Raymond_of_Clubs
the Yee to your Haw
Hello! My name is Ray, and I have a plot idea. Here it is.
On the outside, it looks like a regular truck. The paint is a little worn out, the plates are not from a city you recognize, and the driver isn’t wearing a deliveryman’s uniform. If you look closely, you may notice a distant hint of concern in his stern eyes as he makes a careful turn, and if you follow the truck for a little too long, you’ll notice it’s driving in circles trying to lose the tail. Keep following, and a police car with block your way, ordering you to stop. They’ll play it simple, say it’s a random pick, take a little too long to skim through your documents – by the time you’re allowed back into your vehicle, the truck will be already gone.
They won’t let you get too close – if you do, you might hear the children.
They’re not regular children. There is a great chance you don’t know that – if you’ve grown up any kind of normal, if none of your teeth stick out and none of your nails grow too long, if you fully and confidently believe yourself to be human – most humans don’t know. The ones that do? They’re guarding the truck.
Those children are dangerous. The “correctional facility” the truck departed from is filled with quiet rumors, the nurses in hushed whispers tell of a child who can’t stomach any food but blood, of a child covered in fish scales from head to toe, of a child that makes objects float around the room with the power of its mind – they’re scary, monstrous children. Humanity’s scientific curiosity keeps them alive. Metal handcuffs keep them restrained. The truck keeps them hidden.
But there are others who know – they’re not human either, but they’re older, stronger, wiser, they’ve been fighting for their right to freedom and safety for as long as humanity has been aware of their existence. They notice the truck. They watch it. They wait. And then they strike.
In summary: the world is full of supernatural beings, but they’re kept secret from the public, hunted, and imprisoned against their will. A small group of such beings is fighting against their oppressors. One such freedom fighter finds themselves rescuing a small group of children and now has to ensure their safety as they struggle to survive and reunite with the rest of their underground movement.
Each of us will be playing several children, ages anywhere between, say, eight and seventeen. We’ll also need at least one adult at the beginning – the one who rescues the children – although we can easily make it two, or expand the cast as the story develops.
The story will focus primarily on the interactions between people of different ages, species, and backgrounds, all united by a common enemy, slowly bonding and later on even developing into a found family. I have several potential characters in mind and a ton of ideas to bring to the table but would love to brainstorm the details of this universe’s lore together, and I’m looking for an active partner who will give me something to work with.
I tend to write a lot, in third person, past tense. I’ll attach a few post samples below so you can familiarize yourself with my style. I’ll also appreciate it if you can send a post sample when you message me, that’d be the quickest way for us to see if we vibe or not, I think.
Sorry if this is somewhat short or lacks important information. I got this idea and immediately wanted to write a thread for it, and I’m a bit overexcited, to be honest. Thanks for reading. Cheers!
***
On the outside, it looks like a regular truck. The paint is a little worn out, the plates are not from a city you recognize, and the driver isn’t wearing a deliveryman’s uniform. If you look closely, you may notice a distant hint of concern in his stern eyes as he makes a careful turn, and if you follow the truck for a little too long, you’ll notice it’s driving in circles trying to lose the tail. Keep following, and a police car with block your way, ordering you to stop. They’ll play it simple, say it’s a random pick, take a little too long to skim through your documents – by the time you’re allowed back into your vehicle, the truck will be already gone.
They won’t let you get too close – if you do, you might hear the children.
They’re not regular children. There is a great chance you don’t know that – if you’ve grown up any kind of normal, if none of your teeth stick out and none of your nails grow too long, if you fully and confidently believe yourself to be human – most humans don’t know. The ones that do? They’re guarding the truck.
Those children are dangerous. The “correctional facility” the truck departed from is filled with quiet rumors, the nurses in hushed whispers tell of a child who can’t stomach any food but blood, of a child covered in fish scales from head to toe, of a child that makes objects float around the room with the power of its mind – they’re scary, monstrous children. Humanity’s scientific curiosity keeps them alive. Metal handcuffs keep them restrained. The truck keeps them hidden.
But there are others who know – they’re not human either, but they’re older, stronger, wiser, they’ve been fighting for their right to freedom and safety for as long as humanity has been aware of their existence. They notice the truck. They watch it. They wait. And then they strike.
***
In summary: the world is full of supernatural beings, but they’re kept secret from the public, hunted, and imprisoned against their will. A small group of such beings is fighting against their oppressors. One such freedom fighter finds themselves rescuing a small group of children and now has to ensure their safety as they struggle to survive and reunite with the rest of their underground movement.
Each of us will be playing several children, ages anywhere between, say, eight and seventeen. We’ll also need at least one adult at the beginning – the one who rescues the children – although we can easily make it two, or expand the cast as the story develops.
The story will focus primarily on the interactions between people of different ages, species, and backgrounds, all united by a common enemy, slowly bonding and later on even developing into a found family. I have several potential characters in mind and a ton of ideas to bring to the table but would love to brainstorm the details of this universe’s lore together, and I’m looking for an active partner who will give me something to work with.
I tend to write a lot, in third person, past tense. I’ll attach a few post samples below so you can familiarize yourself with my style. I’ll also appreciate it if you can send a post sample when you message me, that’d be the quickest way for us to see if we vibe or not, I think.
Drown or burn?
He circled the clearing and scratched his head. He’d wandered too far north, he realized yesterday as he watched the river lay still at his feet. Back home, where the land barely scratched the sky with its sharp mountaintops, no arrow would reach his wings. As he traveled, the world flattened around him, spreading in swamps, then in forests – now even the nights were too bright to fly. Danger found him everywhere he walked.
They were dead, he was certain. They lay completely still, their eyes wide open, grimaces of fear frozen on their faces. The first one was old, his beard rich and his belly round. His body hung over the side of the broken wagon, dripping blood onto a pile of ceramic dolls. His wife lay under it. She was old and unpleasant, she had a mole on her cheek – her throat was slit quickly, and she was left untouched. Her daughter was young, with hair as black as a crow’s feather. Her body was dragged all the way into the thicket and left battered, her dress torn.
He wrapped her in his own coat and brought her back to the wagon, to her parents. It mattered little now, and she wouldn’t extend him the same sort of pity, but even if his bare wings and shoulders shivered against the wind, it put his heart in the right place. Then he stood, puzzled. Drown or burn?
He briefly thought “bury”, but the cold was too strong, and he didn’t have a shovel. Not even a rusty old knife, like the one used to draw fake claw marks on the nearby tree trunks. The cuts were too thin and too shallow – could have fooled a human, but not him.
Some humans like water. He found the taste unimpressive and the sensation of rain on his skin unbearably itchy, but he remembered the joy on everyone’s faces back home, when after a scorching hot season the clouds fell down and turned to puddles. It was then that he first heard the legends about those who send their dead down the river, leaving them to float until they drown.
He could melt the river, he supposed. It would take time, and strength, and more knowledge than he had in his tired head, but he was certain he could. The old woman died clutching a symbol of faith in her hands, pressing it tight to her chest. Her Gods didn’t protect her, but in all fairness, it was usual for any deity, not just that of the North. He wished he could recognize the symbol though. Maybe if he knew what these people believed, he’d know how to care for their dead.
Slowly, hesitantly, he settled on a pyre. There was enough wood scattered around, and what was left of the wagon would burn well. Serve its masters one last time. He built it in haste, never intending to stay in one place for quite so long, but it still came out tall and sturdy. There was little sense in worrying about being discovered, he supposed when he brought an entire tree down to gather more wood. The wagon alone would suffice, but he settled on touching the bodies as little as he could and didn’t dare remove the old man from his morbid deathbed.
He didn’t fear death.
He was hungry. Some of his kin didn’t shy away from hunting humans. He had his morals, but his stomach has been empty for a long time, and the thought was… disturbing.
He searched them, though he doubted he’d find any money. The realization that they were poor as a prairie mouse hit him quickly and painlessly, and only deepened his pity for the deceased. It was one thing to kill for gold and another to kill in vain.
He worked the fire slowly and patiently, striking a spark naturally, without the use of his sorcery. There were Gods offended by it, he remembered – Gods who would punish their humans for crimes that weren’t theirs, for insults that came out of someone else’s mouths. He supposed there was a certain degree of self-serving in all of this – knowing he could, at his core, offer the kind of respect and decency most humans weren’t capable of.
He didn’t pay attention to the cracking of the wood and the clatter of metal around him. A lot of things, he supposed, could be wooden, or metal, or noisy – wouldn’t do him any good to jump at every little disturbance. Funeral rites demanded concentration, seriousness, and peace of mind. He could wash the blood off his hands later when the freezing cold let go of the river water.
He circled the clearing and scratched his head. He’d wandered too far north, he realized yesterday as he watched the river lay still at his feet. Back home, where the land barely scratched the sky with its sharp mountaintops, no arrow would reach his wings. As he traveled, the world flattened around him, spreading in swamps, then in forests – now even the nights were too bright to fly. Danger found him everywhere he walked.
They were dead, he was certain. They lay completely still, their eyes wide open, grimaces of fear frozen on their faces. The first one was old, his beard rich and his belly round. His body hung over the side of the broken wagon, dripping blood onto a pile of ceramic dolls. His wife lay under it. She was old and unpleasant, she had a mole on her cheek – her throat was slit quickly, and she was left untouched. Her daughter was young, with hair as black as a crow’s feather. Her body was dragged all the way into the thicket and left battered, her dress torn.
He wrapped her in his own coat and brought her back to the wagon, to her parents. It mattered little now, and she wouldn’t extend him the same sort of pity, but even if his bare wings and shoulders shivered against the wind, it put his heart in the right place. Then he stood, puzzled. Drown or burn?
He briefly thought “bury”, but the cold was too strong, and he didn’t have a shovel. Not even a rusty old knife, like the one used to draw fake claw marks on the nearby tree trunks. The cuts were too thin and too shallow – could have fooled a human, but not him.
Some humans like water. He found the taste unimpressive and the sensation of rain on his skin unbearably itchy, but he remembered the joy on everyone’s faces back home, when after a scorching hot season the clouds fell down and turned to puddles. It was then that he first heard the legends about those who send their dead down the river, leaving them to float until they drown.
He could melt the river, he supposed. It would take time, and strength, and more knowledge than he had in his tired head, but he was certain he could. The old woman died clutching a symbol of faith in her hands, pressing it tight to her chest. Her Gods didn’t protect her, but in all fairness, it was usual for any deity, not just that of the North. He wished he could recognize the symbol though. Maybe if he knew what these people believed, he’d know how to care for their dead.
Slowly, hesitantly, he settled on a pyre. There was enough wood scattered around, and what was left of the wagon would burn well. Serve its masters one last time. He built it in haste, never intending to stay in one place for quite so long, but it still came out tall and sturdy. There was little sense in worrying about being discovered, he supposed when he brought an entire tree down to gather more wood. The wagon alone would suffice, but he settled on touching the bodies as little as he could and didn’t dare remove the old man from his morbid deathbed.
He didn’t fear death.
He was hungry. Some of his kin didn’t shy away from hunting humans. He had his morals, but his stomach has been empty for a long time, and the thought was… disturbing.
He searched them, though he doubted he’d find any money. The realization that they were poor as a prairie mouse hit him quickly and painlessly, and only deepened his pity for the deceased. It was one thing to kill for gold and another to kill in vain.
He worked the fire slowly and patiently, striking a spark naturally, without the use of his sorcery. There were Gods offended by it, he remembered – Gods who would punish their humans for crimes that weren’t theirs, for insults that came out of someone else’s mouths. He supposed there was a certain degree of self-serving in all of this – knowing he could, at his core, offer the kind of respect and decency most humans weren’t capable of.
He didn’t pay attention to the cracking of the wood and the clatter of metal around him. A lot of things, he supposed, could be wooden, or metal, or noisy – wouldn’t do him any good to jump at every little disturbance. Funeral rites demanded concentration, seriousness, and peace of mind. He could wash the blood off his hands later when the freezing cold let go of the river water.
The pattering of rain against the window was out of rhythm that night. Nature has been generous lately, water coming down in heavy lasting showers. It was the storms that disquieted him. Head throbbing with a dull ache – a bitter reminder of an uneasy sleep – he took to counting seconds between each bright flash of lightning and the following roar of thunder.
He thought he’d gotten out of bed rather stealthily, having dressed and collected his books and magical ingredients in near silence. Still, just as he was fastening the raincoat around his neck, the door creaked. “What time is it?” the familiar voice called tiredly from behind him. Quiet as he was, he could hardly match the lightness of his wife’s step.
“Near midnight,” he returned in a soft whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
She watched him for a moment, rubbing her eyes, chasing away the last remnants of her peaceful sleep. He watched her in turn – tall, slim, the nightgown weightless on her shoulders, the moonlight put to shame by the sharp glistering of her golden eyes – and his fingers turned clumsy around the knot on the straps of the raincoat. She smiled warmly. “Is there trouble?”
Since the first day of Hearth Fire, there has hardly been a time without trouble. They felt safer within the city walls but still kept the armory open. “The beacon is lit,” he gestured to the window, frowning.
“And right at the riverside,” she noted, folding her arms over her chest. He wouldn’t know. From where their house stood, the riverside was only visible to him in the daytime.
“The longer I stare, the darker it seems,” came with a slightly amused huff as he finished the knot and got to fixing the shoulder strap of the satchel. “Tell me what you see.”
She squinted slightly, giving the scenery a scrutinizing look. “I see the colors of the Royal Guard. The tear in the sky is growing, but nothing came through yet. I see archers atop the guard towers – and what fools they are, raising the bridge! My love, I’m going to join you and put a dent in each of their helmets before I let you set foot on the wall.”
She clenched a fist. He stepped closer, took her hand in his, unfolded her fingers, and brought the back of her palm to his lips. “I’ll be fine," he told her thoughtfully, as he always did when neither of them was certain. She leaned down and returned the soft gesture by planting a kiss on the top of his head.
Her warm goodbye was still playing music to his ears when he cast the spell of fast travel. From the dry cozy heat of his home to the deathly cold slippery stone of the wall, the darkness of the night stretched greedily, hungrily, and even from that close, he could barely see the raised bridge, let alone the colors of the guards. The only thing he discerned with ease was the rupture. He's seen them a dozen a time, but the blackness of them - not pitch or tar, not coal from the mines, not the cloudy sky in a midnight thunderstorm - was something wretched, otherworldly, frightening. He didn't fear the dark. His beautiful wife's skin was as black as a raven's feather, yet so full of color and life. The rupture, in its turn, was devoid of both. So he feared it.
The people of the wall - rangers, eagle-eyed scouts, soldiers on duty - quickly responded to his presence but refused to raise the bridge. He expected that much. The rupture looked just about big enough to start spewing its monstrous beasts into their realm. Between giving them a way to the city and letting them fall and drown on their own, the risk was clear and the choice was obvious. Instead, accompanied by a young and reluctant soldier by the name of Sevas, he took a boat out into the deep waters, right under the rupture - getting close was important for the success of his spells. Being so close to water unsettled him, his own inability to swim ringing bells of caution in the back of his mind. But the blackness of the rupture unsettled him more.
He cast the spell of still waters onto the surface of the river, and, knowing it wouldn’t last long, immediately took to stitching the fabric of space around the rupture. A monstrous claw could be seen poking through, and the archers’ arrows rained down upon it so heavily he worried they might miss and pierce the bottom of the boat, but the soldier held his shield up, and they coursed quickly around the rupture, so he pushed his fears aside and concentrated on doing his part.
Then the boat rocked.
He assumed they hit something. A peculiar bump in the riverbed, a stray vessel that got lost in the storm upstream and made its way down, a piece of rubble from the rupture – even with the waves stilled, there were a lot of things to take them off their path. It was only when the oars hit the water but the boat stayed in place that the grip of cold panic tightened around his heart.
“Abandon the boat!” Sevas shouted. Something indiscernibly dark dashed out of the water and wrapped around the wooden body, pulling it down. Splinters stung his hands, but he held on tight. The soldier cast one last glance at him, briefly reached to grab his arm and drag him into the water, but reasoned he had his own weight to carry to the shore, and wouldn’t manage another person.
In a last-second effort, he tried to freeze the river, but the creature below broke the icy crust with relative ease.
Soon he was in the water, the same snake-like monster that split the boat in two now wrapping around his torso and pulling towards a second rupture, previously unseen, hidden in the darkness of the riverbed. The last thing he thought of as it swallowed him was that in her well-justified caution his wife was, as always, right.
Then there was air. He breathed in quickly, greedily, and it burned his lungs, made him cough and press a clenched fist to his chest. The raincoat was still soaked wet, but everything else was dry, and there was a bright sun on his face and an obnoxiously loud horn in his ears.
He moved to stand up and swayed slightly when his feet found steady ground instead of the rocky bottom of a boat. Must have been washed ashore, he thought, but everything was too loud, too bright for the riverside he knew, and someone cussed him out in a language he didn’t speak. He rubbed his eyes and hastily stepped out of the way of a roaring metal beast, only to almost get trampled by another. The colorful growling hoard stretched as far as the eye could see, and his mind supplied he must have been in the middle of a forest, but his eyes hurt with the lack of green and the abundance of colors he’s never seen before. He’s made his way to the edge of the track, where awkwardly short elves with their ears all cropped were running somewhere past him.
Buildings taller than even the royal castle stood menacingly around him. Everything was flashing, moving, and shouting, and the air kept burning him whenever he tried to breathe. He leaned on a wall, feeling sick to his stomach, and sat down slowly, hands moving absently around the handle of his axe and the laces of his satchel. He wondered where the ear-docked elves were running, but the rupture in the sky was blocked from his sight by a large metal construct with a smiling face and a running line of foreign texts on it.
He thought he’d gotten out of bed rather stealthily, having dressed and collected his books and magical ingredients in near silence. Still, just as he was fastening the raincoat around his neck, the door creaked. “What time is it?” the familiar voice called tiredly from behind him. Quiet as he was, he could hardly match the lightness of his wife’s step.
“Near midnight,” he returned in a soft whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
She watched him for a moment, rubbing her eyes, chasing away the last remnants of her peaceful sleep. He watched her in turn – tall, slim, the nightgown weightless on her shoulders, the moonlight put to shame by the sharp glistering of her golden eyes – and his fingers turned clumsy around the knot on the straps of the raincoat. She smiled warmly. “Is there trouble?”
Since the first day of Hearth Fire, there has hardly been a time without trouble. They felt safer within the city walls but still kept the armory open. “The beacon is lit,” he gestured to the window, frowning.
“And right at the riverside,” she noted, folding her arms over her chest. He wouldn’t know. From where their house stood, the riverside was only visible to him in the daytime.
“The longer I stare, the darker it seems,” came with a slightly amused huff as he finished the knot and got to fixing the shoulder strap of the satchel. “Tell me what you see.”
She squinted slightly, giving the scenery a scrutinizing look. “I see the colors of the Royal Guard. The tear in the sky is growing, but nothing came through yet. I see archers atop the guard towers – and what fools they are, raising the bridge! My love, I’m going to join you and put a dent in each of their helmets before I let you set foot on the wall.”
She clenched a fist. He stepped closer, took her hand in his, unfolded her fingers, and brought the back of her palm to his lips. “I’ll be fine," he told her thoughtfully, as he always did when neither of them was certain. She leaned down and returned the soft gesture by planting a kiss on the top of his head.
Her warm goodbye was still playing music to his ears when he cast the spell of fast travel. From the dry cozy heat of his home to the deathly cold slippery stone of the wall, the darkness of the night stretched greedily, hungrily, and even from that close, he could barely see the raised bridge, let alone the colors of the guards. The only thing he discerned with ease was the rupture. He's seen them a dozen a time, but the blackness of them - not pitch or tar, not coal from the mines, not the cloudy sky in a midnight thunderstorm - was something wretched, otherworldly, frightening. He didn't fear the dark. His beautiful wife's skin was as black as a raven's feather, yet so full of color and life. The rupture, in its turn, was devoid of both. So he feared it.
The people of the wall - rangers, eagle-eyed scouts, soldiers on duty - quickly responded to his presence but refused to raise the bridge. He expected that much. The rupture looked just about big enough to start spewing its monstrous beasts into their realm. Between giving them a way to the city and letting them fall and drown on their own, the risk was clear and the choice was obvious. Instead, accompanied by a young and reluctant soldier by the name of Sevas, he took a boat out into the deep waters, right under the rupture - getting close was important for the success of his spells. Being so close to water unsettled him, his own inability to swim ringing bells of caution in the back of his mind. But the blackness of the rupture unsettled him more.
He cast the spell of still waters onto the surface of the river, and, knowing it wouldn’t last long, immediately took to stitching the fabric of space around the rupture. A monstrous claw could be seen poking through, and the archers’ arrows rained down upon it so heavily he worried they might miss and pierce the bottom of the boat, but the soldier held his shield up, and they coursed quickly around the rupture, so he pushed his fears aside and concentrated on doing his part.
Then the boat rocked.
He assumed they hit something. A peculiar bump in the riverbed, a stray vessel that got lost in the storm upstream and made its way down, a piece of rubble from the rupture – even with the waves stilled, there were a lot of things to take them off their path. It was only when the oars hit the water but the boat stayed in place that the grip of cold panic tightened around his heart.
“Abandon the boat!” Sevas shouted. Something indiscernibly dark dashed out of the water and wrapped around the wooden body, pulling it down. Splinters stung his hands, but he held on tight. The soldier cast one last glance at him, briefly reached to grab his arm and drag him into the water, but reasoned he had his own weight to carry to the shore, and wouldn’t manage another person.
In a last-second effort, he tried to freeze the river, but the creature below broke the icy crust with relative ease.
Soon he was in the water, the same snake-like monster that split the boat in two now wrapping around his torso and pulling towards a second rupture, previously unseen, hidden in the darkness of the riverbed. The last thing he thought of as it swallowed him was that in her well-justified caution his wife was, as always, right.
Then there was air. He breathed in quickly, greedily, and it burned his lungs, made him cough and press a clenched fist to his chest. The raincoat was still soaked wet, but everything else was dry, and there was a bright sun on his face and an obnoxiously loud horn in his ears.
He moved to stand up and swayed slightly when his feet found steady ground instead of the rocky bottom of a boat. Must have been washed ashore, he thought, but everything was too loud, too bright for the riverside he knew, and someone cussed him out in a language he didn’t speak. He rubbed his eyes and hastily stepped out of the way of a roaring metal beast, only to almost get trampled by another. The colorful growling hoard stretched as far as the eye could see, and his mind supplied he must have been in the middle of a forest, but his eyes hurt with the lack of green and the abundance of colors he’s never seen before. He’s made his way to the edge of the track, where awkwardly short elves with their ears all cropped were running somewhere past him.
Buildings taller than even the royal castle stood menacingly around him. Everything was flashing, moving, and shouting, and the air kept burning him whenever he tried to breathe. He leaned on a wall, feeling sick to his stomach, and sat down slowly, hands moving absently around the handle of his axe and the laces of his satchel. He wondered where the ear-docked elves were running, but the rupture in the sky was blocked from his sight by a large metal construct with a smiling face and a running line of foreign texts on it.
The clock blinked 07:15 when Ed hit the pillow and fell asleep immediately, stretched out on the mattress like a starfish, his head completely empty for the first time in the past three days. Three shifts in a row, two nights of non-stop sirens, the smell of smoke fused into his skin so deep he couldn’t get it out with all the soap in the world – it was nice to have his thoughts disappear into the void for once, and he didn’t have any dreams at all, except the annoying buzzing somewhere in the back of his mind, a sneaky harbinger of tomorrow’s splitting headache.
The soft embrace of the endless nothing was most certainly imaginary, but the buzzing, much to his dismay, turned real. It took him a moment to process the sound, then to connect it to the recently installed doorbell of his usually quiet and barely-lived-in apartment, and then another second or two to shift and groan into his pillow. Instead of going through the struggle of putting on a pair of pants and a decent shirt, he wrapped himself in his blanket like an unhatched butterfly, and dragged his ass into the hallway, where the piercing buzzes were even louder, still half-asleep, and also quite sure it was but an inconsiderate neighbor in desperate need of some salt.
“Mister Wilson?” a gentleman in a black costume, with a tie and everything, fifty-something years old by the look of it, extended his hand for a handshake through the half-open door. He was wearing glasses and a mustache, and everything about him looked terribly serious, so serious that Ed suddenly felt completely awake, and also a little bit worried. The inspection wasn’t due until next week, and he couldn’t recall doing anything that would warrant an official visit, but the irrational thought still crossed his mind, because maybe – just maybe – he had accidentally committed war crimes against humanity and just so happened to forget about it.
“How can I help you?” he returned ever so politely, pulling the blanket tighter over his shoulders – God forbid it to fall down and expose his unflattering attire. Police didn’t like him disorganized like that, would probably think he isn’t living a decent life, and, to be fair, based on his look it wouldn’t be a completely groundless assumption.
“Agent Hayes, MCA. May I come in?”
Ed stepped aside begrudgingly. The Mutant Control Agency was always let in, but never welcome.
There were a total of two rooms in Ed’s house, and one of them was a complete mess. The bed wasn’t made, his clothes were thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair, and a stack of coffee mugs was accumulating on the table. He led his guest into the kitchen, which, in turn, was sparkling clean – he rarely ever had the time to use it, even though he really enjoyed cooking. He offered Agent Hayes the good chair and some tea or coffee, which he had in a wide variety of flavors – the latter was declined, but the other man did sit down, bringing forward a folder with some kind of documents, but not letting Ed take a peek.
“I’m here about the rampage,” the agent announced in a dry, emotionless tone.
Ed’s blood ran cold. “The what?”
Agent Hayes seemed perplexed by the response but collected himself quickly. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. It’s all over the news.” Spotting the other man’s confused look, he added, now with a hint of uncertainty: “The Cathedral? The destruction? The deaths-”
“I was nowhere near any blasted Cathedral!” Ed interrupted loudly, his fist landing heavily onto the table, making the agent visibly nervous. “I was at work, at the station – ask the guys, they’ll tell you! It’s near the Westside, we had calls there, and I’ve never even seen a Cathedral! I didn’t know we had one in Toronto!”
“Mister Wilson, the St. Pierre Cathedral isn’t in Toronto. It’s in Geneva.”
Ed blinked, his expression shifting from angry to irritated, to confused, to defensive. “I’m banned from leaving the country. I don’t even have an international passport. You can’t accuse me of something that happened in Switzerland.”
Agent Hayes’ face lit up with finally realizing where the misunderstanding was coming from. “I’m not accusing you; I’m requesting your help. Mister Wilson, do you watch TV?”
They spent the next twenty minutes or so browsing and watching the news reports from the last few hours, showing burning buildings and injured victims, as well as the criminal herself. It took Ed some time to calm down and really believe that the MCA wasn’t here to accuse him or check on his record so far – it wasn’t often that they paid house visits for something other than that. In fact, it literally never happened before. As they watched, Agent Hayes explained the details of the catastrophe – Ed knew about the resistance movement, but never really got involved, and, as they’ve established, didn’t watch a lot of TV. He did offer to help the best he could, and his offer was accepted immediately.
“We’ll take you to Geneva as soon as you’re ready,” Agent Hayes explained, his tone impeccably indifferent, which was kind of driving Ed nuts when he thought about it.
“Do I need to call my boss and tell him I’m sick or something?”
“No,” the agent spotted a smile, which in return caused Ed to grin widely. “The MCA will make the necessary arrangement.”
“Gotcha,” Ed nodded, processing the next steps, “let me just grab a few things, and I’m good to go.”
“What kind of things would those be, Mister Wilson?”
“Ugh… Pants?”
***
Two hours later he was sat in what Agent Hayes called a private jet of the MCA, specifically MCA-2, though the agent didn’t specify of how many. Ed had hoped to see the Atlantic as they flew over it, but the weather was much too cloudy for that, and he didn’t get the chance to take a peek. Between a nosey neighbor lady shouting how glad she is that he’s finally being arrested for his mutant crimes (whatever gave her this impression) and boarding the jet in a hasty manner, this wasn’t too bad of a morning, and the tiredness was gone for the time being. Agent Hayes told him he could ask questions if he had any, so after half an hour or so of staring at the infinitely white clouds underneath like an overexcited child, Ed decided to make use of the offer.
“Will I get arrested?”
“Pardon?” Agent Hayes raised his eyes from the tablet on which he was working, navigating between what Ed recognized as emails and something he didn’t quite understand.
“For violating my international travel ban.”
“It’s been revoked.”
If it wasn’t for the safety belt, Ed would jump to his feet. Instead, it came out as a jerky movement, and he stared at Agent Hayes for a solid minute before finally opening his mouth to voice the question. “When?”
“Just…” the man lightly tapped something on his tablet screen and once again briefly glanced at Wilson over his glasses, “…now.”
Ed blinked in confusion, then scratched his head. “What… what about my passport? I told you I don’t have one.”
“You do.”
“Since when?!”
Agent Hayes checked his pocket watch. It looked unnecessary, seeing how he had an electronic device in his hands. But he was clearly a man of habits, and a very stubborn one, at that. “Since two minutes later,” he concluded.
Ed scratched his head at that, too. He’d have to do a lot of head-scratching once all of this is over, he reasoned. A few minutes passed like that, with him perplexed, and the agent concentrated and his paperwork. Then Ed broke the silence: “What about my pet ban?”
“Pardon?” the other man raised an eyebrow. It’s not that he didn’t hear Ed this time, it’s that he didn’t understand what he meant, exactly.
“My pet ban. Is it revoked as well? Can I get a dog when this is over?”
“I’ll… have to check that,” Agent Hayes avoided the question – he was unaware that law-obedient mutants still had a pet ban, but he wasn’t a part of the department that dealt with such restrictions.
Well, Ed didn’t expect this to go perfectly. But it did make him even more nervous when he decided to finally ask about the little detail that was bothering him since he boarded the jet. Still, he had to bring it up. “What about my powers? Can I use them? I mean, you probably know I’ll have to use them, but it’s not… y’know… going to cost me a death sentence or something like that, is it?”
“No,” the agent answered simply, and Ed couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh. “I’ll familiarize you with the official restrictions.”
And he did. For the next ten minutes or so they discussed the formalities, and what Ed gathered from it was, he was allowed to use almost every power he had at his disposal to help deescalate the situation and, as the agent had nicely put it, to apprehend the villain. He then had Ed sign a paper in which he promised not to sue if he gets killed on the job. Ed tried to argue he had already signed such a paper when he got his job at the Fire Department, but the agent reminded him that MCA functioned separately from the Canadian government. After that, Ed’s head began to hurt a little from all the different papers he was offered to read, and he retreated back to looking through the window. Soon enough, the jet went into a dive down, and he could see the site of the catastrophe.
It was bad enough in the pictures. Looking at the burning buildings and barren streets was heart-wrenching. The pilot was now looking for a safe space to land, but a great fire was raging below the jet, and a terrifying thought crossed Ed’s mind – there could still be people there. Not just around the fire, trying to put it down. Inside. In one of the burning buildings. In any of the burning buildings.
“My kind of job,” he joked, and before the natural silence evolved into an awkward one, added quickly, “can you drop me off right here?”
“We can’t land here,” Agent Hayes replied with his usual unphased indifference.
“I’m not asking you to land! Just drop me.”
The agent frowned, considering the suggestion in his head, then said something to the pilot – something Ed didn’t quite hear. He then instructed Ed where exactly to stand, and how the door is going to open. By that time they had already agreed that since the moment he stepped foot in Geneva, Ed would be on his own. Still, a few polite words of purely professional concern were expressed – that is, Ed was also instructed to be careful and not burn. But then again, what kind of firefighter would he be if he was afraid of a little flame?
***
The energy from the landing poured down in an electric impulse – with his feet on the ground, Ed could potentially consume infinite energy, seeing how the Earth was always an absolute electrical zero. And a little flame it was not. Even rising from the ground level, it was still much taller than him, and much more aggressive. The thick layer of smoke obscured the sights, which was frankly a pity – he’d always hoped to one day admire the pretty picture of a European city with a name as big as this. The smoke was dangerous even to him – it wasn’t the energy of it that was dangerous, but the deadly choking effect it had on humans. Would be nice to have his gear with him, he thought, much too late now.
The flame didn’t hurt. He walked right into it, and it only kind of burned his eyes, but only because it was much too bright. Now, he couldn’t absorb and release energy at the same time, so the trick was to put out as much fire as possible before turning it into a lightning bolt straight to the Earth’s core. And he so, so prayed he wouldn’t burn his pants in the process, that would be a fucking shame. So much for a decent shirt, too – he was practically covered in grime, ash, and dust from the moment he stepped into this hellfire. Not too different from how he looked after a long work shift though.
The key was to not breathe the smoke in, or he could bid farewell to his lungs. That proved tough – two seconds in, and he was already feeling the strain on his muscles. Rusty. That’s what happens when you don’t use your powers in literal years. Ed was always confident he could find a better use for them than just quenching down his every attempt to help humankind. It was nice to have that recognized, at least, even if it happened so late and in such upsetting circumstances.
He spread his arms wide, letting them set on fire along with the rest of his body, absorbing as much of its heat as possible. At first, the change wasn’t even visible, but after thirty seconds or so of persistent effort the flame – all of it at once – turned blue, then nearly white, and then suddenly it was no more, with only ever so rare sparks of red somewhere in the distance – those which spread too far for his powers to reach. He couldn’t absorb the energy of that which didn’t touch him, after all. Thankfully, most of the fire was pretty concentrated in just one area of the city – that he could very well deal with.
The lightning that followed, against Ed’s best intents, went two ways: down and up. Now, he had enough control of it to not let it sideways, but letting thousands of mega Joules blast in one direction – even straight into the ground – could very well start another fire. The sky was a safer space. At least the planes weren’t flying over Geneva. Agent Hayes mentioned that at some point.
Covered in dirt mixed with sweat, large holes burned through his shirt and, unfortunately, his pants, Ed spotted a large enough broken piece of wall from a nearby collapsed building, and sat down to catch his breath. Rusty. Smaller sparks were still running between his fingers, making a loud noise, though to him it sounded muffled after the much greater and louder electric bold that preceded it.
The soft embrace of the endless nothing was most certainly imaginary, but the buzzing, much to his dismay, turned real. It took him a moment to process the sound, then to connect it to the recently installed doorbell of his usually quiet and barely-lived-in apartment, and then another second or two to shift and groan into his pillow. Instead of going through the struggle of putting on a pair of pants and a decent shirt, he wrapped himself in his blanket like an unhatched butterfly, and dragged his ass into the hallway, where the piercing buzzes were even louder, still half-asleep, and also quite sure it was but an inconsiderate neighbor in desperate need of some salt.
“Mister Wilson?” a gentleman in a black costume, with a tie and everything, fifty-something years old by the look of it, extended his hand for a handshake through the half-open door. He was wearing glasses and a mustache, and everything about him looked terribly serious, so serious that Ed suddenly felt completely awake, and also a little bit worried. The inspection wasn’t due until next week, and he couldn’t recall doing anything that would warrant an official visit, but the irrational thought still crossed his mind, because maybe – just maybe – he had accidentally committed war crimes against humanity and just so happened to forget about it.
“How can I help you?” he returned ever so politely, pulling the blanket tighter over his shoulders – God forbid it to fall down and expose his unflattering attire. Police didn’t like him disorganized like that, would probably think he isn’t living a decent life, and, to be fair, based on his look it wouldn’t be a completely groundless assumption.
“Agent Hayes, MCA. May I come in?”
Ed stepped aside begrudgingly. The Mutant Control Agency was always let in, but never welcome.
There were a total of two rooms in Ed’s house, and one of them was a complete mess. The bed wasn’t made, his clothes were thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair, and a stack of coffee mugs was accumulating on the table. He led his guest into the kitchen, which, in turn, was sparkling clean – he rarely ever had the time to use it, even though he really enjoyed cooking. He offered Agent Hayes the good chair and some tea or coffee, which he had in a wide variety of flavors – the latter was declined, but the other man did sit down, bringing forward a folder with some kind of documents, but not letting Ed take a peek.
“I’m here about the rampage,” the agent announced in a dry, emotionless tone.
Ed’s blood ran cold. “The what?”
Agent Hayes seemed perplexed by the response but collected himself quickly. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. It’s all over the news.” Spotting the other man’s confused look, he added, now with a hint of uncertainty: “The Cathedral? The destruction? The deaths-”
“I was nowhere near any blasted Cathedral!” Ed interrupted loudly, his fist landing heavily onto the table, making the agent visibly nervous. “I was at work, at the station – ask the guys, they’ll tell you! It’s near the Westside, we had calls there, and I’ve never even seen a Cathedral! I didn’t know we had one in Toronto!”
“Mister Wilson, the St. Pierre Cathedral isn’t in Toronto. It’s in Geneva.”
Ed blinked, his expression shifting from angry to irritated, to confused, to defensive. “I’m banned from leaving the country. I don’t even have an international passport. You can’t accuse me of something that happened in Switzerland.”
Agent Hayes’ face lit up with finally realizing where the misunderstanding was coming from. “I’m not accusing you; I’m requesting your help. Mister Wilson, do you watch TV?”
They spent the next twenty minutes or so browsing and watching the news reports from the last few hours, showing burning buildings and injured victims, as well as the criminal herself. It took Ed some time to calm down and really believe that the MCA wasn’t here to accuse him or check on his record so far – it wasn’t often that they paid house visits for something other than that. In fact, it literally never happened before. As they watched, Agent Hayes explained the details of the catastrophe – Ed knew about the resistance movement, but never really got involved, and, as they’ve established, didn’t watch a lot of TV. He did offer to help the best he could, and his offer was accepted immediately.
“We’ll take you to Geneva as soon as you’re ready,” Agent Hayes explained, his tone impeccably indifferent, which was kind of driving Ed nuts when he thought about it.
“Do I need to call my boss and tell him I’m sick or something?”
“No,” the agent spotted a smile, which in return caused Ed to grin widely. “The MCA will make the necessary arrangement.”
“Gotcha,” Ed nodded, processing the next steps, “let me just grab a few things, and I’m good to go.”
“What kind of things would those be, Mister Wilson?”
“Ugh… Pants?”
***
Two hours later he was sat in what Agent Hayes called a private jet of the MCA, specifically MCA-2, though the agent didn’t specify of how many. Ed had hoped to see the Atlantic as they flew over it, but the weather was much too cloudy for that, and he didn’t get the chance to take a peek. Between a nosey neighbor lady shouting how glad she is that he’s finally being arrested for his mutant crimes (whatever gave her this impression) and boarding the jet in a hasty manner, this wasn’t too bad of a morning, and the tiredness was gone for the time being. Agent Hayes told him he could ask questions if he had any, so after half an hour or so of staring at the infinitely white clouds underneath like an overexcited child, Ed decided to make use of the offer.
“Will I get arrested?”
“Pardon?” Agent Hayes raised his eyes from the tablet on which he was working, navigating between what Ed recognized as emails and something he didn’t quite understand.
“For violating my international travel ban.”
“It’s been revoked.”
If it wasn’t for the safety belt, Ed would jump to his feet. Instead, it came out as a jerky movement, and he stared at Agent Hayes for a solid minute before finally opening his mouth to voice the question. “When?”
“Just…” the man lightly tapped something on his tablet screen and once again briefly glanced at Wilson over his glasses, “…now.”
Ed blinked in confusion, then scratched his head. “What… what about my passport? I told you I don’t have one.”
“You do.”
“Since when?!”
Agent Hayes checked his pocket watch. It looked unnecessary, seeing how he had an electronic device in his hands. But he was clearly a man of habits, and a very stubborn one, at that. “Since two minutes later,” he concluded.
Ed scratched his head at that, too. He’d have to do a lot of head-scratching once all of this is over, he reasoned. A few minutes passed like that, with him perplexed, and the agent concentrated and his paperwork. Then Ed broke the silence: “What about my pet ban?”
“Pardon?” the other man raised an eyebrow. It’s not that he didn’t hear Ed this time, it’s that he didn’t understand what he meant, exactly.
“My pet ban. Is it revoked as well? Can I get a dog when this is over?”
“I’ll… have to check that,” Agent Hayes avoided the question – he was unaware that law-obedient mutants still had a pet ban, but he wasn’t a part of the department that dealt with such restrictions.
Well, Ed didn’t expect this to go perfectly. But it did make him even more nervous when he decided to finally ask about the little detail that was bothering him since he boarded the jet. Still, he had to bring it up. “What about my powers? Can I use them? I mean, you probably know I’ll have to use them, but it’s not… y’know… going to cost me a death sentence or something like that, is it?”
“No,” the agent answered simply, and Ed couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh. “I’ll familiarize you with the official restrictions.”
And he did. For the next ten minutes or so they discussed the formalities, and what Ed gathered from it was, he was allowed to use almost every power he had at his disposal to help deescalate the situation and, as the agent had nicely put it, to apprehend the villain. He then had Ed sign a paper in which he promised not to sue if he gets killed on the job. Ed tried to argue he had already signed such a paper when he got his job at the Fire Department, but the agent reminded him that MCA functioned separately from the Canadian government. After that, Ed’s head began to hurt a little from all the different papers he was offered to read, and he retreated back to looking through the window. Soon enough, the jet went into a dive down, and he could see the site of the catastrophe.
It was bad enough in the pictures. Looking at the burning buildings and barren streets was heart-wrenching. The pilot was now looking for a safe space to land, but a great fire was raging below the jet, and a terrifying thought crossed Ed’s mind – there could still be people there. Not just around the fire, trying to put it down. Inside. In one of the burning buildings. In any of the burning buildings.
“My kind of job,” he joked, and before the natural silence evolved into an awkward one, added quickly, “can you drop me off right here?”
“We can’t land here,” Agent Hayes replied with his usual unphased indifference.
“I’m not asking you to land! Just drop me.”
The agent frowned, considering the suggestion in his head, then said something to the pilot – something Ed didn’t quite hear. He then instructed Ed where exactly to stand, and how the door is going to open. By that time they had already agreed that since the moment he stepped foot in Geneva, Ed would be on his own. Still, a few polite words of purely professional concern were expressed – that is, Ed was also instructed to be careful and not burn. But then again, what kind of firefighter would he be if he was afraid of a little flame?
***
The energy from the landing poured down in an electric impulse – with his feet on the ground, Ed could potentially consume infinite energy, seeing how the Earth was always an absolute electrical zero. And a little flame it was not. Even rising from the ground level, it was still much taller than him, and much more aggressive. The thick layer of smoke obscured the sights, which was frankly a pity – he’d always hoped to one day admire the pretty picture of a European city with a name as big as this. The smoke was dangerous even to him – it wasn’t the energy of it that was dangerous, but the deadly choking effect it had on humans. Would be nice to have his gear with him, he thought, much too late now.
The flame didn’t hurt. He walked right into it, and it only kind of burned his eyes, but only because it was much too bright. Now, he couldn’t absorb and release energy at the same time, so the trick was to put out as much fire as possible before turning it into a lightning bolt straight to the Earth’s core. And he so, so prayed he wouldn’t burn his pants in the process, that would be a fucking shame. So much for a decent shirt, too – he was practically covered in grime, ash, and dust from the moment he stepped into this hellfire. Not too different from how he looked after a long work shift though.
The key was to not breathe the smoke in, or he could bid farewell to his lungs. That proved tough – two seconds in, and he was already feeling the strain on his muscles. Rusty. That’s what happens when you don’t use your powers in literal years. Ed was always confident he could find a better use for them than just quenching down his every attempt to help humankind. It was nice to have that recognized, at least, even if it happened so late and in such upsetting circumstances.
He spread his arms wide, letting them set on fire along with the rest of his body, absorbing as much of its heat as possible. At first, the change wasn’t even visible, but after thirty seconds or so of persistent effort the flame – all of it at once – turned blue, then nearly white, and then suddenly it was no more, with only ever so rare sparks of red somewhere in the distance – those which spread too far for his powers to reach. He couldn’t absorb the energy of that which didn’t touch him, after all. Thankfully, most of the fire was pretty concentrated in just one area of the city – that he could very well deal with.
The lightning that followed, against Ed’s best intents, went two ways: down and up. Now, he had enough control of it to not let it sideways, but letting thousands of mega Joules blast in one direction – even straight into the ground – could very well start another fire. The sky was a safer space. At least the planes weren’t flying over Geneva. Agent Hayes mentioned that at some point.
Covered in dirt mixed with sweat, large holes burned through his shirt and, unfortunately, his pants, Ed spotted a large enough broken piece of wall from a nearby collapsed building, and sat down to catch his breath. Rusty. Smaller sparks were still running between his fingers, making a loud noise, though to him it sounded muffled after the much greater and louder electric bold that preceded it.
Sorry if this is somewhat short or lacks important information. I got this idea and immediately wanted to write a thread for it, and I’m a bit overexcited, to be honest. Thanks for reading. Cheers!
