Kalden rolls his eyes, annoyed that someone, anyone, would entertain Deacon. Annoyed that the conversation took a turn towards mortality. Erik Kalden is a daredevil by nature, someone who tests his luck again and again for the pure rush. He's the type of person who looks Death in the eye, gives it the finger and shouts "not today, a!~*+!*!" as he catapults himself through the air. To him, death is his one true prison, and unlike Deacon or Lance, he hadn't figured out a contingency plan just yet. That is what annoyed him the most. He hadn't figured a way to escape death yet, and any conversation about those who've survived irked him. What The Bastard wants, The Bastard gets by any means necessary, but he can't just steal Immortality.... Could he?
"Nanomachines. What will they think of next!"
John perks up at the mention of nanomachines, but only to listen more carefully. He still doesn't wish to become involved in the motley crew.
In a tone suggesting Kalden should keep up with his reading, Roulette intones, "There are currently 22 super powered individuals who make use of nanotechnology either to generate or enhance their powers, including Captain Robo, the hero formerly known as Cyborg and now more commonly called VICTOR, The Shield, and of course Mr. Terrific, the fourth smartest man in the world, and my dear daddy."
The last drips with bitterness.
"Kid, if you're going for inconspicuous, you're doing it all wrong," an older man says to Kid Alchemy as he sets his tray down across from him. The man's voice comes across as a weak wheeze, hoarse from a night of screaming. He doesn't wait for a reply before sitting his frail body down and quickly wraps his long black graying hair into a bun. Placing his age was difficult. While his physique said late 30's, he carried himself in a way that made him seem 30 years older, as if the weight of being was too much for him to bear. There was something odd in the way he looked, something odd within the creases of his face. Premature wrinkles, deep cracks of old age, a 40 year old man with skin that said 70. Most would guess meth, or worse.
He raises a glassy black set of rosary beads in his weathered hands and says a prayer under his breath. After a quick cross and a kiss, he lets the beads hang from his neck. Though his beard does a good job of hiding most of the rosary, the black cross manages to hang over his chest, where it glows white. Beneath his inmate uniform, where the cross hangs is a black blot.
"Whatever you did to land you here, you're not too proud of. You're not like any of these guys, and you'd rather lay low and complete your sentence with as little attention as possible, right? It's a good idea, but it rarely works kid."
He stretches his hand over the table towards Kid Alchemy. It's cold to the touch. "My name's John Masiatto."
After shaking, he pulls back and begins to eat. "I get you. You made a mistake, a bad decision, and got caught up in it. You're in here to serve your time and reflect. Make as little waves as possible. Hopefully get out on good behavior. If you wanna survive, you're going to have to associate. Being a lone wolf in a place like this puts a target on your back." As he speaks, he tries his damnedest to refrain from any sort of direct eye contact. His dull blue eyes dance around the room, glazed over as if he'd been sedated recently.
"You're a good kid, I can tell. Don't let this place take that from you. Don't let it swallow you whole."
A few more bites of food, and he lets out a dissatisfied grunt. "This stuff don't taste quite the same to me any more." He slides the tray over to Alchemy and pulls out a newspaper. "You can have the rest if you want."
"Uhh, thanks. I'm John Desmond. I'm not getting out. Ever. I have life. I'm just trying to be ignored so that life lasts a while. No offense, but how can you find anything to trust in here? It's some pretty hard people looks like. That's not even to mention whatever it is that's cooking. "
Masiatto coughs at the mention of Desmond's life sentence.
"Keep it quiet, kid. That kind of stuff is a contest here. Soon enough you'll have someone bragging about his two life sentences, and then another jaggoff'll come and brag about his eight. Before you know it, you've got an all-out brawl over who's gonna rot in a cell longer. Besides, most of us got life. But every now and then, you'll start to notice familiar faces disappearing. "
That was a lie. John Masiatto didn't have a life sentence. He didn't have a sentence at all. He was at Belle Reve out of his own will. It was a win-win-win. John gets locked up in a facility capable of handling his condition, the "Powers That Be" use him as a pawn, and his wife and kids receive a check every month. It wasn't the most ideal scenario, but it was the safest bet. Three square meals a day, a bed, and a way to feed on those deserving without having to worry about harming his family.
Family. They thought he was dead. "Killed In Action" was the term used. They were surprised when they found out their father was a government man, but stranger things have happened.
"I didn't say trust, I said associate. It's not about being hard. Some of the worst guys out here are the ones you wouldn't suspect who know how to talk and dangle knowledge over people's heads. Strength in numbers, kid. You don't even need to be hard. Just prove yourself useful to someone and they'll keep you around.""
"Come on, don't be a sour puss, ya' bastard," Jimmy shot back before glancing around the communal area, his gaze settling on the television. "Anybody know how many of us there are in this place? Seeing as we're obviously not the first batch, given tall-orange-and-fuzzy, I wouldn't mind seeing who else we're gonna have to fight for the TV remote."
”You get all sorts in these places. Howdy. Name’s Rick.”
The latest newcomer comes in to the dining area with a stream of about 3 others, mostly women this time.
Rick is remarkably average looking for this place. Handsome, tall, blonde hair and blue eyes. There is a roll to his gait, just enough hint of swagger to his manner, and a bit of not quite forgotten drawl in his accent for the whole presentation to scream 'good ol’ boy’, even without a cowboy hat.
One of the women has pale blue skin from head to toe, though strikingly her hair is still blonde. A second is of African American decent, with close cropped woolly curls. The third is covered in chitinous plates, like thick medieval armour. The forth finger on each hand is over a foot long, is bent back and strapped to her forearm with what appear to be manacles, custom made for the job. The inner surface of each appendage looks like a wickedly sharp serrated edge.
The blue skinned girl could be a few different villains, but you’ll need more info to narrow it down. The third has nothing that would visibly indicate her identity, and the same is true for Rick.
”We ain't been here all that much longer; most of us anyhow. Me and the ladies got here yesterday. El Tigre was already in residence. He was a little upset about losing his run o’ the place until those two started putting the moves on him. That seemed to shut him up right quick. If he thinks he’s the one calling the shots there, he’s gonna be in for a surprise, I think; if he ever catches on, of course.”
”Only other one you haven't met yet is the Grandmaster. He was here when I arrived, but I don't think he’s been out of his room. Meditatin’, or reaching a higher plane, or just trying to imagine a world where he ain't gonna be locked up till Kingdom Come, the good Lord only knows. Going on three days; ain't even got up to wizz. Don't know his right name, and I can't countenance calling anyone by a prison number so I just been stickin with GM; think that's what he goes by on the outside.”
”Lordly motley crew they crammed in here; with all the cameras, can't help but feel like they just popped us all in here to see what the hell happens. People been joking for years that prisons would make a killer reality TV show; maybe some genius up in the ranks finally jumped on the idea. Gather up a bunch o’ psycho-killers, a few freaks,” he tips an imaginary cowboy hat at Horror, “No offence pard; and then a few normals to up the 'fresh meat' factor, and we could have a hit on our hands. Hey, y’all could be famous soon - you know, those that survive anyway.”
”So, what brings you folks to the Beautiful Dream? Social call or long term engagement?”
"I've got fifteen. Attempted murder. Assassination, really. Judge went soft on me because I was 'corrupted' by Deathstroke's influence, and I didn't succeed on my mission anyway."
"Lance Harper. They call me Gravewound on the outside."
"Twenty five to life. Got me on tax fraud, wouldn't you know it? Harsher sentence because of murders they think I committed or conspired to commit but they have no proof of. Those damn psionic hero types, I tell ya," Jimmy laments briefly before falling silent to look around at the others. Kalden's sentence, he has heard before. The rest? Not so.
"Ok, well maybe I need to associate. But right now I think I need to watch. I don't want to make a rash decision. That's what got me into this place. "
"Illegal casino, tax evasion, kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, murder, theft by deception, blah, blah, blah.... You know, the usual. But mostly having a bad day and a worse lawyer."
"Sounds like some real bad luck."
"Y'know, if any of you need a better lawyer for your future hearings, I know a guy. A few of 'em, actually. If I had any of my cards, I'd give them to you, but you know how it is in here."
"I blew up a LexCorp building," Kalden nonchalantly spits.
"Who hasn't?"
"Say, Rick. I don't suppose you want to fill us in on what's got you in here? Then afterwards, maybe you can get your entourage to introduce themselves, too."
Rick turns to get a better look at Demoniac.
”Why, what makes you think a feller like me might deserve to be here? I've never done a naughty thing in mah whole life. Mah bein’ here is sheer unfortunate happenstance. Course, it's seems not everyone would agree with me on that point.”
”Speakin’ o’ which, I can't say I've met such a large bunch of guilty parties till now during mah entire incarceration. Whole lot of victims of circumstance, wrongly accused, and misunderstood souls is all. You folk might be the first Ah actually heard cop to somethin’. Must be out of appeals or somethin’, yessum?”
"As for my 'entourage'", he gestures to the ladies that entered about the same time as himself, "I only met them yesterday, so I don't feel quite qualified to speak for them."
Piper suddenly looks up from her makeshift sausage and toast structure she'd occupied herself with since the tigerman's exit. She'd been considering the tentacled hell spawn's posturing on immortality via poetry and felt words were completely. insufficient for her own rebuttal. Food towers seemed FAR more appropriate.
He knows breakfast. Do meals know him? Does he know how to serve man?
This Jackson-Pollock-like train of thought awakens an old ache in her causing her to
unconciously chew on a lock of her own hair. Piper groggily addresses the man with a worse accent than her own, her hand lifting slowly above her head as if through molasses.
"Well hand to Jaysus I don't deserve to be in here! I'm just a wee bird. Them fellas ate their own selves up. ALL gobbled down...."
Her eyes seem to be looking straight through Rick.
Rather aghast at the last outburst of the tentacular abomination, John quietly takes his tray to the designated receptacle and clears it off. Then he heads back to his cell.
Roulette rises from the table and moves to return her tray, allowing some swivel in her hips to draw the attention of those who are so disposed. She is entirely willing to let their distraction be he advantage.
She turns back toward the group and flashes a small plastic sphere, slightly smaller than a ping pong ball. "So there was a roll on deodorant in my welcome package, anyone wanna play bounce. And the first person who makes a double entendre out of that has to bunk with Horror."
Lance shrugs.
"Not like there's anything else to do."
Jimmy just wordlessly lifts his tray out in Dunwich's direction, now that Piper is done making food art. Roulette's walk does catch his attention, but he reluctantly neglects to offer any remark about her phrasing. "Pass. If they don't give me a single, I'll just have to turn mine into one. I'll gladly be your bookie, though."
Glancing across to Rick and his friends, he nods at the trio of women as he looks over each appraisingly. "So, have you three got names? Or are we playing hard-to-get today?"
Mantis shows little interest in introductions, saying nothing, and pretty deliberately ignores any comments directed her way. She merely eats her breakfast before turning in her tray and heading back to her cell.
The African American woman seems guarded, and very wary of her circumstances, keeping a close eye on Horror and Mantis in particular, but also on anyone else with any obvious inhuman features. She gives her name as ‘Becca’ but doesn't give a super-villain name or anything. When asked what she’s in for however, she almost timidly responds, ”Murder 1.”
The blue skinned woman surprisingly turns out to be Killer Frost, a fact that she is more than happy to tell you. Given that killer Frost had been in action for some thirty years, it's a bit surprising to hear the name claimed by a girl that could pass for nineteen without being challenged on it. When asked, she just says, ”It's the cold. Frozen things don't get old.” Unlike someone like Mr. Freeze, she doesn't seem to require refrigeration; seems her natural body temperature lies well below freezing. She certainly seems to know enough about Killer Frost that she either is who she says she is, or she's a remarkably dedicated fan. She’ll share anything you want to know about her exploits almost gleefully, and relates stories of getting a big score or committing cold blooded murder with equal ease and enthusiasm. According to her, the best hero to get busted by is probably the Flash, with Batman probably being the worst.
The next few days seem to go by relatively smoothly. El Tigre makes a few more appearances, confirming your initial impression of his attitude. The ladies with him are identified as Lady Dragon, in the case of the asian woman, whereas the blond is the latest to use the moniker Doll Face. The two are inseparable around the unit.
Jimmy is glad that at least someone (aside from Kalden, of course) is willing to be chatty, and gladly talks with Killer Frost. About anything and everything, apparently. Whether it be politics, fashion, automotive work, past supervillain exploits, or just the weather. It is always good, in his mind, to talk to other so-called immortals that do not shout every three syllables about the inevitable heat death of the universe.
The next few days go by mostly without incident for Jim, as he spends the majority of his time trying to wear down those who give him the cold shoulder. Namely, the guards, John, Lady Dragon and Dollface, Mantis, and Becca, in an effort to make new friends and more connections. Particularly with the guards, in the effort to get some sort of link to the outside world back. If he were to say so himself, he does a particularly good impression of the serpent from the Garden of Eden, always offering up tantalizing rewards that would otherwise hang just out of reach.
When he is not busy with that, he spends his ample amount of downtime since he has no need for sleep around the rest of his little clique. If anyone is ever having a hard time sleeping, needs someone to talk to, or is generally just bored, Jimmy never far away.
Lance suddenly remembers he has an Eidetic Memory, and wracks it for any recollection of these people.
Lance stays up with Demoniac, grateful that he's not the only one who has no need to sleep.
"Useful on a stakeout and such but damn do I get bored." he remarks one night.
Kalden flashes his predatory smile.
"Killer Frost? You're Killer Frost? Damn," he raises an approving eyebrow at her. "They seem to forget about how good you look... For your age and all. They always talk about you bein' a legend though. That must be cool. If we ever get out, we should work together. I'd love to see what we could do with our talents."
He spends the next few days cutting jokes and ribbing the less vocal inmates in an attempt to get them to let their guard down through laughter (after all, a bad man once said if you make them laugh, you'll have a piece of them). He continues on with Killer Frost, if she gives him the time of day.... or night.
With the younger John's departure, Masiatto returns to reading his paper.
The darkest parts of him, the coldest, most alien parts, tear at him to follow the weak outlier, but John stays put.
"He's a decent person. He doesn't deserve it," he mumbles to himself.
A terrible voice, the sounds of stars torn asunder, screams at John, nearly sending him back in his seat.
HE IS ALONE. HE IS WEAK. THERE IS FEAR WITHIN HIM. .
Masiatto catches himself on the table's end before he can draw any attention.
He lets out a whimper, addressing the foreign idol that commands him.
"I'll request a feeding soon, but not him. I decide, not you."
John shakes his head and gets up from the table looking slightly older and more frail than before. He tosses out his paper and discards the tray of food. Reduced to a hobble, John walks as quickly as his weak body will let him, stopping only to whisper to a guard "Tell the boss I've got to feed."
A soft speaker voice kicks in from a single speaker near Masiatto's position, "Prisoner 1138-301: request received. Please stand by."
When the room is clear of any onlookers, it kicks back in, "Prisoner 1138-301; move to the main access port. Turn around, and insert your hands through the apertures in the door."
Once in position, he feels the familiar sensation of transport manacles being secured around his wrists, behind his back. A second pair detach from the doorway and are secured, apparently automatically, around his ankles. A second security door descends in front of him, airlock style, before a scanner sweeps the area (presumably to ensure he is truly alone in the compartment), and the main door slides up into the ceiling. A guard sits behind a glass walled booth over to one side, while two prison guards in power armour stand ready in the hall to escort Masiatto out for his daily feeding.
The distorted electronic voice of one of the guards pipes in through his armour's speaker, "1138-301; please move along the indicated path." The guard behind the glass hits a few switches, and a glowing blue line illuminates along the floor. Once Masiatto starts moving, the guard's speaker crackles again, "Don't know what they fed you at your last lock up Leech, but here we worked hard to come up with something that would keep you alive without inconveniencing anyone else; it'll probably taste like shit though; at least we can hope..."
Both guards follow along behind Masiatto as he walks down the halls, following the line. The manacles around his ankles have enough chain to allow for a decent walking pace, as opposed to the shuffle required by the really short ones, but you wouldn't be able to move even a step faster without tripping. Down a convoluted set of halls, you are required to step into a holding area once, presumably to let something else through the halls so that only one transport occurs at a time, be it a prisoner or supplies. After about 5 minutes, you are allowed out again, and travel the rest of the way to your destination.
Masiatto is shown into a small featureless room, without so much as a chair. However, once he is secure in the chamber, alone, as the guards remained outside, he is instructed to stand with his back to the door, and the manacles are removed. About 6 feet by 12, it's probably a bit bigger than your cell back in the unit. A voice pops in over the speaker, "Prisoner 1138-301; our files on your abilities indicate that you do not have to be able to induce fear to be able to feed. It was therefore determined that you would be allowed to feed only on ambient emotions already extant within the institution. Your inhibitor collar will be powered down momentarily to allow you to enough power to use Passive Abilities only. If we detect any active psychic emanations from from that chamber, the inhibitor will be reactivated immediately, and you will be penalized for the infraction. You have 60 minutes." With that, the wall at the other side of the chamber moves up into the ceiling, revealing a long stretch of one-way glass along one of the 12 foot walls. On the other side, you see a large chamber, about 30 x 60 feet, with several dozen prisoners within, milling about in a bare, concrete floored vacant area with only a scattered array of cots arranged on one end, and no other furniture. There are probably about 20 men inside. On the far side of the chamber, it is separated from the next area by another glass wall. On the far side you can see what appears to be a general population area. They've given you access to the Fish-Tank.
After 60 minutes precisely, the observation glass closes again and the radio voice instructs you to move to the door. Once your manacles are secured, you experience a reverse of the trip down as you are transported back to your unit.
John falls to his knees at the sight of the dozens and dozens of prisoners. The idol embedded in his chest begins a rhythmic pulse. The ambient fear is enough to sate the hunger for the time being, but not enough to rejuvenate him. 60 minutes of fear, anxiety, and despair from dozens of prisoners battle within him, clawing at him from under his skin. John grins and bears it all. Deep inside, the idol mocks him for being so stoic, so heroic, yet so stupid.
THIS IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR YOUR FOOLISHNESS. CONSTANT PAIN, CONSTANT TURMOIL, CONSTANT FEAR. YOU WENT AGAINST MY WILL, AND NOW YOU ARE TRAPPED IN THE CONFINES OF THIS PRISON, SKIMMING OFF THE MOST BASIC OF FEARS. I GAVE YOU POWER, AND IN RETURN, YOU DAMNED YOURSELF. INSOLENT FOOL! TRY ALL YOU MIGHT TO BE AN UPSTANDING MAN, BUT DEEP DOWN INSIDE, YOU CONTAIN A PIECE OF THE IDOL, AND WITH IT, JUST AN INKLING OF THE POWER FROM THE MIGHTY NYA--
The speaker's crackle interrupts the internal voice, warning that time's up.
A voice not completely John's creaks out 60 minutes, so soon?
He clears his throat and secures his manacles.
"Sounds like you're scared to me. Scared that we'll stay here for eternity and you'll never get whatever it is you're looking for. Tough luck."
Piper splits her time between stalking Kalden and listening to Demoniac's chatter. She'll most often keep her distance from Kalden but never really puts much effort into hiding. Though her manner and body movements are sluggish from her daily medication she does her best to keep up.Occasionally he might hear her whisper to herself in between biting her nails bloody. She'll leave gifts every so often in his room(if we have access to cells) or outside it. Extra rations of half chewed food or a tooth. But the pièce de rèsistance would be have to be the small red fingerpaint mural on his wall, no doubt made using her poor injured fingers.
Otherwise she spends the next three days listening to Lance chat with Jimmy offering tidbits of odd info whenever the conversation roams in the direction of her expertise. She always eyes the non human cellmates like a cat views a bird on a low hanging branch. Sometimes she stays up too late listening to the tireless speak of her comrades and falls asleep leaning against one of them.
John will spend his time reading any reasonably current science books or journals to be found in the prison library.
Roulette does her best not to pace like a caged cat. Deprived of her luck, bothered by the sorts of things that happen to normal people, she grows increasingly unhinged. She trips over nothing, drops her spoon at meals, gets things in her eye, spills toothpaste on her jumpsuit, can't open chip bags, and all of the normal things that most people ignore. If there were light switches and she missed one, she might rip the whole unit out of the wall. Fortunately, the prison controls the lights.
At meals and community time, she will be just flirty enough to be distracting and will bet on anything. If there are bugs available, she will train the to race, or jump, or something. Anything to keep her mind busy.
The days pass with the consistent sameness that only prison can manage. While your small isolated ward certainly has its share of interesting characters, each lacking the powers that makes them different, and prohibited from touching one another, strips the sense of danger and taste of danger that seemed to permeate the air on the first days.
El Tigre continues to avoid everyone except his female escorts at pretty much all times, and when he does come out, he is always in a huff, and for some reason you get the impression that he is avoiding the women that have seemingly taken over his cell.
Rick seems quite sociable, and hangs out anywhere, seemingly comfortable, and almost oddly at ease wherever you find him. He is laid back, agreeable, charming, and willing to socialize with anyone, from Edge to the Dunwich Horror. He’s great at small talk, and can chat on just about any topic, but never actually seems to reveal much about himself.
The Grandmaster continues his endless meditation/hunger strike, and while he can be seen through the door of his room, he is never seen to move, and even his breathing seems undetectable to the observer. He appears to be of Chinese ethnicity, and has stark white hair piled atop his head in a perfectly ordered but massive bun. Loose, it must fall to his ankles, or even the floor. Likewise, the stark white beard on his face touches to the floor, as he sits lotus style, never moving. His face is hard to gauge in terms of age; the whiteness of his hair makes him look ancient, but his skin is so smooth one would think that clean shaven, he might actually appear fairly young. There is something about him that makes any age between 20 and 85 perfectly believable.
Killer Frost seems to be enjoying the attention she’s getting from the gents, and flirts with everyone, including the ladies. Though she doesn’t actually touch anyone, getting close to her, or taking a seat she’s vacated is enough to give you shivers. She’s forward enough for anyone, and she’ll suggest filling out paperwork with anyone that seems even halfway receptive. She even propositions Dunwich at one point, saying, ”I’ve always been a bit of an anime fan-girl…”
El-Tigre is taken, Grandmaster is seemingly comatose, and Rick turns her down. He does it politely, but as she walks away his calm exterior breaks into a face that looks more appropriate to man who just found out the governor called at 5 to midnight. When asked, a bit more of his Southern upbringing leaks out than has been the norm so far.
“Look, I got nothing against a low cotton kinda gal, but you’d gotta git me drunker than Cooter Brown for I’d go barneymuggin that breed a lady. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she looks like butter on wheatcakes, but then she’s crooked as a barrel o’ fish hooks, and colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra.”
As days go by, work details up. However, they are far from the prison norm. If asked, the guards running the details just say they have all the stooges they need for laundry and the shop, so they figure they might as well put your skills to more useful stuff. Each inmate is taken out individually, so you never really know what the others were tasked with, but during the outing, it is explained that your collars will be reduced to a lower power level in order to allow certain abilities to come through, so you can use a requested ability to help deal with the issue at hand.
Making your way through the pipes, sloshing through knee deep glowing green drainage fluid of some sort, you eventually find the missing worker. While the heat alone in here would probably be enough to slow roast a living human, you should be fine so long as you avoid any encounters with full out jets of steam. The worker’s body is caught in a pumping station access port that must have somehow turned on while he was working. Through he is completely encased within a containment suit, it is very clear from his position, his torso folded back upon itself within the mouth of the 1 foot pipe opening, so that his helmeted head sits between his boots, that he is clearly dead. After a brief search you are able to locate the emergency shut off, but even with the suction gone his body will not come free, at least, not in one piece...
"Hey, uh, Mr... Horror. There was a bit of a problem with the main kitchen, and we are hoping that you could help us out. Apparently, someone brought a psychogenic substance into the main kitchen. For what purpose, we're not exactly sure. It might have been a total accident, or perhaps someone planned to contaminate food on specific units... I'm not really sure. Anyway, whatever it was was accidentally aerosolized when it was put through a food processor, and as a result, the entire complement of inmates presently approved and orientated to kitchen duty is presently... lets see, how does the report put it? Oh yes, 'Tripping Balls' over in the infirmary. The main kitchen is completely contaminated and will need to be sterilized before use. Anyway, there are over 800 inmates in that cellblock that now have no one that can cook for them. We saw you at work in AA23 and thought, well maybe, that with all those arms... you know, this could be your moment to shine! Well, Chef Horror, do you think you're up to the task?"
A guard instructs you to sit at the table, and then secures your leg manacles to ports in the floor beneath the chair.
”This is a direct connection to a single system. It has no outside access, so don’t bother trying. Somewhere in this system is a… ’misplaced’ file called “Project Seaboard”. It is likely behind several layers of security. The file is encrypted, so don’t bother trying to read it, we were just hoping you could manage what our own tech-support guys have been having a little trouble with. Just find the file, and burn it to this hard drive. Think you can manage that?” He places a standard looking high density memory drive on the table next to the computer system, and takes a step back.
After a frustratingly long wait, an older gentleman in a suit comes in, holding a folder and wearing thick glasses. He sits down opposite you for a few minutes while sorting through the file.
”Miss Donner. We have a small challenge that we were hoping you might help us with. Over in general pop, male side, there is a certain cell where something is hidden that we were hoping you might retrieve for us. We could just go in, toss the cell and grab it, but it’s a lot more useful to us if the person that placed it there remains unaware it’s been seen. Somewhere in the cell is a small list of numbers. The list is probably about 50-75 two digit numbers, arrayed on a page in a particular pattern. While we might be able to cause a distraction long enough to get someone into the cell, giving them enough time to search the place, find the paper, and copy it exactly is highly unlikely. It’s on copy proof paper, so a photo won’t do. We are thinking that the time restraint won’t be an issue for you; all we ask is that you go in, find the paper, copy it down as precisely as you can, and leave the cell as undisturbed as you can manage. Hand in the copy you’ve made, and we’ll be very grateful. Do us this little favour and I’ve been authorized to bump up your personal privileges by two points; sound reasonable? Good.”
Lance relaxes slightly, as if a mild irritant he'd barely noticed had been eliminated.
"Yeah, I can manage it." he cracks his neck and fingers as he extends his sense, testing what range they've given him.
With this might be able to get away! He thinks to himself. No, I can't imagine they are that stupid. Without my suit, I'm too soft, and they'd just shoot me down, or poison the air in here. Best if I just compy.
and he uses the stone to will all of the boxes and their contents into nitrogen. He does it slowly to avoid an explosion and to allow the nitrogen to escape the room gradually so he doesn't suffocate himself.
Once it is done he bangs on the door "All done as requested. "
|
As he is explained the task, even his dire demeoner can not entirely hold back a snicker, as the thought of an mind-altering drug floating around an entire kitchen making all of the staff start tripping balls is funny on a galactic scale.
The Dunwich Horror stares, aghast and silent, as the one known as "Killer Frost" makes so naked (pun intended) a proposition to him. Not only does he normally find human females to be trite and boring, but their augmented physique would crumble asunder at even the most innocent of his flirtations, leaving their dried husks incapable of caring for themselves, and their mental state stuck at some setting between jabbering sponge and unthinking killing machine.
He is so taken aback by her obviously suicidal verbal maneuver that he doesn't even consider rejecting her since he can't actually process that she would be at all serious.
He answers her in his usual tone, uncaring if they are overheard as is his normal manner.
Of course he's not still not saying 'no'. He's intensely curious as to how this most brazen of women would react, but she needs to know what she's getting into. And if she has enough sense to simply walk away, then no harm done.
Upon finding the deceased worker in question, and after dodging more than a few jets of steam, he grimaces at the sight. Death is never a pleasant sight, no matter how many times he has laid eyes on it. Particularly when it is not his fault that someone has died. Either way, he shakes his head in disgust and gets to tugging on the corpse. When strength fails to provide him with anything of value, he changes tactics and tries to rend the corpse limb from limb. If he has to take the man back in a body bag, so be it.
Reaching out for the machines nearby and you find little. The sensations that you feel are, as always since getting your cybernetics, strange. How the human brain interprets input from your integral circuitry has always been a little weird. What you feel when you reach out feels something like the half muted kind of feeling you get as the freezing wears off after seeing the dentist, and a staticky pins and needles kind of sensation. You interpret that to mean that while the Null Field generator nearest you has been powered down (and probably either removed, or at least completely disconnected from the power grid, given the complete void you detect when you extend your senses looking for it), the gap in the network is relatively small, as the neighbouring areas are all probably functioning, and hidden from your view by the fields they generate.
As for the computer system, a quick mental check of the system reveals both a keystroke logger spliced into the keyboard, and a video capture card set up to record everything you do on the system, or at least everything you allow to show up on the screen. As stated, the computer seems to be connected only to one system, and seemingly has no outside access. Of course, there is no telling whether the system you're hacking into is connected to any broader networks until you get in there, and the effort required to go off on that kind of side-trip, might be hard to keep unnoticed, particularly depending on how many layers of security sit between you and the World Wide Web.
Somewhat in shock from what you just did, you signal your readiness to depart, and you are walking back into AA23 before you even remember taking a step. You don't even seem to recall what happened to the stone after you left the room, though obviously, you no longer have it with you.
She watches the cards with an addict's eyes.
A crackle of amber energy shocks through Erik's body as the inhibitor eases it's hold.
"What? Are you f'in kidding me? No, for real, you punks are ribbin' me, right? You guys must really like me. This must be my lucky day."
He turns to face the future pile of rubble, cracks his knuckles (accentuated with firecracker pops) and turns back towards his handlers.
"So, you guys want this to be a quick job, or do you mind if I take my time?"
Lance leans back and crosses his arms, then closes his eyes.
"Hope you don't mind. Keyboards just slow me down."
He takes a quick stab at the security on the computer, testing to see how much effort this is going to take.
If he can manage it, he goes digging around for other information while he's there, anything else interesting that might be hidden on the computer.
Might be able to gain some leverage while I'm in here.
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The functionary nods a bit, and leans in to clarify his request, "Um, we won't need you to clean the regular kitchen; we have a team for that, not to mention that there will need to be an investigation, regarding what the substance was, who brought it in and how, who it was intended for, all of that, you understand. We can't have an inmate involved in a location where evidence might be gathered - you understand. That's why we have you down here in this old kitchen, instead of one of the more up to date facilities."
"Volunteers might be a problem. You are a bit... scary. We were hoping you might be able to manage some large scale batch cooking on your own. You will be granted use of your biomorphic abilities, but to do that we are going to have you in here alone. Our insurance, not to mention the accreditation boys would not react well to having metahumans or other inmates allowed to interact without restriction on their extranormative abilities. If someone did decide to harm or kill someone else just for jollies, we might not be able to intervene in time. Basically your choices would have to be assistants or powers, but we can't authorize both."
The body comes apart relatively easily. Though not cooked through by any means, the flesh has a definite touch of a slow-roasted quality effecting it, and it pulls apart with minimal sheering from your claws. You pull out the black body bag you were provided in case the condition of the body made it necessary. The number of pumps, intakes, propellers and so forth seems to have made a messy recovery a predictable element of this recovery. Besides the body bag, you were also given a bucket and a small trowel. After both arms are placed within your bag, and you are cutting free the first of the legs, and audible pop indicates an equalization of presume between the main pipe and the small intake. At that point, the body is held in place only by the mechanical aspect of a full sized man being stuffed into a less than full sized pipe. Some tugging and pulling eventually works the torso free, with one leg still attached to it as a bonus.
Curiously, while the body is wearing what appears to be a standard radiation suit, he doesn't appear to be wearing the typical corresponding under layer, just the oversuit. Having pulled his arms out first, you are also greeted by an array of low quality tattoos consistent with prison-tats covering most of both limbs.
Once he stopped talking, she halted her private metallic musical but strangely found she wasn't disappointed. In fact she found that she reveled in the silence. The fog of her mind was lifted, if only marginally and she could see the weight of his words.
Her dark eyes drift open and wander upward until they met his. Whispering warmly under her breath she addresses him. "Thy friendship makes us fresh. And doth beget new courage in our breasts."
She offers her arms in his direction and gently uncurls one of her clenched fists palm up while the other points down past the table. "Give me a bloody pen and I'll lend you me legs." she utters baring her smile that shows off as many teeth as she can.
I would say it would at least speed me up, as the computer system would "want" to help me. Especially when "Hollywood hacking" is kind of necessary for any of the cool things I'd like to do. If it takes all day to hack a security system, this is going to be a slow game.
In the meantime, he wrenches the body out of the tube with a bit of elbow grease and starts heading back the way he came. Naturally, the entire way, he keeps an eye out for anything that might be halfway useful or interesting.
After Nigma collects most of the currency on the table, another hand allows him to quickly wipe out the Captain's holdings. The guards exhort and threaten Roulette, but that is not the way to get her cooperation. As she becomes increasingly heated and defiant, the Captain's luck turns and Nigma takes it all.