news to his family, that their beloved husband and father had died serving his country. She bore the weight of explaining that because of the nature of his job as a covert operative, she couldn't divulge the details surrounding his death. And there she remained, to comfort them in any and every way. Every way, except solving the case behind his death. Unger was simply a pawn, lacking any information on his employers. Weeks of torture in the Dark Room made that clear. Hell, the scumbag didn't even get paid for the job, he did it for free. He was an animal wearing human skin, and although she was hoping he would get what he deserved when he proved useless, the higher ups insisted on keeping him alive. Because all in all, he was the only living link they had figuring out what this Australian shadow organization had planned. The whistle-blower had disappeared as well after things went bottoms up.

The walls of text, paragraph after paragraph that she had meticulously read through multiple times mixed and jumbled together. The woman rose up and reached for her coat. The hood went over her head as she grabbed her keys and walked towards the door. Despite having touched over every single aspect of the case, she found herself preparing to go the location where the evidence was being held. There had to be something she was missing. Unger had to be lying, there had to be something he was hiding. And she had to find it, or she would never forgive herself.
 
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Dread Rocket

Vpa2.jpg

With Captain. Pissed off and losing her cool...




<<Yo Killtoy! Where the hell you at? Xenolith is getting killed by the unicorn inmate! >>

<<No mames... What the hell you want, D? You said to suppress the main entrance so what you think I'm doing? Dancing with my chorizo out swinging around? Main doors almost closed. I can't be in 2 places at once. Xeno, you tell me. >>


<< I'm fine! I'm fine! Keep doing what you--- ARRRGH! Dammit! Why the hell is she so huge?!>>

<<This is Pixie. Bio sig of Rachel Livesey, "Imago" AWOL now too'. Little bot girl Liling, "Verdigris" is on the move. Descending. Hermes wing. Pero esta bien. All goods. I got a visual lock on the Listed Inmates. Linking squad to the cams via comms... Hahahahah! Look at that! The hell kinda dance moves is that? Los Cabrons Disco Musicales? Hahahahah-- Wait! Dios Mio!! Puta de puta madre! XEE! Rocky Boi getting knocked around like a pinata! I'm coming, man! Veil, I'm out!>>

<<This is Veil. Alright, squad. I'm on Imago then. Get ready for time dilations again, everyone. Pix, hand me that collar before you go. >>

<<Okay, psycho sis had her fill. She is like waaaaay fatter than usual now and ready to vomit black stuff up. Uploading selfie now. Hah. Nice. I think we ready to get the listed.>>

<<Ugh. Wits seen better days hahahah. Del I have their spirit sigs. I can get my wards to take them down if you both want.>>

<<Nah. More fun this way, Blue.>>

<<All good. Okay, listen up, squad. There! Yes! I have a link back to Janhari. He's up now. In the Pit.>>

<<What?! Girl, wut do you mean he up now-->>
<<The PIT?! When the hell did this happen-->>
<<Wait! Shine! I thought you picked him up-->>
<<So rumours ARE true! He DID touchy-touchy Cappy-->>


<<Stop it and shove it up your ass, Toy! Not the time or place, ya heard? Captain, disregard Killtoy's comments. He stressed is all... Aight. Listen up squad. It was a need to know basis. The imposter is under lock and key with Captain Maeltrom. Shine and Xeno first encountered the imposter posing as Janhari when-->>

<<Xeno! Boi, you knew? And didn't say anything?!"

<<Kinda busy right now, Del! AAARRRRGH! Okay. I'm in trouble. Trouble and down bad. Moon Prism broke my armour...>>

For the length of a strained hearbeat was the ensuing shocked silence amongst the guard squad. So tense that it was thick enough to cut with a knife. A gloved hand slowly found home onto the area of Dread Rocket's mask where her forehead hid behind. With her other hand, Dread Rocket motioned for the flanking guard unit to go forward without her. She needed a moment to herself right now. The big woman took a deep breath.

<<Holy. Shit. Holy Shit! Okay, hoookay... Pix! Double time, girl! Get to Xeno. NOW! Deluge! Wither! Nix directives. Leave the Listed! Get to Xenolith now! If that unicorn can break Xeno's armour, it can and will break the walls of the facility! I have a guard unit with Captain and I'm just around the corner from her. Squad, stop that Unicorn. Don't let it escape.>>

<<Hey, listen up. Squad. She don't wanna escape. She wants to kill. Shine. Baby girl, Moon Prism's coming for you. I'm sorry, I couldn't stop her.>>

<<All good, Xeno. You held her off long enough. We got this. It will have to get past me and Maelstrom to get to Shine. We got you.>>

<<Xeno, we gots you! You my boi, boi! Buuuuut.... Actuallyyyy... Ummmm I'm actually in the hallways headed towards the stairs. Don't worry, Pow bot still there and gots the nano-bomb implants.>>

<<Negative! Big fat no! Shine, head your ass back to Debriefing! Now, Blue! You are compromising everything! That unicorn is loose and we need you to sing to it! Shine! Shine! Come in! Dammit! GODDAMMIT!! Killtoy! Leave the null guards to deal with the door. I need you on Shine. Stat! Ya heard?!>>

<<Dread. She is cutting out. That can only mean she is headed for the teleportal.>>





The ground neath her boots trembled for but a heatbeat. Whoosh!! Instantly Dread Rocket took flight leaving the ground neath her boots scorched and cracked. And as her name sake would have it, she did rocket aways towards Captain and as her name would have it there was a low, grating frequency emitted by her propulsion. It mixed with the vibrations echoing offa the concrete walls: an umcomfortable rumbling in the chest, a churning of the gut, a flood of earthu-shaking bass tones to the ears, worse than the notes of a dirge.

Jigajig Jigajig Aviator Aviator The guard unit that had arrived before her surrounded the inmates collared by Maelstrom. With zap-straps binding their wrists the inmates were herded, faces sourpussesd, ready to take away back to their cells. A suspicious eye the guards gave the well dressed person accompanying Captain. An even more suspicious look aroused once they noted the pistol in the individual's grasp. But Captain looked completely unperturbed as usual so without any further orders, they had rid the pair of the orange-clad inmates who thought it was a good idea to take on the towering alien woman.

The song of the Dread Rocket filled the hallways as she flew, sonic boom cracking the surrounding walls, a cloud of grey dust, chips and chunks of cold concrere lay in her wake. When halfway down the hall, she cut out her jet propulsion so as to not explode the eardrums of Captain; pity if the imposter lost their hearing. Her trajectory, however, she did not divert nor falter. Both gloved hands reached and caught the imposter tightly by the lapels, his expression reflecting offa the polished and tinted nano-plexi of her mask's visor. If struck without bracing himself, the imposter would have had the wind knocked outta them but regardless the imposter would find themselves pinned up against the wall. Hopefully the impact would knock some sense into that devious head of his and screw up the perfected part in their hair.


"Things are quite a mess now, mister," Dread Rocket practically growled, her speech rough and trembling as she spit words through grit teeth, "we can at least clean this up by snipping this here shitty shitty thread. Captain. We have Janhari. We don't need his fake, trashy, over agrandized bitch-assed clone no more. Y'know... This asshole hurt one of our own."

A sudden rumbling emitted from her gloved hands. Intense heat singed the fancy-assed lapels of the imposter, "So Captain, I could cave in his punk-ass chest and have him listen to his own death as he fails to get air from his own putrid lungs. Or if you want him alive, he don't need arms. Oh, and don't worry about the blood, you bitch-ass drama queen, it cauterizes immediately. But it will hurt bad. Reeeeal bad, ya heard?"

<<Pixie. Kill all cams in all hallways outside debriefing until I give you the say so.>>


<<Done and done. Wreck that pendejo. Wreck him good, D.>>

<<'Execution' to perfection as always, missy. Nothing less...>>






Shine

Shiny-1.jpg

Down in Hermes Wing. Near the Pit...



Normalcy. Well adjusted. A regular citizen. That's all she ever wanted to be.

<<This is Shine. Janhari you reading me? Boi, come back, please... Nothing. Dammit. What the actual eff in the face is happening down there...>>

But that choice was taken from her the moment she was abducted as a little black-haired 4-yr old. It was just so easy: Mom and dad arguing as they loaded the groceries, a wily shapeshifter sneaking up and a little girl that loved candies. The set up was perfect. It took a good 90 seconds before they noticed, screamed and cried, the dead weight of realization dropping on them; they would never see their little baby-girl ever again. They took her and made her what she was now. She always had the gift of Divining as a meta human. But what they put inside her. What they built her to become. It kept her from normalcy. Well adjustment. Regular citizenry.

Normal people would run down the stairs. Athletic others would even take them 2 or 3 at a time. Others with tough, near unbreakable knees could leap down from landing to landing before tiring out. But her? No, Nouvelle took the fastest route; dead-dropping in the sliver of space between the flights. She would drop 2 floors at a time before catching the railing below her. The blue-headed sparkplug was not normal. In fact, a couple times she reached for her little red super-bouncy ball and tossed it, more than well-adjusted eyes watching it riccochet and rebound as she plummeted. The moment before she caught the railing, flashing out like brown lightning, a hand would reach out and snatch the tiny blood red ball. Regular citizens did not have skills, strength nor speeding reaction times like that. No. Nouvelle was built like this.

And so were all her Siblings, all foundlings abducted by Sector XTC, barely out of their toddler years. And her Siblings, the ones that survived that is, they could attest to her malaise of viewing normalcy through an impenetrable glass window. You cannot live normally when you are made to do what you are made to do; what you are made to do will find you in time.

At the final landing, railings gave, exploding in shards of rust and steel. But again, the little blue-headed thing was not normal. A quick kick boosted her back towards the wall. Mid-air she spun and both powerful legs kicked the wall behind her, elevating her enough to twist into a four-point landing. Even her cat would be so proud to see cat-like reflexes from a stupid two-legger that always forgot to feed her.

Nouvelle slowly stood as her internals did a systems check. Big brown eyes held close as she took several breaths. Both hands unbuttoned her vest with eerie speed and accuracy. Next to go was her silky black tie. Finally she unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled them up. Big dark eyes snapped open, then with a casual flick of blue braids over a shoulder, she strut forward to the old rickety steel door with the grimy and neglected sign reading; 'Hermes Wing.' And beneath it in faded thick sharpie; 'Welcome to the sucktastic world of absolute bullshit.' And beneath that, 'Don't forget to ask for your overtime PAY!!!!!!!'


"Yeah. Like I'm ever gunna get OT for this...." out of habit, Nouvelle reached for her sunglasses. But there was no need. The liminal zone had expanded. Spiritual activity was going absolutely bananas down here, confirming her biggest fear. The Runelock was comprimised. But worse than that she knew exactly whose fault that was. Another deep breath with a not so calm, raggedy and noisy exhale.

<<This is Shine. Cappy, I lost my lock on Janhari. Continuing on. Pix. Give me Liling's twenty. Please. Girl, come back. Rocket come in. Cappy you there? Nothing. Again! Dammit!>>

But she really wasn't here to collar the inmate. And yes, she wanted to get pirate outta the Pit too but there was something else down here. Something worse than she could imagine.

As of now, Nouvelle was 'She-of-the-Dancing-Azure' and she had some pull with the spirits in Belle Reve. But down here in Hermes Wing? No it was the equivalent of a Spiritual Wild West. Spirits always wanted bargains and favours. Things down here wanted contracts. Yeah, that's right. This was a Demon's playground. And that put her at a disadvantage; as a Shaman, 'She-of-the-Dancing-Azure' was made to be a demon hunter.


What you are made to do will find you in time... another deep breath then she reached for the door and ripped it open.

The initial Otherside energy wave was like getting hit by a tsunami crashing down on shore. Nouvelle's head snapped back. A small flow of blood drained out her little brown nose. Both hands balled into fists as she trudged onward. Dark eyes flickered then glowed that silvery azure; her full on Shine would put a huge target on her back. The guard tread softly and carefully as she spied the demons. They had come out of all shadows, no longer fearful and hiding. Oh, but they were active. And not in a good way. She would have to fight her way to the Runelock. A lot. But that wasn't the worse part of it.

A small brown hand wiped at the droplets of blood leaking from her nose. Nouvelle tilted her head and spat to her right. This place had a new smell intertwined with a new interloper energy. And it reeked. It reeked of ritual and sacrifices.

It reeked of a whole entire Coven setting up their territory. And Shine had to stop them. All of them.

This was all her fault. All of it.

She had to close that godammed gate for good. Or die trying.




 
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Azrael Emery // “the Conjurer” // Age 28 // Sixth Prince of Castillon // Illusionist

Azrael watched with morbid fascination as the helmeted captain advanced on his assailant. Keezy had gone from moaning in pain to cursing out Azrael, but considering that the inmate was lying on the ground and cradling his obviously broken hand to his chest, Azrael took little offense from the words. Noe, however, had something to say about it. She kicked it off with a self-righteous spiel, and Azrael suppressed a yawn, some of the anticipatory embers inside him dying away. Anyone with eyes didn’t need Noe to tell them that she thought she was better than everyone else to figure out that she indeed thought she was better than everyone else. And then, just as Azrael was beginning to wonder whether the show was over before it had begun, she stooped with one knee on the ground. The big woman pressed a hand to the small of Keezy’s back, and blue-and-silver light fizzled and popped, electrifying him with a snap of sound. Azrael braced himself against the bloodcurdling pitch of Keezy’s ensuing wail. The inmate’s body seized and shuddered.

The other guards paid Noe so much deference that Azrael would have been surprised if she didn’t have some sort of nonstandard power, but this was his first time witnessing her do something beyond ordinary. She exerted some control over electricity. Although he didn’t know what kind of range her powers had, he made a mental note not to get into close quarters with her. Given Keezy’s ghastly keening, the captain had a rough touch when she wanted. As if the tall man weighed as much as a feather, Noe scooped him over her shoulder, ignoring his faint twitches and the smoky tendrils curling off his charred jumpsuit. Azrael almost cracked a smile.

The tentative points the captain had scored with him quickly dissolved at her stupid question. “Yes, I’ll lead the way from here after a quick tea break. Would you like mint or jasmine?” he snarked, rolling his eyes. Rather than respond to his goading, Noe addressed the weapon he was holding. Revealing that he was armed and giving his hosts more reason to believe he was a threat was something Azrael would have preferred not to do, but in the face of danger, he’d been given little choice. However, for all of Noe’s concern, Azrael might have been holding a plastic sword. End well for whom? Azrael wondered if it was a bluff, and if it wasn’t, what would happen if he attempted to shoot her. It wasn’t an idea he was seriously considering, because one pistol against the armaments of a whole fortress of trained soldiers wouldn’t go very far, but still. Would her armor not even dent if he unloaded a whole clip into it? Would she manipulate the bullet’s kinetic energy and send it ricocheting back at him? Would she literally stop time in the milliseconds between when he squeezed the trigger and the damage was done?

Azrael thought of answering the woman’s question about his name with a succinct no and leaving it at that. Instead, he ran his free hand through his hair. “Harlow,” he lied. It had been his mother’s name. It was unisex enough and she had been forgettable enough as one of Emperor Maximilian’s many concubines that it was one of the aliases he used when he didn’t want to be connected with the Castillon court. Like now. Azrael had no idea what and how much information Njeri had shared about their negotiations with Noe, because Njeri always referred to a warden as his commanding officer, not a captain. And he was reluctant to stake his immediate future on the chance that Njeri had given Prince Azrael a glowing review.

There was a distant rumbling sound like a faraway volcanic eruption. The floor shook gently, and dust misted down from the walls and ceiling. Azrael remembered General Zod’s haunting promise to repurpose this world by any means necessary, and cold fear gripped him. Prisons were made to keep the people inside from leaving, not outsiders from coming in. They were sitting ducks inside Belle Reve, wasting precious time as they stood about exchanging fake names and taking tea breaks and electrocuting inmates who were likely soon to be dead anyway. Then there were voices, and the sound of heavy, booted feet running. Many of them, and they were coming this way. Azrael’s pulse ticked up, and his hand tightened around the grip of his pistol. The alien invasion that he had recently escaped hadn’t been his first exposure to war violence. Memory closed over his head like dark waters, and suddenly he was a schoolboy with a flute again, dressed in marching band uniform when the football field exploded in flames.

An entourage of black Kevlar vests stormed around the corner. They wielded pepper spray and batons, but no weapons of lethal force. At least none that were drawn. They descended on the three still-standing inmates and forced them to their knees, binding their wrists. One of the unoccupied guards leveled a stony look at Azrael, who slowly returned the .45 to his shoulder holster and stood in his respectable clothes and tried to convey that he was not a threat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a large, dark shape, like some kind of overgrown bat, winging toward him at alarming speed. He had swung only halfway around before a wall of force slammed into him, propelling him backward. He struck a hard surface, and the air rushed from his lungs. Black shapes floated through the edges of his vision as he coughed and gasped. The black was overtaking the center of his vision, too, and Azrael tried to claw his way back to consciousness before realizing that there was, indeed, a panel of black glass in front of him. His legs had given way, but he was kept from falling from the two gloved hands that had knotted themselves in Njeri’s coat. The voice that spoke from behind the helmet was scrambled and androgynous, and if computerized voices could growl, this one did.

The hands against his chest turned into twin coals, growing hotter and hotter until there was the smell of singed fabric. Then there was a strange shifting. The coat grew shorter, thinner, and there was a slight tightening around Azrael’s shoulders, as if, in protest to being burnt, it had shifted styles of its own accord once again. With the guard pressed up against him, Azrael couldn’t see what the coat had changed to, but the cuff that brushed his hand felt coarse, like denim or corduroy.

Having recovered from the shock of the blow, Azrael felt fury spreading through his veins like ice. It was the second time in five minutes that someone had laid hands on him and thought they could push him around. In any setting short of an intimate one, Azrael resented being touched. It felt proprietary, condescending. Like when Father would lay a hand on his shoulder while telling Azrael everything he’d done wrong. Or his bigger, older brothers who wanted to practice the new wrestling moves they’d learned outside of the gym. Burning with cold rage, Azrael lifted his voice so that it would carry past the lackey whose hands were on him. “Captain Noe, do all of your associates solve problems with violence? Is their intelligence so lacking that no one under your command is capable of a civilized conversation? Because from what I’ve seen, schoolchildren have more restraint.”

It was a tactic to establish superiority, talking only to the person in charge and belittling the followers. Azrael had learned it from his siblings, Landen and Kamari, during the many awkward board meetings he’d sat through when they’d directed all their questions and suggestions to Father and ignored Azrael because, unlike them, he wasn’t military trained and thus, unworthy of their respect. His gaze shifted back to the black-clad figure before him. “I’d appreciate it if you would please call your dog off, Captain.”
 

Glen Powell

Rodrick Unger

Belle Reve Penitentiary

"How long do I gotta get my groove on?!"

After what seemed like an eternity, Belle Reve's possessed dancing troupe reached their destination. Rodrick had just entered the archer pose, left arm bent facing his head with his right arm pointing straight out when he stumbled upon the massive room that was his cell block. And for once, he was grateful to return to his containment cage. Rodrick Unger was no dancer, especially with a jumpsuit full of stolen goods. No, it was more of his style to have people dance for him. Back in his Anti-Drug Transport Unit days, there was tradition he and his fellow officers often forced their detainees to partake in after a successful bust. Firearms trained on them, the arrested smugglers were forced to dance for their captors. Not everyone was born with the gift of rhythm, but the threat of violence could turn anyone into a Michael Jackson in their own right. Rodrick and his boys would have a laugh as their furious quarries would shake their bruised groove things in the hopes of avoiding a cruel death in the desert. In reality, the officers just wanted to embarrass the criminals.

"How many times do I gotta tell you lot I'm sorry?!" A licked drug dealer had yelped one day, his sweaty tank top sticking to his skin. "I didn't mean nothin' by it, just tryin' to protect my investment!" Rodrick tipped his sunglasses down and peered at the man from over them, grinning as usual. "Oh, you're sorry alright, mate!" He admitted, tilting a head to a teammate next to him. "Sorriest dancer I've seen in my life! Put ya back into it, ya drongo! I've seen koalas dance better than that!"

The ribbing earned Rodrick some laughs from the others, while the object of their amusement shifted from groveling to cursing the officers and their mothers. And speaking of officers, Rodrick was about to break formation and sprint to his cell when he noticed that he wasn't the only person in the room with his wits about him. The wonder twins, Wither and Deluge, were standing vigil at the center of the room. Mid-step, Rodrick froze as they glanced in his direction. There was no doubt that if he didn't act fast, they would notice his sudden weight gain and approach him to perform liposuction via confiscating his honey buns. Once more, Rodrick would have to bust out some moves more convincing then flexing his muscles. In an attempt to sell the detail that he was no longer in control of his body, he sharply inhaled and laughed manically into the ceiling. Then, he began windmilling his arms around each other like he was hitting a speedbag, clapping his hands in time to the beat every few spins. Approaching the stairs leading to the upper floor that housed his cell, Rodrick spun around as he walked, waving his hands around his body as he did so. And as the coup de grâce, the hunter swung his butt in a slow circle before swinging his head back to gauge their reaction. But before he could get a good look, a gaggle of inmates caught up to him first, absorbing him into the mob and pushing him up the stairs.

Rodrick refused to look the gift horse in the mouth and let himself become part of the crowd bursting up the stairs. Once he reached the second landing, he moved faster, scanning the combination of numbers above each cell's door for his. 432, 433, 434! Joyously, he grabbed the door handle, swung it open and shut it behind him. The room was sparsely decorated, but adequately lit. There was a cot for sleeping and a toilet for doing business on. As for personal touches, the wall to the left was covered in upon row of black tally marks. Another bygone tradition from the past, this one used for keeping track of the days he was imprisoned. Rodrick had since abandoned the concept of counting days as the rows and columns increased in size, threatening to permanently encase the grey wall in black. Shaking his head out of a possible funk and onto good things, Rodrick unzipped his jumpsuit and unloaded its contents onto his cot. Despite the lack of hiding spots, he would have to find a way to conceal his goods, at least until his haul was at a manageable size. Gathering everything into his arms, the hunter was just about to stuff it all under his cot when the door to his cell swung open once more, a detail of guards letting themselves in. All four of them had their batons out at the ready and despite their hardened expressions, not one of them was able to hold back their snickers at the scene they had just walked into. Rodrick was wearing nothing but his white boxers, while a pack of beef jerky was sticking out of the waistband of said boxers. His arms were still full of contraband, which he slowly placed on his cot. If the guards had any idea of the prison's hidden economy, there had to be no doubt in their minds about how much of a degenerate Rodrick had to be to amass that many honey buns. He gave the men a smile. If that's what it took to keep his ill-gotten gains, then so be it.

To his surprise, the guards didn't seem to care about the loot at all. One of them, after shaking his head in disbelief, gestured to the scantily-clad Australian with his weapon. "Unger, you're coming with us. And put some damn clothes on!"


#milla jovovich from Máfia Milla Jovovich

???

Abnormal Special Operations Unit Headquarters

"The plot thickens."

The weather had failed to improve by the time her car parked in the scarcely populated parking lot of a building. The wind had gotten worse, with debris flying about to and fro in addition to the rain. A pair of automatic doors opened themselves for her as she walked in. The building's interior was that of an office. However, there wasn't anyone manning the front desk, nor anyone to complain about that fact. At the other end of the room was a keypad with a scanner mounted on top. The linoleum floor bore a variety of scratches and scrapes in a sweeping arc next to the device. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a keycard, matching a barcode on its backside with the scanner's light. Once the keypad received its authentication, it gave a high-pitched chirp and the wall next to it opened up like a door. Matching the scrapes on the ground, the wall now revealed a dimly lit staircase leading down.

"Welcome, Operative Helen Masters," The keypad greeted in a monotonous robotic voice. Helen walked through the doorway and marched down the steps, her right hand firmly grasping the rail. As the wall closed behind her, lights above her lit her descent. At the bottom of the staircase would be the true entrance to the building.

The Abnormal Special Operations Unit was created in the wake of an uptick of metahuman activity. They were getting bolder on both sides, developing newer and more dangerous powers. And the United States government needed to adapt or get left behind. So the doors were opened for super-powered individuals who wanted to make more of a difference serving their country. There was a sector of the unit dedicated to the occult and supernatural threats that face the world. Another sector was for cosmic threats, evil that reared its head towards Earth from the stars. And finally, the standard unit dedicated to operations on-dimension and on-planet. The unit responsible for this particular case, of a hidden group that worked in the shadow of the Australian government to crack the human genome and create their own metahumans. And going off their informant's information, it was done in the hopes of creating a personal army to sell to the highest bidder. Which is why they needed to be stopped. But at this point, the trail was dead, and had been for some time.

Reaching the end of the staircase opened Helen up to a whole new world from the plain and empty office above. The floor was a hubbub of activity, scientists and technicians in white busy at work with their inventions, while operatives in black got ready to go to work. There was more walking in store for her, and it be just as lonesome as it was upstairs. As soon as an employee noticed they were in close proximity of her, they would give her space and clear a path for her. The anniversary of Marcus' death ran deep with everyone, and they knew to give his partner space. Especially with how bad she took it the year before. A turn down a hall led her to where she needed to be, the evidence room. Every machine, memento and artifact collected in the aftermath of a mission was cataloged and stored in the room. The room itself was also under heavy security, requiring specific clearance to enter. After jotting down her signature, the identification number of the evidence she wanted, and scanning her keycard once more, the door opened up.

The room was built like a designer garage. It was very spacious, with the evidence having its own space arranged by what case it was involved with. Helen walked past evidence of cases prior, searching for the piece of work that belonged to Unger. A bow, arrows, multiple taxidermies, a cellar's worth of beef jerky. The exact list of items read off like a redneck's wishlist. The Interpol report did say that he was a recluse who slept in a RV in the Outback. And in trying to take a wide swing at the case, the A.S.O.U took everything but the vehicle he drove in. When Helen turned a corner to reach the large spot of the room reserved for the Project Genesis case, she gasped when her eyes feasted up a complete lack of evidence. The spot had been picked clean of objects, as if someone with a santa bag had come and tucked everything away. Helen was in absolute disbelief, but her initial shock shifted back into resilient focus in an instant. If she wanted to get to work solving this case, she couldn't afford to dawdle about. Marching back out of the room, a phone was fished out of her pocket and the number dialed of the one man who could give an answer to this predicament.
 
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Carrying on her walk, Rachel herself was careful to keep out of sight of the guards. The ever-growing swarm of bugs and crustaceans reduced the sounds of her presence and masking her in a haze of wings and chitin. The smell of the sea and brine was permeating the prison with the scuttling and buzzing of far too many creatures to count, each splitting into their own organized teams to round up inmates back to the cells and away from fights as needed with a few dozen stings, bites and snips for the stubborn ones, as well as mouth full for those throwing the crasser language around.

Aiding the impression of the chaos, and taking advantage of it at the same time she made her way to the radio room. She may not have had as long as the other inmates in the prison, but she had enough time to map out her environment, this combined with her swarming senses guided her to her goal.

Sweeping bugs into the radio room, she scuttled enough crabs up onto the console, one changing the frequency while a mass of chittering began to synchronize to resemble speech ready for the transmission to go out. "Red S, Boy Scout Protocol, Elevate to Scout Troop, Hygieia and Insight, Prep Naturalist Badge.". She then set the message on repeat and stood guard herself over the entrance. Insight in her equally insufferable and adorable know it all nature would know what to do, the moment the Kryptonian message went out she would have been all hands on deck, the only question now was if she would have been fast enough to not have Nike, Predator and Cerberus run off half-cocked doing something stupid.
 

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