Saving Lives a Mile High [open to all]

[applesaucemod]

Welcome to another ordinary day in Manhattan. This barely even qualifies as a dream at all, it's so like waking life. The dreamers will find that they're their own perfectly normal selves going about their perfectly normal business and thwarting perfectly normal crimes in their perfectly normal spandex outfits.




What's that? No, of course it's normal to wear spandex (or leather, for the more chic among you) and go around beating up muggers and thwarting your villainous counterparts, don't be silly. What else would you do with your afternoon, not use your superpowers to better the world? That's grossly irresponsible of you; don't you know that with great power comes great responsibility?

So get out there and make the world a better place -- and be sure not to let that disguise slip if you do make it in to work today. Wouldn't want anyone to learn your secret identity, after all.


[OOC: Characters will find themselves thrust into the role of superhero...or at least, super-powered human. Whether they'd use those powers for good or evil (or use them at all), they'll think they've always been this way (or maybe just since that time they fell in toxic waste and developed cancer telekinesis). Usual dream party rules apply: all players and characters welcome regardless of membership status. Characters will remember or forget the events of the dream at players' discretion.]

Comments

[lottawork]

Categorically, Nicholas is not what he would refer to as a 'visionary'. Concepts of destiny, fate, inextricably entangled in and around him notwithstanding.

Didn't he say it would always end this way.

We'll never be done.

Surveying the vast metropolitan sprawl of whatever nebulous city in which he's stationed himself is far from immediately rewarding, regardless of technological ameliorations. Cameras only reveal so much, even those bolstered by subtle modernizations of the generally imperceptible variety, unobstructed by the shadowed silhouettes of skyscrapers printed against the starlit, liquid dark. A high vantage point becomes axiom.

Wind whips over the dark fringe of his hair, clear and intemerate and vaguely fatidic, as if the herald of some dark subset of events beyond his control. How uninspired. How typical.

Nicholas straightens and retreats from the building's unprotected edge and prepares to commence the long process of descending to ground-level.

[powerdealer]

For a moment there's just a faint ripple in the air, a gentle buzz of something quite not like it should be.

Then suddenly, with the sound of velcro being pulled apart, it widens into a full-blown tear, a rip in the fabric of spacetime, suspended in midair on top of the building.

With barely a second passed, the body of a man launches headfirst through it, preceded only by a few lasergun blast that shoot off in different directions, including towards Nick. The man - Seth - lands in a roll, finding his footing in a crouch immediately and throws out a hand towards the tear, which closes immediately, preventing anything else to follow, whether more lasers or some of his actual pursuers.

He straightens a little and looks around. Seth isn't wearing spandex, but he's taken a leaf out of Simon's book and adopted the Superhoodie outfit. Not like he's using it anymore, and there's always gotta be one, right? A title and an outfit passed down. Though he's not quite as good at the parkour as the original Superhoodie, he's got plenty powers to make up for it.

[lottawork]

The hiss of two aspects of reality coming apart is not lost on him, and Nicholas pivots and dives smoothly in avoidance of the light streaking over dark. Being fired upon by heat- or plasma-based projectiles is not what he would consider a conventional noctivagant activity, even for him - his nighttime habits are somewhat more atypical compared to most. The warm blaze of the bright bolts sear past, charging the air with the stench of ozone.

With a fluid pull, Nicholas draws his sidearm which opens with the high electrical whine of a building charge, unfurling into a sinuous weapon that somehow approximates a snake. The intruder is well within his sights but he refrains from opening direct fire, holding rigid in a low crouch.

[powerdealer]

Seth whips around at the sound of - something. A weapon being drawn, he realises when he spots the guy pointing one at him. Well, he assumes it's a weapon by the way it's being held.

"Whoa, hey," he says, raising his hands in a sign of non-hostility, slowly getting to his feet. His voice is made unrecognisable by a voice distorter in the mask hiding his face, though it doesn't really mask his accent - he has do that on his own. "Didn't mean to interrupt," he reassures, quite calmly for someone who just appeared out of nowhere while being shot at, and is now being aimed at again.

[lottawork]

"You weren't," Nicholas says crisply, cutting the 't' on a harsh edge. He cocks his head, eyes narrowed, motioning subtly with the tip of his weapon as he straightens in a slow, controlled rise. "Frequent partaker in intradimensional travel, are you?"

[powerdealer]

"Well, it's cheaper than the subway," he quips, letting his hands drop but not moving beyond that - he doesn't want to antagonise anyone. Well, anyone more than he already has. Though he's pretty sure whatever that weirdly shaped thing shoots, it'll pass right through Seth like any weapon, assuming he's ready for it.

He hadn't recognised him before, given it's pretty dark up here, but the voice (not to mention the accent) definitely makes him a lot easier to place. "So, what's brought you up here, Rush?"

[lottawork]

The lack of any undue hostility is hardly a ringing endorsement as to the opposite party's intent. Nicholas lets the point of the weapon drop. He makes no movement to reholster it.

He looks away, the wind lifting the hair from his face, one corner of his mouth tightening. He cares very little for the novelties of hiding one's face, though clearly this second party doesn't share his opinion on the subject, establishing a tenuous balance of power from the initialization. It is not an outward subset of events, generally, of which he can say he is very fond.

"Nothing so interesting, I'm afraid," he says. "Keeping an awareness of anomalous events." He looks obliquely at the other man, his suspicion unconcealed and readily evident.

[powerdealer]

Anomalous events like people dropping out of thin air, probably. Seth hesitates for a few moments. Rush is more or less in the same boat as him. Not exactly an ally perhaps, but not an enemy, nor someone he particularly needs to hide his identity from. An enemy of my enemy and all that. Anyway, he doubts he'll get much out of the conversations while masked. He could just leave, of course. Their last encounter was hardly positive.

In the end he decides that, well, he's been meaning to have a word so it might as well be now. He reaches up, pushes down his hood and pulls off the mask, lifting the other hand to ruffle through his hair a little, as it tends to get flattened a bit by the disguise. "That has to be done too, I suppose."

[lottawork]

Nick compresses an impressive amount of contempt into his weary scoff as the opposite party makes his identity and intent patently obvious. He replaces his weapon with curt efficiency, drawing forth a thin silver slip of a lighter and a box of cigarettes in the same continuous series of movements. He lingers for longer than the socially acceptable allotment of time over the depression of the button, the hiss of spark turning to steady flame, the bright bead of light at the end of the cigarette and the smoke curling thinly into the sky.

All of it a clean display as to how little he cares for this intrusion in its entirety.

"Should I be concerned over the likelihood that your pursuers may be capable of following?" he asks with projected indolence, watching the smoke trail lazily upward.

[powerdealer]

"They've never managed before, so it would surprise me," he answers, watching Rush. At least he puts away the gun, so he can't be so resentful that he'd return the favour, nor does he hurry to leave. Suppose that's somewhat promising.

He remains quiet for another long moment, then gets straight to it, no beating around the bush. Small talk is the strength of neither of them, that much is clear.

"I owe ya an apology," he says, earlier levity now nowhere to be found in his demeanour. "I was hurt and angry, and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

It doesn't exactly sound rehearsed, but neither is it all that spontaneous. Seth isn't great with interpersonal skills, but at least he makes a point of apologising when he's in the wrong. And given they have friends in common and aren't completely unlikely to meet again, it would be good to be able to interact in at least a somewhat civilised manner.

[lottawork]

Nick snorts once, tapping ash from the end of his cigarette to send it drifting over the network of flickering city lights.

"Yes," he says after a long, unhurried drag, "well. Generally speaking, I'm beyond severing ties with anyone who's ever attempted to beat the shit out of me." He arches an eyebrow, subtly tilting the box of cigarettes in the other man's direction. "The list is too long. It wouldn't be sustainable."

[powerdealer]

Seth nods, interpreting that as an acceptance of his apology, though he doesn't take a fag - that's something he only indulges in when he's particularly stressed.

And to be honest, he's not surprised to hear that it's not the first time someone's punched Rush. Seth may not have been right in attacking him, but Rush was doing a pretty good job in making him want to, saying those things about...

He hurriedly directs his mind away from the context and circumstance of what he's apologising for, though. That whole topic is still quite sore and confusing, and if he's going to discuss it with anyone, it certainly won't be with Rush, who seems to have the sensitivity of a boulder.

"You don't strike me as someone who tries very hard to make friends, no," Seth answers, going to sit at the edge of the building, dropping the mask and looking out over the city. Heights don't bother him too much, compared to other things.

[lottawork]

"I prioritize," he says shortly. He slides the box back into his pocket, blowing out a slow hush of smoke to spiral over the irregular glittering mass of lights below.

"I hear he's back, in any case," says Nick, his tone and the uneven slope of his shoulders radiating languid unconcern. "Jackson. I did say he wouldn't be long."

[bloodsprice]

He wasn't actually a villain. It was just what people who tended to find him in the wrong time and place assumed upon seeing some of the things he did.

If you didn't understand the reasons behind his actions, didn't know why he was doing what he did. Perhaps then, yes, he might appear to be something of a villain. Sometimes it was easier to get something done in embracing that title even. Usually however, he was more...an anti-hero one could say. He ended wars, he helped people out, but those were either for his own motives or done for a price.

Course now he needs help himself, so he's come to someone he thinks might be capable of finding the one he needs found. The trick is to get the man to agree to listen to him and then to grant him what he desires.

He steps out of the shadows as Nicholas heads for the door that would lead inside and down. "Headed home?"

[lottawork]

Grip like iron over the door's knob, Nick freezes, the line of his shoulders growing taut at the unexpected nature of the voice, the subtle roll of the vowels and the too-immediate, too-familiar snap of the consonants. It's an accent he can immediately put a name to and one whose presence would be regarded, here, to be somewhat inexplicable, setting aside the mild hypocrisy of the thought.

What Nicholas finds when he turns can only be blamed upon the oddities of quantum iteration, the intricacies of a universe whose machinations are entirely beyond his control.

"Hello," he says, jaw too tight and eyes too narrow in the face of his own mirror.

[bloodsprice]

It is rather surprising when one finds someone who is so alike that they could very well be a twin. He himself had already overcome his shock over it when he'd first looked into the man before him.

Whether Nicolas was aware of it or not, he'd been observing him for the past week before he'd made his decision to finally approach.

"If you're willing to give me a bit of your time, I have a proposition for you."

[lottawork]

Whether this be the product of some flaw of physics or the shifting array of temporal duplicates scattered into diverging trajectories and redirected into an absurd, unprecedented meeting that should by all accounts shatter the very reality construct in which they exist - there is something appealing in his double's utter composure. The hard edge. The unshakable core.

Whatever differences may divide them, at their core they might not be so unalike in resolve in addition to facial similarity. He is not unappreciative of the possible existence of the same qualities that exist within himself.

He releases the knob, pivoting neatly to face his duplicate.

"What might that be, then," he says, closing the question with the tilt of his head.

[bloodsprice]

He appreciated the lack of bluster from the other man, the pointless declarations that they would never consider any propositions put forth by a villain. Of course it could be that he didn't actually know of him, if such was the case, he'd rather Nicolas remained in the dark about that, though it was possible he might actually be someone who would understand the reasons behind his actions. Hopefully he hadn't misjudged when he decided to come to him for this. He didn't think he had though. He folded his hands over the cane he held before him, the thing was a mere prop really, but it had its uses. "I want you to find someone for me." Perhaps Nicolas would manage to succeed where he was currently failing. Especially given that the man lacked some of his own weaknesses that held him back in inconvenient ways.

[lottawork]

"Well," he says, his voice low and interested and dangerous, "that is one of my specialties."

He folds his arms over his chest, taking in the other man's posture, the idle set of his hands over the fine finish of his cane.

That particular detail is minimally more than minimally arresting. One would assume the separations of fate and subsequent directing of oneself across many potential quantum orbits would yield a dissimilar output, including variants of himself he has not formerly considered.

As such, he has no conception of why this version of himself would require a cane.

He opens a hand. "Elaborate."

[bloodsprice]

"I have a son. We've been ...separated for quite some time. I've been attempting to find him myself and I've managed to get this close. I know he's here in this city. I don't know where in the city and certain things are interfering with my ability to properly search him out further here. Thus I would like to hire your services in locating him for me." That should hopefully be enough elaboration for the other man about this task. He didn't want to get into too much depth of detail. Not here where he couldn't be certain they wouldn't be overheard by someone or something. Going into just what was interfering with his ability to continue his search himself might possibly threaten his continued existence. Not something he cared to court when he was this close to finding his son again. Which would be why he still held onto the cane and had even modified it to hold a fitting weapon to use against those who would do him harm, here in this city where his magic sometimes chose to desert him. Though sometimes he wondered if his continued efforts toward finding his son were wise. What would his boy, no doubt now a man, think of what his father was now? He banished such thoughts shortly after they arose though, he swore he'd find him and he would eventually. It didn't matter what his boy thought of him so long as he got the chance to tender his apology and the declaration that he did love him even still to this day.

[lottawork]

The arching set of parallels Nicholas has since parsed between them abruptly halts and shatters, spinning into a sick lurch of grief nestled in the pit of his chest. He swallows. Family is all in all a concept he must consider entirely abstract, let alone the notion of offspring, and he - and Gloria wouldn't -

He dislodges the thought with a fractional shake of his head. It is inconsequential. Very little depends on whatever personal ephemera may be disturbed by the general progression of events. As he's come to conclude.

"Naturally," he says, mostly failing in an attempt to keep his voice dry and devoid of inflection. "I would be amenable to that, assuming you have a physical description or a lead of some kind."

[bloodsprice]

He noticed the affect his words had and it is only his own morals about using his newer abilities without justified cause that keeps him from seeking to satisfy his curiosity about the cause of the pain and grief he so briefly glimpsed. "I have a lead and I can give a reasonable enough description, I believe. Shall we discuss your price here or elsewhere?"

[lottawork]

An old scrap of him would have seized the opportunity, that fragment of himself long dead. A specter of regret lingers in the thoughtful roll of his jaw, but Nicholas shakes his head.

"I don't require incentive," he says, the words cold. Vigilantism is a rather trite career choice from any remotely rational standpoint, but when one is not presented with the option of taking a rational route one must forge an irrational one. "Give me what you have. I'll see to it I locate your son in a reasonably expeditious manner."

[bloodsprice]

He inclined his head briefly in gratitude. Partially for accepting his request, partially for not taking advantage of the offer of payment. "I believe he has work as a photographer within the city. He's no doubt taken an assumed name, his birth name is Baelfire. Unless he's chosen to alter his appearance as well as his name, he'll be brown of both hair and eye. Similar to my own. Average in height. He may still possess a love of drawing." He paused, hesitating for a moment before he continued softly. "He may also....not wish to see or be found by me."

[lottawork]

"And therefore he's likely to assume we're one and the same." His lip curls faintly, exasperation leaching into his tone. "Fucking excellent."

He shifts his weight back to his heels, one gloved hand rising to scrub through the short fringe of his hair. He looks out over the city, the thin fog mantled over the nexus of beaded lights.

"I'll be assuming there's a certain genetic similarity, shall I?" he snaps, "seeing as your description is consistent with most of the population of New York."