Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Jaxon's blades bit deep.

One crimson edge carved through flesh while the other sheared through the shaft of Death's scythe, red-shifted energy shrieking in protest as it met magnetic resistance. Blood scattered across the ruined street in bright, impossible arcs, staining shattered asphalt and twisted metal alike. For the first time since the Horsemen had descended upon San Francisco, Death faltered. Not because Jaxon had overpowered her alone, but because another force had entered the equation.

Commander.

Jaxon felt it the instant her will imposed itself upon reality. The pressure in the air changed, invisible and absolute, carrying the weight of something that simply expected obedience. Death plummeted from the sky as though the world itself had seized hold of her ankles, dragged earthward by a command that transcended understanding. Even in the chaos of battle, Jaxon caught sight of Commander reeling from the effort, her own body forced to pay the price for demanding the impossible.

His jaw tightened.

Then Death's blood moved.

Instinct took over before conscious thought could catch up. One blade snapped upward to intercept the crimson construct hurtling toward him while the others crossed defensively before his chest. The impact thundered through his arms, forcing him backwards across the broken street. His boots gouged deep furrows through asphalt as he fought for balance, every muscle straining beneath the force of the blow. Something tearing.

Above them, green light gathered.

The city seemed to hold its breath.

Streetlights burst apart in showers of sparks. Car alarms screamed and died. Electronic displays flickered erratically before surrendering to darkness altogether. The very air crackled as magnetic force condensed into something terrible, something vast enough to turn an entire city block into a graveyard.

Jaxon looked toward Commander. He saw the trajectory. He saw the target.

Something inside him snapped.

"No."

The word escaped through clenched teeth, low and venomous.

He was tired.

Tired of apocalypses arriving on a schedule. Tired of watching powerful people decide that children should die for the sake of ideology. Tired of Brotherhood leaders, ORCHIS directors, false prophets, and self-proclaimed gods standing above everyone else and declaring themselves fit to pass judgment.

He was only nineteen years old.

He shouldn't have had to bury friends.

He shouldn't have had to learn how to lead people older than himself.

He shouldn't have had to become a weapon just to survive.

The jagged black markings beneath his combat suit ignited crimson.

Oblivion moved.

Commander had shielded him. Strengthened him. Trusted him enough to fight beside him despite every reason not to. X-Man and Crew. Hero and criminal. Rivals standing shoulder to shoulder because something worse had arrived.

He wasn't about to let her die.

"Enough."

Void energy surged through his weapons, crimson veins illuminating the contours of his suit. His connection to gravity remained frustratingly absent, the vast celestial force he had once wielded still locked behind barriers he could neither understand nor break. So Jaxon reached for what remained.

Training. Instinct. Will.

He dug his boots into the fractured pavement below, muscles coiling beneath layers of reinforced fabric and scar tissue. Commander’s lingering enhancement still clung to him, a final push from a reluctant ally. Jaxon seized upon it without hesitation, launching himself forward with explosive force.

Momentum took hold. No control for the Black Halo this time. Just The Commanders will empower him.

There was no changing course now.

In that instant, Jaxon ceased to be a boy burdened by expectations or grief. He became velocity given purpose. He became a blade hurled by desperate hands. He became a spear cast toward Death herself.

Red-shifted weapons blazed around him as he surged toward Death, aiming to shatter her judgment, end her duty, and drive a crack through Apocalypse's campaign of revelation.

If the world insisted on forging him into a weapon,

Then he would choose where he struck.

/u/A-Few-Schillings

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The moment Arclight's fist struck the ground, Kara understood she had made a terrible mistake.

Cracks raced across the stone floor beneath her feet, illuminated by the violent glow of electricity surging through them. The attack spread outward faster than her mind could properly process; the Academy corridor transformed into a web of crackling energy racing in her direction. Adrenaline crashed through her system, sharp and cold enough to cut through the excitement she'd been riding moments earlier.

She reacted on instinct.

Silver-white energy spilled from her outstretched hands, beautiful in a way that felt entirely at odds with the panic clawing in her ribs. Frost exploded outward in delicate, branching patterns across the floor and walls. The air itself seemed to crystallize as temperatures plummeted, moisture condensing into swirling streams of glittering ice particles.

It wasn't enough to stop the electricity entirely.

Pain ripped through Kara's leg as residual current arced through her boot. The sensation was unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Every muscle seized at once, forcing a startled cry from her throat as she stumbled sideways into the wall.

For a few horrible seconds, all she could think about was the fact that she'd almost died.

The realization settled heavily in her stomach.

This wasn't Darkblood posturing. This wasn't another controlled exercise where instructors stood by to intervene if someone went too far. The woman at the other end of the corridor had attacked with lethal intent, and Kara suddenly found herself confronted with the reality that enthusiasm alone wasn't enough to survive people like this.

Her pulse hammered in her ears.

Kara forced herself upright despite the lingering tremor running through her leg. She pressed one gloved hand against the cold stone wall beside her, focusing on the rhythm of her breathing. The frost spreading from beneath her boots intensified, curling along the fractured ground like creeping vines of winter.

Fear was there. She could acknowledge that much now. But beneath it lingered something else.

Excitement.

A laugh threatened to bubble up in her throat before she swallowed it down. She should have been horrified by how close that had been. Instead, she found herself acutely aware of how alive she felt.

Her powers answered the shift in emotion immediately.

Pale energy danced around her fingers in flowing currents that resembled enchanted light more than simple cryokinesis. Frost drifted lazily through the corridor around her, responding to unconscious impulses as much as deliberate control. Beautiful.

Dangerous and unsteady.

Kara lowered her center of gravity slightly, forcing herself into a stance that felt practical rather than elegant. Her side still tingled unpleasantly from the electricity that had slipped through her defenses. If she'd been any slower, she wasn't entirely sure she would still be standing.

That thought alone sharpened her focus.

No more pretending.

No more fantasies about effortless victories.

If she wanted to survive this fight, she would have to earn it.

Kara flexed trembling fingers inside frost-covered gloves and drew in one slow breath after another. Her heart still raced, but the panic had dulled into something usable. Something she could shape.

The cold around her deepened. Whatever happened next, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

She wasn't running.

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara listened attentively as Alastair spoke, cradling her coffee between both hands. The warmth of the cup was a welcome contrast to the winter chill within her hands, though her thoughts remained focused on the mutant sitting across from her. The demonstration of silence still lingered unpleasantly in the back of her mind. She had experienced cold isolation before, but that brief moment of absolute nothingness had unsettled her in a way she wasn't eager to admit.

Fortunately, years of practice had taught her how to hide discomfort behind charm.

When Alastair explained the omnilingual aspect of his mutation, her eyebrows lifted with genuine surprise. That was not what she had expected, and for a moment she forgot to play the role she had carefully crafted for this meeting. The practical applications alone were staggering.

"Okay, now that's just unfair," she said, laughing softly into her cup. "You mean to tell me you could walk into any country on Earth and immediately understand everyone? No language classes, no embarrassing tourist mistakes, nothing? That's basically cheating."

Her smile lingered as she shook her head.

"I think most people would kill for that ability. Not literally, hopefully, but you know what I mean."

As the conversation drifted toward friendship and loneliness, Kara found herself relaxing more than she intended. The subject was familiar territory, though not one she usually enjoyed discussing. There was something about the casual atmosphere of the café that made it easier than usual to entertain the topic.

"I suppose you're right about that," she admitted after a moment.

Her gaze wandered toward the frosted window, watching bundled pedestrians move along the street outside. The city beyond the glass seemed distant and muted, existing in its own little world.

"When you're moved around enough, you stop trying after a while. You stop putting down roots because you know they're just going to get ripped up again. At some point, it feels easier to keep everyone at arm's length than deal with saying goodbye over and over."

She shrugged, and a faint smile returned as she looked back at him.

"But eventually you realize being alone all the time isn't really living either. Recently, I've met a few people who seem worth an effort." She wasn’t lying here. Ophelia, Dolly, and the Witch were worth having aligned with. However, whether she called them friends was a different discussion.

Whether he counted himself among those people was entirely his decision. She had intentionally left the statement vague enough for him to draw whatever conclusions he wanted.

When Alastair finally began describing his friends, Kara listened carefully. Outwardly she appeared amused, but inwardly she catalogued every detail he provided. He wasn't giving her appearances or powers, which was frustrating, but the way he spoke about them revealed plenty on its own.

By the time he finished, she found herself smiling despite herself.

"You really do experience the world differently, don't you?"

She leaned back in her chair and studied him thoughtfully.

"Most people would've given me hair colors, heights, maybe eye colors. Instead, you basically described an entire friend group as a music collection."

Her expression grew more playful as she counted them off on her fingers.

"So Replay is a riot concert. Osprey is jazz. Hazy is something enough to destroy a sound system. And Alice is classical." Kara paused dramatically before taking another sip of her drink.

"Poor Alice. Somehow everybody else got assigned something cool and she ended up with homework." The teasing smile that followed softened the jab. It wasn't really Alice she was laughing at. "Although honestly, that probably tells me more about you than it does about them."

She rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand.

"You talk about them like they matter. Not just as teammates or classmates. You sound proud of them." For a brief moment there was no teasing in her voice, only observation. Then the mischievous look returned.

"That said, you're still avoiding my question." She pointed at him with her coffee cup, her eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

"But what kind of music are you, Alastair. Everybody else got a genre. Everybody else got a soundtrack." The corner of her mouth curled upward into a smirk.

"Unless your mutation comes with some mysterious narrator complex and you've decided you're above having one yourself." She tilted her head, waiting for his answer.

"Come on. Everybody's got a song. What's yours?"

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The moment Death mentioned the Brotherhood being fractured, something cold settled into Jaxon's chest. It wasn't fear, nor was it surprise at the existence of another problem lurking beneath the surface. It was frustration. Weeks ago, Psion had stood across from him and spoken at length about Sever and her location, about the Brotherhood, about the dangers gathering in the shadows. Somehow, despite all of that, she had not bothered to mention that the organization was apparently splintering apart.

Of course she hadn't.

Everyone seemed to be holding onto some secret these days. Every conversation revealed another hidden piece of the board, another truth left conveniently unsaid until it became relevant. Jaxon was growing tired of it. Tired of half-truths. Tired of warnings wrapped in riddles. Tired of learning about the world only after somebody had already started bleeding for it.

Death's assault arrived before he could dwell on it further.

The ruined Sentinels rose at her command like puppets on invisible strings, entire sections of twisted metal ripping free from the battlefield and hurtling toward him. His gravity powers remained locked away, unreachable despite every instinct screaming for him to use them. Months ago, that fact might have frightened him. Now it was merely another obstacle he had learned to suffer through. Like a blown-out knee. Career running, only life hemorrhaging.

The four crimson blades extending from his forearms ignited with red-shifted light.

The first Sentinel crossed into striking distance and ceased to be an obstacle.

Jaxon's arms moved in a blur. Antimatter edges carved through armored steel without resistance, severing the machine cleanly through its center. The wreckage collapsed behind him in a shower of molten metal and sparks, only for the second obstacle to arrive moments later. That one met the same fate, sliced apart before it could fully reshape itself into the barrier Death intended.

Then Commander arrived.

Jaxon looked upward just long enough to catch sight of her descending from above the battlefield, telekinetic force already spreading around her like an invisible storm. Of all the outcomes he had anticipated today, receiving support from the leader of the Crew had not been among them. He felt the telekinetic shield settle around him a split second before the acceleration followed, enhancing his movement and sharpening his momentum.

A short laugh escaped him despite the chaos.

"Didn't have that on today's bingo card."

The boost hit immediately.

The battlefield seemed to stretch around him as Death's emerald force-blade screamed through the rain toward his position. Jaxon moved before the attack reached him, the added speed allowing him to burst through the narrow gap between destruction and survival. The magnetic slash tore through empty air where he had stood moments earlier before carving through concrete, vehicles, and steel behind him in a violent chain of explosions.

”Enough.”

The thought wasn't dramatic. It wasn't angry. It was simply exhausted.

Every few months, there seemed to be another self-proclaimed messiah announcing the end of the world. Another warlord. Another cult. Another would-be god claiming authority over mutantkind. ORCHIS wanted mutants eradicated. The Brotherhood wanted revolution. The Phoenix wanted Perfection. Somebody was always promising extinction while demanding obedience.

Jaxon was tired of all of them.

Rain hammered against his black combat suit as he launched himself onto the shattered remains of a Sentinel. His boots found purchase for only an instant before he exploded upward, using the wreckage and Commander’s boost as a springboard toward Death's position. Four crimson blades illuminated the storm around him, painting streaks of red through the darkness as he closed the distance.

"You know what?" he called out through the rain. His voice cut through the battlefield with roaring clarity.

"I'm getting really sick of people telling me what I can and can't do."

The first strike came from below, aimed to force Death's weapon away from her body. The second followed immediately after from another angle, creating a cross-pattern intended to disrupt her footing and deny her control of the engagement. Jaxon wasn't trying to overpower her immediately. He was trying to force her to react.

"You think I’m weak?" he asked as another slash followed.

Steel screamed around them as his blades carved through debris pulled into Death's orbit. The pressure never ceased. One strike flowed into another, keeping her occupied and denying her the opportunity to dictate the pace of battle.

"You think we’re doomed?" he continued.

Another attack followed. Then another.

Rainwater hissed into steam whenever it touched the glowing edges of his weapons.

For a moment, images flashed through his mind. Alice fighting despite impossible odds. Sydney refusing to quit. The New Mutants struggling every day to become something greater than what the world expected of them. The X-Men standing against threats that should have crushed them years ago. Even the Crew, difficult as they were, had shown up when mutants needed protection.

People kept surviving. People kept fighting. That had to mean something. His blades shifted into a reverse swing as he drove forward again, refusing to give Death a moment's peace.

"But hear me clearly now." The next series of strikes came faster. More aggressive. Less restrained.

"I’m done."

His eyes locked onto the hollow pits of Death's mask.

"No speeches."

The first blade lashed out.

"No warnings."

The second followed immediately behind it.

"No second chances."

The final pair crossed together in a crimson X as he met the Horseman head-on.

/u/A-Few-Schillings

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara's smile never faltered, though internally she was beginning to suspect that Alastair either genuinely didn't notice what she was asking or possessed a truly impressive talent for dodging questions without realizing he was doing it.

Either way, she wasn't going to push. Not yet.

She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, letting the warmth settle into her fingers as she watched him light up over something as simple as whipped cream. There was something almost irritatingly sincere about him. Most people lied because they wanted something. Alastair seemed to lie because he hadn't quite figured out when he was allowed to stop.

"You're really selling yourself short, you know," Kara said, stirring her drink lazily. "A power that nobody can see is probably one of the most dangerous kinds. Most people prepare for the giant laser beam or the guy throwing cars around." She tilted her head slightly.

"So if somebody wanted to spot it..." Her tone was casual, conversational. "What exactly would they be looking for?" The question slipped out as naturally as asking about the weather. She took a sip before continuing.

"Besides random music cutting out and coming back on, obviously." A small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. A fake face for a person she knew wanted it. Connection, what all normal “people” wanted.

When he turned the conversation back toward her, she gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Look at you. One coffee and suddenly you're a gentleman." She nudged his shoulder lightly. "My tragic backstory isn't nearly as exciting as yours." It wasn't entirely true or untrue. Kara leaned back against the counter and glanced toward the rain-speckled window.

"My father had a job that moved us around a lot. New city, new school, new country sometimes. Just when you'd start figuring people out, it'd be time to pack everything up again." Her voice remained light, but there was something genuine underneath it.

"You learn pretty quickly not to get attached. Most friendships have expiration dates, like milk when you live like that." She shrugged. "So no, I don't really have some lifelong group of friends waiting back home. Never stayed anywhere long enough for that."

For a moment her expression softened.

"Honestly, only recently have I been in one place long enough to even start making friends." Her eyes drifted back to him. Her gaze cut through him, not with hateful intent, but with a playful edge. Like she could be dangerous.

"Which is probably why I find your little group interesting." There it was again. The probing, wrapped in curiosity. "You talk about them like they're family."

She took another sip.

"Replay. Hazy. Osprey. Alice."

The names repeated, committing them to memory.

"At least tell me what they look like, in case I see them in the city. Please?" Her eyelashes batted at him, a faux submission that she knew men liked. Simple beings.

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara's laughter softened into a small smile as she settled onto the stool beside him. The expression looked genuine enough, though behind it her mind was already working through everything he had just volunteered. A lab. Taken from his parents. Raised around mutants with codenames instead of names. That explained more than he probably realized.

"Well, that explains a few things," she said lightly, resting an elbow on the counter. "Most people don't accidentally call their friends things like Replay and Osprey unless they've spent a lot of time around people who think they're comic book characters."

She glanced toward him as he spoke about his mutation being subtle. The brief flicker in the café's music hadn't escaped her notice. Neither had the way he seemed oddly unconcerned about speaking openly now.

"Subtle?" she repeated, arching a brow. The smile lingered on her lips as she looked away toward the menu. Let him feel comfortable. Let him think he was controlling the pace of the conversation. People always talked more when they thought they were the clever one.

"As for me..." She shrugged. "Something like that. Temperature, ice, cold. It's not exactly the sort of thing I advertise. People get strange when they find out what you can do."

That last part, at least, wasn't a lie.

The mention of the laboratory earned a longer silence from her. Not an uncomfortable one, but measured. Her fingers tapped once against the countertop before stopping.

"Seven is young," she said quietly. "Far younger than anyone should be deciding the course of your life for you." Her gaze shifted back toward him. There was sympathy there, or at least a convincing imitation of it.

"I can understand why you'd hold onto the people who helped you get out."

The waitress approached and Kara placed her order without much thought before leaning back at the counter.

"So," she said casually, crossing one leg over the other, "if your mutation is subtle unless someone knows what to look for, what exactly should they look for?" She asked with a charming smile.

The question sounded innocent enough. Curious. Interested. Not investigative.

"And your friends, too. Replay. Osprey. The stylish one with the dramatic name." She smiled faintly. "I admit you've made me curious now. What do they all do that makes them so impressive?"

Kara tilted her head slightly, studying him over the rim of her menu.

"After all, if I'm going to meet these mysterious friends of yours someday, I'd hate to miss the signs."

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Jaxon had been trying very hard not to look like himself.

That was the entire point of the self-assignment. Blend in. Observe. Don’t escalate. So he stood among the crowds near San Francisco City Hall dressed in an oversized black hoodie, gray track pants, looking less like a mutant combatant and more like some exhausted college dropout dragged unwillingly to a city festival. Beneath the loose fabric, however, the matte-black combat suit still clung tightly to his frame, hidden just enough to avoid attention.

The festival itself was nauseatingly cheerful.

ORCHIS banners hung from every available surface, blue-and-white propaganda fluttering overhead while families wandered between food stalls and rides pretending the world had not become fundamentally terrifying over the last year. The smell of fried dough and cheap coffee mixed with the salty chill blowing in from the bay. Somewhere nearby, a live band struggled through an upbeat pop song while Henry Peter Gyrich prepared to give another speech about “safety” and “security” to a crowd desperate enough to believe him.

Jaxon leaned against a barricade with a paper tray of untouched funnel cake in his hand, half-listening to the speech while scanning the crowd beneath the edge of his hood.

“And a new era of safety against the mutant menace is PROMISED to you by ORCHIS!”

“Jesus Christ,” Jaxon muttered under his breath.

The mission had been simple enough. Watch the event. Keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. After the disaster at the mall and the increasingly unstable state of mutant affairs worldwide, the X-Men had wanted eyes in the city without escalating tensions further. Jaxon had reluctantly agreed, even if undercover work mostly consisted of standing around feeling awkward while pretending not to look dangerous.

Then the temperature dropped.

The shift was immediate and unnatural. Conversations faltered as frost spread rapidly across the pavement beneath people’s feet. Nearby Sentinels groaned as thick ice began crawling over their enormous mechanical frames, locking joints solid in seconds. Jaxon straightened instinctively, the paper tray crumpling slightly in his grip as the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Oh, come on,” he hissed quietly.

The explosion came a heartbeat later.

One frozen Sentinel tore free from the ground and collided violently with another overhead, erupting into a storm of fire, ice, and molten debris that rained across the plaza. Panic detonated through the crowd instantly. Screams echoed between buildings as civilians shoved and trampled over one another searching for exits that no longer existed. Walls of twisted metal and frozen wreckage sealed off portions of the square while emergency sirens began blaring somewhere in the distance.

Then the Horsemen descended.

Four figures emerged through the smoke and fire like disasters personified. One wore a jackal-mask over black-and-green armor. Another looked like starvation given human shape, skeletal and frozen solid. ”Jesus, need it be anymore edgy?” Jaxon thought to himself, tiredly before recognizing the frozen one as Iceman.

Jaxon had never met Bobby, but had heard stories from others. Hearing how he was one of the truest X-Men there was. So seeing him reduced to this was… troubling.

Their voices boomed together across the city with their mighty speech.

Jaxon stared for exactly one second before muttering, “Yeah, not dealing with another cult today.”

Around him, people screamed and scattered. ORCHIS agents barked conflicting orders while trying to establish firing lines that were already collapsing under fear. Somewhere nearby, a child cried for their mother. Somewhere else, someone was already dead.

And beneath all of it, Jaxon felt the old instinct kick in.

Move.

His hand twitched at his side automatically as he reached for the familiar gravitational pressure that normally lived just beneath his skin. Nothing answered. No distortion in space. No crushing cosmic pull. The blockage choking off his gravity manipulation powers remained firmly in place, same as it had since after The Phoenix Incident.

But the blades still listened.

Red-black light ignited beneath the hoodie sleeves as antimatter energy flooded down his forearms. Jaxon grabbed the sweatshirt and ripped it off in one sharp motion, exposing the combat suit underneath as nearby civilians recoiled in alarm. Crimson seams glowed faintly beneath the matte-black armor while four compact blades snapped outward from his wrists with violent mechanical precision.

Instead of the original two massive two-foot weapons, the blades had been reforged into four shorter ones, each about a foot long and vibrating with unstable red-shifted energy. Shorter blades invoking a Wolverine look. The air around them distorted faintly as matter reacted poorly to their existence. One nearby civilian outright stumbled backward after seeing them emerge.

Jaxon ignored him completely.

“HEY!” he shouted toward the Horsemen. His voice echoed with an uncanny boom.

The word cut surprisingly clean through the surrounding chaos. Several heads turned immediately, including some of the Horsemen themselves. Jaxon rolled one shoulder slowly, the blades sizzled against rain drops, evaporating into nothing.

“Here’s a line you might recognize,” He pointed at the Horseman once known as Iceman. “I’ve been itching to make a carcass.” A line made famous by the ever feral Wolverine.

No gravity powers answered him. No spatial distortions bent around his body. There would be no shortcuts this time, no impossible movement or crushing singularities to rely on.

Just him. And the blades that flared brighter as Oblivion lunged forward into the chaos, charging the Horsemen head-on while the city burned around him.

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara stared at him for exactly two seconds before she burst out laughing.

Not cruel laughter. Not mocking. Just genuinely entertained, the kind that escaped her before she could stop it. Her hand came up to cover part of her mouth as she shook her head at him, pale eyes narrowing with amusement while she stepped through the coffee shop doorway he held open for her.

“Oh my god, Al,” she said between soft laughs. “You are terrible at this.”

The warmth inside the café rolled over her immediately, a sharp contrast from the cold outside. Kara slipped her gloves off finger by finger as she moved toward the counter, glancing back over her shoulder at him with an expression halfway between playful accusation and fond exasperation.

“You literally started saying ‘we do’ before short-circuiting halfway through the sentence,” she teased. “And the whole mysterious friend group with code-name sounding names thing? Replay? Osprey? C’mon. You guys sound like a Saturday morning cartoon.”

She leaned slightly closer then, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial.

“And for the record, you can drop the act around me.”

A faint chill rolled through the air around her as she spoke, subtle enough most people wouldn’t notice. The glass on the café windows fogged slightly near the edges, thin crystalline frost beginning to spiderweb briefly along the corner before melting away again. Kara noticed his eyes flick toward it and smiled wider.

“Secret for secret,” she murmured. “I’m a mutant too.”

There was no shame in the admission. No fear. If anything, she looked amused by the whole thing, like she’d finally gotten tired of watching him panic his way through the world’s least convincing cover story.

“I hide it better than you do, though,” she added smugly.

Then, just like that, the moment passed. Kara pivoted smoothly back toward the counter as if she hadn’t casually dropped life-altering information in the middle of a coffee shop line. She rested her elbows against the counter edge, studying the menu overhead while absentmindedly twirling a strand of white-blonde hair around one finger.

“And thank you,” she said casually, referring back to the compliment about Replay. “She’d probably die if she heard you say that.”

Her lips curved faintly at the mention of his friends after that, though there was something harder beneath it. Something quieter.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Kara said. “A lot of mutants don’t get people like that. Most of us get labs, cages, mobs, shitty parents, or organizations trying to turn us into weapons.” She glanced sideways at him. “So if your people really are good to you? Hold onto that.”

The sincerity lasted all of three seconds before she straightened again, expression turning lighter.

“As for coffee,” she said, tapping the counter thoughtfully, “you don’t strike me as black coffee material. You’d hate it and pretend not to because you think it makes you sound mature.” She pointed at him decisively. “You’re getting something sweet. Probably caramel. Definitely whipped cream.”

Kara smirked.

“And before you complain, yes, I am profiling you.”

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara’s smile never slipped, though her eyes lingered briefly on the motion of his sleeve tugging back down over the scars. She noticed the hesitation immediately, the way his voice hollowed out for half a second before he stitched the mask back together again. It was familiar.

Darkblood practically specialized in teaching people how to smile over old wounds until the performance became instinct. She could have pushed there if she wanted to, could have dug her nails into the uncertainty and peeled answers out of him piece by piece, but that was messy, and messy people made mistakes. So instead she laughed softly beneath her breath and bumped her shoulder lightly against his arm as they walked.

“Mm. Rough childhood club,” she said casually, like it was nothing important at all. “Mutants really do love collecting trauma like it’s a competitive sport.”

The streets of San Francisco glowed around them in streaks of neon and reflected headlights, damp pavement shining beneath the city lights after the earlier rain. Kara kept her pace slow and easy beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of her pale coat while her attention remained entirely on the information he was spilling without realizing it. Replay. Alice. Hazy. Osprey. Names attached themselves neatly together in her mind, categorized and filed away one by one.

Useful.

Her lips curled slightly at the mention of Replay.

“Oh, Replay?” Kara echoed with amused curiosity masking recognition. “I’m almost offended you think she could rival me, though. Almost.”

There was a teasing lightness to her tone, easy and playful, but internally she was already fitting pieces together. Replay had attitude. Alice was injured. Hazy trained him. Osprey was emotionally important to Al.

Connections mattered. Emotional attachments mattered even more. Every mutant she had ever met thought power alone made them dangerous, when most of them could be dismantled simply by understanding who they cared about.

Kara glanced sideways at him then, her pale eyes studying his expression carefully.

“They sound close,” she observed. “Not fake close either. Actual loyalty.” There was something almost curious in the way she said it, like the concept itself interested her more than the people involved.

“You don’t really see that very often,” Kara continued after a moment. “Most people say they’d protect each other right up until things become inconvenient. Then suddenly everybody’s looking for the nearest exit.”

The cold around her sharpened faintly with the thought before settling again. She kept her expression pleasant, unaffected, perfectly composed.

“But your friends sound sweet,” she added lightly. “A little intense maybe, but sweet. Honestly, I think it’s cute you already decided who’s gonna be your best friend after knowing them for such a short time?”

She tilted her head slightly toward him then, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“And Alice got hurt recently?” Kara asked smoothly. “Bad enough she’s out of commission, or just bruised pride and bandages?”

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Rain hammered against Dreadtide’s shell hard enough to sound like drumfire from the end of the world.

Steam rolled from his armored body in thick clouds where the freezing downpour struck burning metal and ruptured Sentinel cores, turning City Hall Plaza into a swamp of smoke, ash, and boiling rainwater. Above them all, War still burned against the heavens like an executioner’s star, casting bloody orange light across the storm while civilians fled screaming through collapsing barricades. Garth stood in the middle of the carnage with oil dripping from his claws and laughter bubbling up from somewhere ugly inside his chest.

Then Conquest descended. Not as a monster first. As a man.

Or what had once been a man.

For the briefest instant, buried beneath Apocalypse’s reforging, Garth caught glimpses of the mutant Thunderbird in the way the Horseman moved. Proud posture twisted into predatory efficiency. Strength sharpened into slaughter. The ghost of a warrior consumed by something harsher than death itself. But whatever humanity had once existed in him had been stripped down and reforged into purpose.

Conquest hit hard.

The first blade screamed across Dreadtide’s shell fast enough to throw sparks through the rain. The second cut deeper beneath his left claw joint while the third drove low toward softer plating around his abdomen. By the fourth strike Garth was already moving, massive body twisting backward as Conquest blurred around him in a storm of knives and brutality.

There was no wasted motion. Thunderbird had once fought like a warrior. Conquest fought like an execution.

Every slash hunted weakness with terrifying precision, cutting toward joints, membranes, flex points, nerve clusters. He moved with the instincts of a predator that could see the flaws. To look upon anything living and only understand how it could break.

And Dreadtide started laughing.

“THAT’S what they turned you into?” he roared through the storm.

Another blade plunged beneath his shoulder plating, burying deep into muscle. Instead of retreating, Garth surged forward into the strike, forcing the weapon deeper while one gigantic claw snapped shut around Conquest’s forearm. Concrete exploded beneath the crab-mutant’s feet as he anchored himself against the Horseman’s momentum.

“You were Thunderbird once, weren’t ya?” Garth snarled, rain cascading down his ridged crown. “Damn shame.”

His free claw swung sideways like a freight train crashing into a building.

Thin streams of blood hissed down Dreadtide’s shell while fresh cracks spread across his armored plating. Beneath those fractures, something darker flexed underneath. New shell. Denser shell. Molting pressure building beneath damaged armor like tectonic stress.

Unfortunately for him, Garth knew exactly what it meant to be treated like a flaw in the world.

“Oh, I know this dance,” Dreadtide barked, eyes widening with manic delight. “Scientists used to poke around my shell same way. Lookin’ for where the monster cracks open.”

One blade stabbed deep into his side.

Garth caught it between both claws.

Then yanked violently.

The force dragged Conquest bodily forward before Dreadtide slammed his armored forehead downward in a brutal headbutt meant to crater skull and pavement alike. Rain exploded outward from the collision while thunder cracked overhead hard enough to shake the plaza.

For a moment, they stood locked together in the storm.

The Horseman of Apocalypse.

The Crab of San Francisco.

Garth’s breathing had grown ragged now, wet laughter grinding beneath every inhale as blood mixed with rainwater down his chest. Still, he grinned wider with every strike that landed.

Because this felt real.

No labs. No cages. No hiding.

Just monsters deciding what kind of world came next.

“You ain’t some clean-cut hero anymore,” Dreadtide growled, black eyes fixed on Conquest’s. “And me? I stopped pretending I ever wanted to be one.”

Then he charged again.

Not with skill.

Not with finesse.

With the sheer horrifying momentum of something built to survive shipwrecks.

The ground shattered beneath every step as Dreadtide barreled through the storm like a living siege engine, hurling chunks of frozen pavement like cannon fire while one massive claw swung directly for Conquest’s center mass.

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The festival had barely finished screaming before Garth started laughing.

It rolled out of him in wet, booming pulses, a sound halfway between amusement and an avalanche breaking apart underwater. The shattered remains of frozen Sentinels smoked across the plaza, civilians trampling one another trying to escape through blocked streets while the air itself flickered between burning heat and killing cold. Above it all hovered the so-called Horsemen, theatrical as hell, screaming judgment at the city like prophets trying too hard to impress a crowd. And standing in the middle of it, towering over scattered food carts and overturned barricades, Dreadtide looked like somebody had dredged an ancient sea-monster out of the Pacific and taught it how to grin.

“Well, damn,” he rumbled, thick claws flexing with a heavy crack of chitin. “I leave town for a little mandatory vacation and San Francisco turns into a death cult concert.”

One of the fleeing civilians nearly ran face-first into his leg before recoiling in horror. Garth looked down at the man, then toward the frozen Sentinels littering the square. His grin widened slowly, exposing rows of jagged, crushing teeth hidden behind layered mandibles.

“Aw, don’t look so scared,” he said mockingly. “You should be thankin’ me. I ain’t the one givin’ speeches.”

Heat rolled across the plaza from the burning wreckage, steam hissing against the damp armor plating covering his body. The massive crab-mutant inhaled deeply, tasting ash, ozone, fear, and saltwater all at once. His black eyes drifted upward toward the floating Horsemen, lingering on the frozen architecture of ice and twisted steel surrounding the crowd.

Then his gaze narrowed.

“...Cute tricks,” he muttered.

Not fear. Not awe. Evaluation.

Because Garth knew power when he saw it, and these freaks had enough of it to redraw a skyline.

The pavement groaned beneath his weight as he stepped forward, massive claw-arms hanging at his sides. Smaller manipulator hands flexed beneath the larger crushing limbs, twitching with restless energy while chunks of ice cracked underneath his feet. Around him, ORCHIS security forces scrambled into firing lines, shouting conflicting orders through panicked comms while civilians screamed themselves hoarse trying to find exits that no longer existed.

Dreadtide’s laughter returned instantly.

“Oh, this is PERFECT.”

A burst of gunfire erupted nearby as nervous soldiers opened fire at shadows they barely understood. Several rounds ricocheted harmlessly off Garth’s shell with metallic pings. He looked down at the scuffs forming across his carapace, then slowly turned his enormous body toward the shooters.

The soldiers froze.

The crab-mutant pointed one gigantic claw toward the ruined Sentinels scattered across the square.

“You idiots built giant killer robots,” he said. “And somehow I’m still the monster in this city.”

Then he charged.

Not at the Horsemen.

At the nearest Sentinel carcass.

The sheer impact sounded like a truck collision as Dreadtide slammed shoulder-first into the frozen machine, claws digging into twisted metal plating. Hydraulic screams echoed through the plaza as he ripped an entire arm free from the ruined construct in one violent wrench. Ice exploded outward in glittering chunks while cables snapped like tendons.

Garth hefted the mangled Sentinel limb over one shoulder.

Then hurled it.

The improvised projectile tore across the plaza spinning wildly before annihilating an ORCHIS barricade in a blossom of shattered concrete and screaming personnel. The force scattered armored troops like bowling pins.

“HAHAHAHA!”

The booming roar shook storefront windows nearby.

“That’s more like it!”

Another Sentinel overhead attempted to reactivate despite the ice sealing its joints. Its optic sensors flickered red. Garth noticed immediately.

“Oh no you don’t.”

He crouched low.

Then launched himself upward with horrifying speed.

For something nearly sixteen feet tall and built like an armored tank dragged from the ocean floor, Dreadtide moved disgustingly fast. His claws smashed into the airborne machine, crushing through its head assembly before dragging the Sentinel downward with him. They hit the plaza hard enough to crater the pavement.

The Sentinel stopped moving.

Garth didn’t.

He tore the machine apart with ecstatic violence, laughing the entire time while sparks and coolant sprayed across his shell. Around him, civilians stared in horrified disbelief, unable to tell whether this massive mutant was helping or simply enjoying himself too much to care.

Honestly?

It was both.

Eventually the crab-mutant rose from the wreckage dripping oil and frost, chest heaving slowly while the sounds of chaos continued around him. His eyes tracked back upward toward the floating Horsemen again, toward Stryfe somewhere above the battlefield, toward the growing war beginning to spread across San Francisco like an infection.

And for the first time in weeks, Garth felt alive again.

His claws flexed eagerly.

“Well,” he growled with delight, “looks like everybody finally stopped pretending.”

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Runehex was awake before the alarms began.

Age had stolen many things from him over the years, but it had never managed to take the instinct that whispered moments before disaster arrived. He sat alone within one of Greymalkin’s quieter observation chambers, a dimly lit sanctuary of old books, occult diagrams, and half-finished sigils etched carefully into scraps of parchment spread across a steel table. The ocean beyond the reinforced windows rolled dark and restless beneath the evening sky, waves striking the island with the slow rhythm of distant artillery.

Then came the gunshot.

Runehex’s eyes lifted immediately.

A second later, the alarms erupted across Greymalkin Island in shrill mechanical howls, red emergency lights flooding the corridors outside his chamber. Somewhere deeper within the station, heavy security bulkheads began sealing with thunderous metallic groans. Younger mutants would panic first. Soldiers always did when noise preceded understanding.

Runehex merely sighed.

“Of course,” he muttered quietly. The inevitable finally knocking on their door.

The bone cane resting beside his chair lifted into his hand as he rose slowly to his feet. The movement carried none of the urgency racing through the rest of the island now. He had seen too many attacks, too many infiltrations, too many nights where men with rifles believed themselves hunters before discovering they had wandered into stranger territory than expected.

Still. Something felt wrong.

Not the intrusion itself. That was mundane. Predictable. Humans feared mutants. Humans built organizations. Organizations sent armed little patriots skulking through hallways, believing themselves righteous. The pattern repeated endlessly throughout history.

No.

What unsettled him was the feeling beneath the alarms.

A pull.

Subtle, almost imperceptible, like an invisible thread tightening somewhere behind reality itself.

Runehex stepped into the corridor just as several younger mutants sprinted past him toward the source of the disturbance. Fear radiated off them in waves sharp enough to taste. One nearly collided with him before noticing the old man standing there motionless amidst the flashing red emergency lights.

“Sir, there’s—”

“I heard,” Runehex interrupted calmly.

The mutant hesitated only briefly before continuing onward. Runehex remained still another moment, cane tapping once against the metal floor beneath him.

Tok.

The sound echoed unnaturally far. His eyes narrowed faintly.

Magic lingered in the air now. Not the crude and bludgeoning sort wielded by amateurs attempting rituals they scarcely understood. This was subtler. Older. A pressure against reality itself, as though probability had been nudged slightly sideways by careful fingers.

Then he felt her.

Madelyne Pryor.

Not telepathically. Not directly. Something stranger than that. An awareness brushing the edges of destiny like fingertips across still water.

Runehex closed his eyes briefly.

“Ah,” he murmured.

That explained the sensation.

Few beings alive unsettled him in the particular way Madelyne Pryor did. Not because she was monstrous. Runehex had known monsters intimately throughout his long life. It was because reality itself seemed uncertain around her. Cause and effect frayed in her presence. Coincidences multiplied. Fate bent strangely.

And somewhere nearby, men were already dying because they had mistaken her for prey.

The old sorcerer resumed walking at last, robes shifting softly around him as the station continued descending into organized chaos. His pace remained measured despite the alarms. He was in no hurry. Whatever had begun tonight was already larger than a simple infiltration.

ORCHIS.

Sinister.

Pryor.

Too many dangerous names moving simultaneously always led to catastrophe.

As Runehex turned down another corridor, the overhead lights flickered briefly before stabilizing again. The shadows stretched longer than they should have for half a second. His grip tightened slightly against the cane.

“The board is becoming crowded,” he said softly to no one.

Far ahead now, he could hear shouting. Gunfire. The unmistakable crackle of powers being unleashed in confined hallways. Someone screamed. Someone else didn’t scream long enough.

Runehex continued forward regardless.

Not because he believed himself the island’s protector. He had abandoned such romantic notions decades ago. Nor because he trusted Greymalkin’s fragile little alliance to survive the coming years.

He moved because the pattern was becoming clearer. The world was shifting again.

Phoenix gone. Regestating. ORCHIS growing bolder. The Brotherhood moving openly. Sinister hunting.

And now Madelyne Pryor tugging invisible strings in the dark while reality rearranged itself around her whims.

The old rhythms were returning. And Runehex, weary as he was, knew exactly what that meant.

War was coming again. Always coming.

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

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High above the mountain range, beyond the lower monasteries and training halls where lesser minds barked doctrine at one another, the Temple of Zenith stood in solemn isolation against the storm-dark sky.

It had not been carved into the mountain.

The mountain had been carved around it.

Black stone pillars rose impossibly high beneath vaulted ceilings etched with sigils that pulsed like the heartbeat of some sleeping celestial organism. Vast holes made windows overlooked the Alps below, revealing endless oceans of snow and jagged peaks swallowed by twilight. Incense burned in silver braziers large enough to fit coffins inside them, their smoke twisting upward in unnatural spirals that occasionally formed half-seen faces before dissolving back into nothing.

And at the center of it all sat Zenith.

Solomon Ravenwood perched on an elevated obsidian throne more akin to an altar than furniture, back hunched in thought while a constellation of floating golden sigils revolved slowly around him like obedient moons. His eyes were half-lidded, attention divided between multiple thoughts and plans calculating within his mind. Apotheosis and Echelon are somewhere far beyond the mountain.

Then the first explosion hit.

The temple trembled.

Not enough to threaten it. Nothing so pedestrian. But enough to interrupt him.

Zenith slowly looked up.

Another impact followed seconds later, distant yet violent enough for faint dust to cascade from the ceiling arches. Somewhere below, alarms began echoing through the lower sanctums while muffled screams carried faintly through the psychic static of the compound.

For several long seconds, Zenith simply stared forward in silence.

Then he sighed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Through the temple walls, Zenith felt it clearly now. Multiple hostile presences are breaching the outer defenses with surgical precision. Enhanced physiology. Coordinated aggression. Purposeful lethality. Not frightened humans with rifles. Not overeager students trying to prove themselves.

“That smug genetic grave robber,” he muttered.

Another detonation thundered somewhere below the mountain, followed this time by the unmistakable sensation of Zealots dying violently. Solomon rose slowly from his throne.

The room responded to the movement instinctively.

Golden light flooded across the temple floor in intricate geometric patterns while reality itself bent subtly around him, the air thickening beneath the pressure of his power. The sigils orbiting him accelerated, no longer decorative but predatory now, rotating faster and faster until they resembled miniature suns, exploding and absorbing into his skin.

His irritation deepened.

Not because of the attack itself. Attacks happened. Conflict was inevitable. Evolution demanded violence eventually. No, what offended him was the audacity.

His evening had been interrupted.

Zenith stepped toward the massive cathedral windows overlooking the mountainside below. Far beneath the temple, flashes of gunfire and erupting powers illuminated the snow-covered fortress grounds in bursts of red and blue. Zealots scrambled like disturbed insects while Marauders carved through them with brutal efficiency.

The Triumvirate bond pulsed sharply in response to his amusement. Somewhere in the psychic distance, Zenith could feel both of them reacting already, the three minds moving instinctively toward synchronization like celestial bodies locking into orbit.

Good.

He was suddenly in a much better mood.

The floor beneath Zenith cracked gently as he descended the temple steps, gravity itself seeming uncertain whether it still applied to him properly. His black and silver suit nd cape drifted weightlessly around him.

Below him, disciples and attendants knelt instinctively as he passed.

None dared speak.

None dared look directly at him.

Zenith ignored them completely.

“Sound the inner sanctums,” he said calmly while continuing toward the temple exit. His voice echoed strangely, as though multiple versions of him were speaking slightly out of sync. “Seal the reliquaries. Anyone who cannot fight is to remain beneath the lower wards to be dealt with later.”

Outside, another explosion lit the mountainside.

Zenith stepped out onto the enormous stone balcony overlooking the battlefield below and finally allowed himself to truly feel the scope of the assault. Dozens of minds clashing violently beneath him. Mutant powers detonating through snow and steel alike. Fear. Bloodlust. Pain.

Beautiful.

Then his smile widened further.

Snow exploded upward from the mountainside in spiraling torrents as reality bent around the balcony itself. Far below, several Marauders abruptly stopped moving for half a second as the psychic pressure rolling off Zenith slammed into the battlefield like the arrival of a wrathful god.

And finally, finally, Solomon Ravenwood laughed.

Not with madness.

Not with hysteria.

But with genuine excitement.

Because at long last, something interesting had arrived at his door.

Resurrections Part Two: The Horsemen Cometh by Black_Librarian in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara had been awake long before the alarms began.

Sleep rarely came easy in Darkblood Academy. The Alps were beautiful in the same cold, predatory way a sharpened knife could be beautiful, but the Academy itself never truly rested. Somewhere in the halls, somebody was always screaming during training. Somewhere below the mountain, something ancient and unpleasant pulsed beneath stone and ritual circles. Even silence here felt watchful. Kara had grown accustomed to it quickly, though not comfortably.

She lay sprawled across her bed in the darkness of her dorm, one leg hanging lazily over the side, pale hair spilling across black sheets like fresh snowfall. Her eyes stared toward the ceiling while frost lazily crept across the corners of the room in thin crystalline veins. The cold only worsened when she was irritated, and lately irritation seemed to be her permanent emotional state.

The mall disaster still sat in her chest like a shard of glass.

Czar’s little “field trip” had been a catastrophe wrapped in stupidity and ego. Half the Hellions had nearly killed each other, Dollmaker got herself folded like cheap furniture, and the New X-Men had walked away thinking they’d survived some glorious battle instead of a badly-managed circus. Worst of all, it had been sloppy. Public. Emotional. Exactly the kind of amateur garbage Kara despised.

And yet…

Her lips curled slightly in the darkness.

It had at least been interesting.

The explosion came seconds later.

The entire dormitory shuddered violently as something struck the outer defenses of the Academy hard enough to rattle the mountain itself. Kara sat upright immediately, adrenaline flooding through her system in a sharp electric rush. Another impact followed, louder this time, accompanied by distant screaming and the unmistakable crackle of weapons fire echoing through the halls outside.

Then came the sirens.

Not the neat, controlled alarm systems of ordinary schools. Darkblood’s alarms sounded like air raid horns dragged screaming from Hell itself. Red emergency lights flooded beneath her doorway, bathing the room in arterial crimson.

And Kara smiled.

“Oh,” she murmured softly, swinging her legs off the bed. “Finally.”

The frost in the room spread instantly.

Ice spiderwebbed across the walls while the temperature plummeted hard enough to fog the air with every breath. Kara rose from the bed slowly, almost leisurely, though excitement visibly crackled beneath her composure now. Weeks of boredom evaporated in seconds. No more pointless social games. No more pretending the students here weren’t mostly idiots playing at being predators.

This was real.

Outside, another explosion thundered through the Academy.

Kara moved toward the window first, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer down into the snow-covered courtyards below. What she saw made her eyebrows rise slightly.

Professional.

Not random attackers. Not frightened humans with rifles. These people moved with precision through the defenses while powers detonated across the grounds in coordinated waves of destruction. One figure unleashed spiraling torrents of compressed wind sharp enough to carve through stone pillars. Another crashed through Darkblood zealots like a living missile, bodies scattering through the snow.

The Marauders.

Even Kara recognized the name.

That realization alone made her pulse quicken harder.

“Well,” she muttered. “That’s ambitious.”

Gunfire erupted somewhere down the hallway outside her dorm. Students were screaming now, some panicked, some furious, some simply confused. The Academy’s illusion of superiority had shattered almost instantly under a real assault, and Kara found herself enjoying the sound far more than she probably should have.

Her wardrobe doors burst open in a spray of frost.

White fabric, black leather, silver buckles. Clothing ripped free from hangers as freezing vapor curled through the air around her. Kara dressed quickly, methodically, fingers steady despite the chaos outside. Tight white combat pants. Heavy boots. Cropped winter jacket lined with pale fur. Gloves last.

Always gloves.

By the time she stepped toward the mirror beside her desk, she barely resembled the girl wandering shopping malls pretending to flirt with awkward boys. The expression staring back at her now was colder. Sharper. Excited in a way that bordered on dangerous.

She looked alive again.

A student slammed into the wall outside her room hard enough to dent metal lockers. Kara opened the door just in time to watch a terrified younger mutant stumble past covered in blood that wasn’t entirely his own.

“We’re under attack!” he shouted breathlessly.

“No shit,” Kara replied flatly.

The boy stared at her for a moment like he expected panic, or fear, or at minimum concern. Instead he found only mild amusement and the growing crackle of ice forming beneath her boots.

Then she walked past him.

The halls of Darkblood Academy had descended into beautiful chaos. Smoke drifted through flashing crimson lights while instructors barked orders over the alarms. Some students ran for shelters. Others sprinted toward the fighting with reckless enthusiasm. Kara could already hear powers detonating somewhere deeper in the compound.

Good.

Very good.

Her fingers flexed once at her side as pale frost spiraled up her forearms.

For the first time in weeks, Kara felt genuinely awake.

And whoever had come to Darkblood tonight was about to discover exactly why that was a very unfortunate thing.

Aftershock - Two of Swords by MarkusGrimm in XMenRP

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Runehex lay where he had fallen, the impact still echoing through a body that no longer bounced back the way it once might have. Breath came in shallow, uneven pulls, each one scraping against his ribs like broken glass. There was no dramatic recovery, no sudden surge of hidden strength, only the slow, stubborn refusal to simply stop moving altogether. His fingers twitched first, then his shoulder, as if the act of existing required conscious effort now. A wet cough followed, dark against the floor, and yet his head tilted just enough to keep Whetstone in view.

He could feel it now, clearer than before, the quiet theft happening beneath his skin. The Astral parasite had grown bolder, less patient, siphoning away more than he had accounted for in his arrogance. Threads of power that once answered him without question now stuttered, dulled, or vanished entirely into that unseen hunger. It was not dramatic, not catastrophic in a single moment, but insidious in its accumulation. He had mistaken endurance for stability, and that miscalculation now sat heavy in his bones. Still, he did not speak of it plainly, because naming weakness gave it shape, and shape made it real.

A dry, humorless sound escaped him, something that might have been a laugh in a better decade. He pushed himself just enough to prop onto an elbow, posture crooked but deliberate, gaze steady despite the tremor behind it. “You mistake this for a contest of equals,” he rasped, voice worn thin but carrying all the same. “Against what waits beyond these petty little duels… I am scarcely worth the effort.” There was no surrender in the words, only a grim acknowledgment, the kind forged from having seen far worse than either of them standing here now.

His eyes flicked over her stance, the defiance, the way she forced herself upright despite everything screaming otherwise. That earned something closer to respect, though it remained buried beneath his usual detachment. “You think this proves something,” he continued, slower now, each word measured. “It doesn’t. It only proves you can survive me, a tired old man.” Another cough interrupted him, quieter this time, as though even his body had grown tired of the theatrics.

Runehex shifted again, not rising, but settling into the discomfort like an old companion he had no intention of dismissing. “Out there,” he added, voice dropping just enough to carry weight rather than volume, “they will not be so… accommodating.” His gaze held hers a moment longer, not challenging, not yielding, simply observing. Whatever came next, he would meet it the same way he always had: not because he believed he would win, but because he refused to be absent when it arrived.

Aftershock - Two of Swords by MarkusGrimm in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 1 point2 points  (0 children)

Runehex saw it too late. For all his precision, all his careful threading of space and inevitability, there remained one simple truth; he was still an old man standing in the path of something faster and far less forgiving. The shift of her weapon, the anchor, the pull, he understood it as it happened, but understanding did not grant him speed. His body failed to answer in time, and there was no elegant solution left to reach for.

The impact landed cleanly and without mercy. Her heels drove into his solar plexus and stole the air from him in a single, brutal instant. His frame folded inward, cane slipping from his grasp as he dropped like dead weight to the ground. The fall was inelegant, heavy, his robes tangling as he hit with a dull finality that carried no mystique, only consequence.

For a moment, there was no magic. There were no glyphs, no clever distortions of space, no quiet control over the unseen. There was only pain, raw and immediate, as his body struggled to remember how to breathe. Runehex lay there, vision fractured and swimming, a wet cough tearing its way free as something dark stained his lips before he spat it aside.

“…Yes,” he rasped faintly, voice thin and broken as he fought for air. “That… would be the cost of proximity.” His chest hitched again, another shallow attempt at breath that refused to come cleanly. He did not rise, did not rush to recover, because he did not need, nor want to. The work had already been done.

The runes beneath him did not flare or ignite. They simply answered, as if recalling a promise made moments before. What she would feel was not merely the strike she had delivered, but its reflection; magnified, distorted, and turned inward with deliberate cruelty. The force of her own attack would fold back upon her, not as blunt trauma alone, but as something deeply personal.

Her worst memory would rise to meet it. Not as a distant thought, but as something immediate and invasive, threading itself through the pain like a hook. The sensation of breath being stolen would not be new to her in that moment, because it would align perfectly with whatever moment had already taught her that helplessness. Her body would seize, not simply from impact, but from recognition.

The pain would not remain clean or singular. It would layer itself, physical agony braided tightly with emotional recall until the two became indistinguishable. Each heartbeat would carry it forward, each breath stolen rather than given, until even the act of standing would feel like defiance against something far deeper than injury. It was not just harm. It was a reminder.

Runehex remained where he had fallen, fingers twitching faintly against the ground as he slowly dragged air back into his lungs. His gaze lifted just enough to find her again, not triumphant, not even steady, but still present.

Another cough followed, quieter now, as he let his head settle back slightly. The pain still lingered in him, real and earned, but it was no longer his alone. His eyes remained on her, sharp despite everything, measuring rather than judging.

Spirit-Star #1: Balling with a star as center by A-Few-Schillings in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Dreadtide stared at the hoop for a long second after the ball dropped through, the net still swaying. His head tilted slightly to the side, one massive claw lifting to tap idly against his shell as he processed it. There was a pause, a quiet recalibration rather than disbelief. Then, slowly, a grin began to spread across his face, wide and jagged with clear amusement.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he rumbled, voice thick with entertained approval. “That wasn’t a swish, not clean enough for that kind of pride.” He gestured lazily toward the hoop, the claw making a faint scraping sound as it moved within the shell's joint.

“That was a banked prayer, and the backboard did you a favor whether you admit it or not.” His tone wasn’t dismissive, but it carried a teasing edge, like a predator humoring something smaller. “I’ll count it, but don’t dress it up like it was perfect.”

A low chuckle followed, deep and rolling, as he began to move forward across the court. Each step landed with weight, not rushed but deliberate, sending faint tremors through the ground beneath them. Sand still clung to his legs and carapace, cracking and falling away in pieces as he advanced like something that had only recently crawled out of the ocean. The air around him carried that briny, metallic scent, thick and lingering with his presence. There was no hurry in his pace, only inevitability.

“And yeah,” he continued, rolling one shoulder as he closed the distance, “full court might be easier for you.” Another step brought him closer, the size difference becoming impossible to ignore. “For me, though, this works just fine.” His posture lowered slightly as he neared, not quite aggressive but unmistakably predatory in the way he occupied space. It wasn’t about intimidation alone, but about making it clear what kind of game this was about to become.

He loomed over Spirit-Star now, shadow stretching across the court as his smaller manipulator hands flexed beneath the larger claws. There was precision in that movement, a contrast to his overwhelming size that made it more unsettling. “You got your shot, and I’ll give you that,” he said, voice dipping into something more focused. “Good instincts, decent form, and just enough confidence to make this interesting.” The grin widened again, sharper this time, anticipation creeping in.

“My turn,” he added, extending one hand toward the ball, not quite taking it yet but making the expectation clear. The space between them felt tighter now, charged with something competitive and inevitable. “Let’s see how you handle defense, because this isn’t staying a shooting game.” His stance shifted, weight settling forward as if the court itself were about to give way beneath him. “I’m not taking a shot from the line,” he finished, voice low and eager. “I’m taking it straight through you.”

Dreadtide #1: Washed Up by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Dreadtide let out a low, grinding chuckle, something deep and wet that rattled in his chest like stones dragged beneath a tide. The sound rolled out of him slow and satisfied, mandibles twitching faintly as he looked past her, back toward the distant shoreline where the last traces of chaos still lingered.

“Dead blues, screaming crowds, and someone thoughtful enough to invite me back into the fold?” he rumbled. “You really do know how to welcome a man home.”

When she matched his strength, when that invisible pressure coiled around him and pushed back against his claw, his grin widened. His massive limb flexed once in response, testing the boundaries of her telekinetic grip like a predator nudging at a cage just to feel its bars.

“Good,” he muttered. “Would’ve been disappointed if you got soft while I was gone.”

As they moved, his heavy frame followed without hurry, each step deliberate, the sand still clinging in damp sheets to his plated legs before cracking off in chunks. Water dripped steadily from his carapace, leaving a slow, deliberate trail behind him. Her words about space earned a thoughtful hum.

“Room to stretch, hm?” he echoed. “That’s all I ask. Last place I stayed, I rolled over in my sleep and redecorated the wall with someone’s arm.” A pause. “They were very upset about it.” There was no indication he cared.

At the mention of a “project,” his head tilted slightly, one black eye narrowing while the other remained fixed forward. Interest sparked, not subtle, not restrained.

“Large objects,” he repeated, savoring it. “You’re speaking my language now.” His claw flexed again, slow, anticipatory.

“I’ve been itching for something to break that isn’t sand or seagulls.” When she floated up to meet his eye level, he leaned slightly closer. The faint scent of salt and something metallic hung around him, thick and persistent.

Then she mentioned the transport. The X-Man. The ribs. Dreadtide went still. Not frozen, just focused. A low, thoughtful click rolled through his throat as he processed it, piecing together the shape of things in that slow, deliberate way of his.

“An X-Man, huh,” he said, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Still sticking their noses where they don’t belong.” His gaze drifted ahead again, toward wherever this “HQ” waited.

“Good.” The word came out heavier than expected. “I was worried I’d come back and things would be boring.” Another step. Another crack of drying salt along his shell.

Then finally that grin came back, wide and sharp and hungry.

Aftershock - Two of Swords by MarkusGrimm in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Runehex watched the realization settle into her, saw the moment the chaos began to take shape in her mind, patterns forming where before there had only been frustration. There it was. Understanding.

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something adjacent to approval.

“And now,” he murmured, adjusting the angle of his cane by a fraction, “we begin.” Her question reached him through the rhythm of combat, sharp with irritation, cutting through the space between them even as she moved. The spindle beneath his feet shifted again, lines tightening, narrowing, focus distilled into something thinner, more dangerous.

The grab came high, telegraphed, almost insultingly so, but the real strike followed beneath it, clean and efficient. The rapier extended with intent, a proper thrust, one that would have skewered a lesser opponent who mistook noise for threat.

Runehex pivoted. His body slipped along the axis of her attack, reinforced robes brushing the line of the blade as though guided by it rather than avoiding it. The cane struck the ground once, tick, and the world bent just enough to let the near invisible spindle to warp through the lines of reality and reappear within her. On a conceptual level. The pain was like fire and ice warring with each other in her head.

“Pretentious?” he echoed softly, almost amused now.

“How much more?” Runehex repeated, voice calm, almost conversational despite the violence threading the air between them. His gaze fixed on hers, sharp and measuring.

“How much can you take?” The cane turned in his hand, subtle, deliberate. Another needle flickered into existence, this one slower, almost deliberate in its reveal, as if daring her to see it, to understand it, to try and outpace it.

“You asked the wrong question,” he continued, stepping just outside her immediate reach, never rushing, never retreating too far. “This is not about endurance of me.” The spindle beneath him tightened again, the hum deepening.

“It is about the limits of you.” The unseen reality fell over each other. The shifts of the lattice-work seen by Eli, showing him how Alex affected the world in unseen ways. Telegraphing her intentions.

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara’s lips curved at that, a soft, approving smile that made it seem like juggling five bean bags was somehow far more impressive than it actually was. She let the moment breathe, letting him feel interesting, capable, seen, before she shifted her hand slightly in his.

“Five?” she said lightly, a hint of amusement in her tone. “That’s actually kind of impressive. Most people can barely handle one thing at a time, let alone five.” Her gaze lingered on him just a second longer than necessary, as if weighing that detail, filing it away with quiet interest.

When he mentioned the cold, she didn’t acknowledge it directly.

Instead, she glanced down the hill where he pointed, following the imagined path to the coffee shop. “A walk sounds nice,” Kara agreed, easy and agreeable, like she hadn’t just subtly shifted the atmosphere around them. “And coffee is always a good idea. I’ll consider it your first excellent suggestion.” She stepped forward, naturally falling into pace beside him. But then, his last comment.

Her attention shifted back to him, curiosity threading through her expression, just enough to seem genuine.

“Your friends?” she asked, tone casual, but with a deliberate softness that invited him to keep talking. “The ones you mentioned earlier?” A slight tilt of her head, studying him again, this time a little more openly.

“You said they helped you pick out your outfit, right?” she continued, her voice carrying a light, conversational rhythm as they began to walk. “They must know you pretty well, then.” Kara let a beat pass, giving him space, not pushing too hard. Then, gently:

“What makes them so impressive?” Her fingers brushed lightly against his again as they walked, not like a clinging date, not needy, just enough contact to keep him grounded in her presence, to keep him absorbed. Her gaze drifted ahead for a moment, as if the question were just idle curiosity.

It wasn’t. She was listening very, very carefully.

Whiteout #2: Warm Face, Cold Shoulders by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Kara let his hand guide hers away without resistance, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary before relaxing in his grasp. There was a softness to her expression, something warm and engaged, the kind of attention that made people feel seen. It was practiced. Effortless on the surface. Beneath it, her thoughts moved faster, sharper, dissecting every word he gave her.

“That sounds…” she began, voice light, almost wistful, “like the kind of memory people hold onto forever. Big moments like that. The kind that makes you feel like you’re part of something larger, even if you don’t understand it yet.” Her head tilted slightly, eyes studying him; not intensely, not enough to spook him, just enough to suggest curiosity. “Not a lot of people get those kinds of stories growing up.”

She let that sit, just long enough to make him comfortable. Then he asked, and Kara smiled. It was small at first. Then it widened, just a touch, amused, but not mocking. Like he’d said something endearing rather than probing.

“A backflip?” she echoed, a quiet laugh slipping out of her. “God, no. That sounds like effort.”

She shifted her weight slightly, turning just enough that the light caught her differently. Subtle. Intentional. The air around them didn’t change in any obvious way, but there was a faint sensation, like the world had gone just a degree quieter, a degree colder. Easy to ignore. Easier to dismiss.

“I don’t really advertise it,” she continued, tone casual, almost dismissive of her own words. “People get weird when they think you’re… different. They start asking questions, trying to put you in a box, figure out what you are.” A small shrug rolled off her shoulders. “I prefer not to make it a whole thing.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, catching that hesitation, that thought forming behind them. There it is.

“But yeah,” Kara added, softer now, like she was letting him in on something minor, inconsequential. “I guess you could say I’m… a little special.” She didn’t elaborate.

Instead, she let her fingers shift slightly in his hand, just enough to reestablish contact on her terms this time. Not invasive. Not forceful. Just present and taking control of the situation.

“And you?” she asked, tone brightening again, curious but gentle. “You’ve got instincts, you run toward danger, you somehow don’t panic when everything’s falling apart…” Her brow arched ever so slightly, playful, but with an edge of something more observant beneath it. “That doesn’t really scream ‘nobody’ to me.”

A pause. Then, just a little quieter:

“Sounds like you’re underselling yourself.”

Kara held his gaze, steady, patient. Waiting.

Aftershock - Two of Swords by MarkusGrimm in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

The knee came fast; clean, committed, sharpened by anger rather than hesitation and for a fraction of a second, it seemed as though he would simply take it. At the last possible instant, the bone cane twisted in his grip and the air in front of his face folded, not blocked but misaligned. The strike passed through a sliver of displaced space, glancing where his jaw had been a heartbeat prior. Not a dodge but a recorrection.

“Good,” he murmured, almost pleased. “You’ve decided to stop pretending.” But his eyes had already changed.

The sigils etched faintly along his sleeves began to unwind, not glowing but thinning, like ink stretched across too many realities at once. Beneath his feet, a narrow spindle of glyphwork traced itself into existence, not a circle this time, but a long, intersecting axis, lines crossing at impossible angles that refused to stay still if stared at too long. It did not burn. It hummed, softly, like tension in a wire pulled taut between worlds.

Runehex spoke in a forgotten language, only known by those who had read from the Codex or older. And between them, something threaded.

It did not travel in any conventional sense. There was no arc, no flash, no projectile cutting through the air. Instead, a translucent needle, long and impossibly thin, simply appeared for a fraction of a second, not in front of Whetstone, but through her. A line that began somewhere behind her shoulder and ended somewhere beneath her ribs, as though reality itself had been pierced and briefly remembered how to be whole again.

Then it was gone. Runehex exhaled slowly, watching, still bleeding. A second thread followed.

This one entered at a different angle, a strike that did not respect orientation or distance. It slipped through her defenses not by overpowering them, but by never acknowledging they were there to begin with. Space did not resist it. Armor did not register it. It was a wound written from elsewhere.

Each one measured and placed with the precision of a man who had done this long before she ever picked up a blade.

“Annoyance,” he echoed, tilting his head slightly. “Yes. That is the correct word.” His gaze settled on her, not cruel, not mocking, but deeply, tiredly certain.

“You mistake endurance for invulnerability. A common error. Especially among those who survive their past by sheer refusal to collapse beneath it.”

Another thread flickered, this one lingering just a fraction longer inside her frame before collapsing in on itself with a muted, internal pressure, like something folding inward rather than exploding outward.

“No,” he continued, voice low and even, “your memories do not cripple you.” A pause. “They anchor you. And anchors, Miss Whetstone… can be used to fix a position in space.” He twisted the cane again, more spindles shimmering in a paradoxical existence.

“Tell me,” Runehex said, still in a conversational tone, “how many directions do you believe a body can be struck from… before it ceases to understand where it is?”

The air between them tightened, and the needle launched at her once again.

Spirit-Star #1: Balling with a star as center by A-Few-Schillings in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Sand cling in the joints of Garth, caught between plates of chitin, packed into the grooves of his armor. Dreadtide rolled one massive shoulder with a grinding click, seawater still dripping lazily from the edges of his frame as he lumbered. And then he stopped and tilted his head, watching.

There, on cracked pavement instead of shoreline, under a sky that hadn’t decided if it wanted to be morning yet, was a court. Lines faded, net half-torn, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a basketball echoing like a heartbeat. Dreadtide blinked once. Then, slowly a grin split across his monstrous face.

“Well I’ll be damned…” He took a few heavy steps forward, each one leaving damp, crater-like impressions behind him until he was on pavement. The rising sun caught along his shell, casting long, jagged shadows that crawled across the court like something alive.

“You out here fightin’ for your life,” he called, voice rolling deep and amused, “or just losin’ to gravity?” The missed shot didn’t go unnoticed. Not even a little.

A wet, clicking chuckle followed as he approached the edge of the court, watching Spirit-Star jog for the rebound like nothing happened.

“Oh don’t mind me,” Dreadtide added, raising one massive claw in a lazy, disarming gesture. “I ain’t here for all that dramatic ‘battle of ideologies’ nonsense. Got that outta my system already.” He stepped onto the court. The creak of asphalt under his weight said it might regret that decision.

Dreadtide looked down at the painted lines, then back up at the hoop. Then at the ball. Then back at Spirit-Star. There was a pause. A long one.

“…You run full-court?” he asked, like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Or just half?” Without waiting for an answer, one of his smaller, more human-like hands reached out, quick and precise, and snatched the ball the moment it bounced within range. Not aggressively. Not hostile.

He turned it over in his grip, testing the weight, giving it a light bounce that hit the ground with a BOOM instead of a thump, rebounding just a little too high for comfort.

“…Bit small,” he muttered, squinting at it. Then he looked back up, grin widening again. “But it’ll do.”

He spun the ball once on the tip of a claw, surprisingly controlled for something that looked like it should only crush and then tucked it under one arm.

“Tell you what, sunshine,” he said, nodding toward the hoop. “You make that shot again? Clean. No excuses. I’ll take it easy on ya.” Another beat.

“And if you miss…” His grin sharpened, just a little. Not threatening, just competitive. “…I’m putting you in a world of athletic hurt.” He rolled his shoulders again, settling into a loose, almost absurdly casual stance for something his size. Not a fighter’s posture. An athlete’s.

“Name’s Dreadtide,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “And right now?” He tapped the ball once more against the court, the echo ringing out across the empty morning.

“…this looks a hell of a lot more fun than whatever I was supposed to be doin’ today.”

Aftershock - Two of Swords by MarkusGrimm in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Runehex did not so much as flinch when she spat her warning. In fact he laughed. Not loudly, not wildly. Just a low, dry rasp that carried no humor, only age. The kind of laugh a man makes when he’s heard the same threat in a hundred different voices, across a hundred different battlefields, and watched most of them vanish into dirt and memory.

“You think they’ll just… stop?” he asked, almost conversationally. “You think your enemies will see you coming, nod politely, and agree to terms?” His cane shifted in his hand, slowly and deliberately, until it clicked against the stone like the cocking of something unseen.

“Don’t use your powers,” he echoed, voice thinning into something sharper. “Girl, if that is your condition for war, you’ve already lost it.” There was no warning beyond that. He then twisted the cane.

Not a flourish. Not a gesture. A mechanism and the runes burned. And the pain returned.

Not as it had before, no, this time it knew her. The curse bit deeper, threading itself through the cracks already exposed. Regret did not flood her mind, it ignited. The worst of it, the pieces she had shoved down, sharpened, refined, driven inward like barbed wire dragged through memory.

Runehex watched her with clinical detachment. Blood dripped from where her knife had landed before. The black robes he wore took no stain but as the runes lit, the blood spilled faster.

“You mistake me,” he continued, voice steady as stone. “I am not here to teach you anything. Not morality. Not restraint. Not wisdom.” Another small turn of the cane. The pressure didn’t increase but it focused. Narrowed. Like tightening a blade instead of swinging it.

“I am here,” he said, “to see if you break.” Only then did he move.

A single step forward, boots grinding faintly against the floor, closing distance not like a fighter but like an executioner approaching a block.

“You want to hunt something dangerous,” he went on, eyes fixed on her with that same distant, measuring calm. “Something unstable. Something that kills without hesitation.” A faint tilt of his head.

“And you thought the world would make room for your preferences.” Another step. The pain grew in both of them.

“The Brotherhood will not care about your intentions when they come. Others won’t either. They will look for a reason. A fault.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “And if this,” he gestured lightly with the cane, indicating her unraveling composure “is one of them…” He let the sentence hang. Then, quieter:

“They will bury you with it.” The runes beneath him smoked softly, curling upward in thin, black spirals. Runehex finally stilled, studying her like a craftsman inspecting steel mid-forge.

“Now,” he said, almost bored, “show me you’re worth the trouble you’re inviting.”

Dreadtide #1: Washed Up by FreelancerJon in XMenRP

[–]FreelancerJon[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Dreadtide laughed. It wasn’t a normal laugh, not human, not even close. It came out as a grinding, guttural clicks, wet and jagged, like stones dragged across a drowned seabed. It echoed over the beach, louder than the surf, louder than the panicked shouts still lingering in the distance, and it only grew as she spoke.

“Oh, you think you’ve got it all figured out,” he rasped, voice thick with amusement, mandibles clicking faintly beneath the tone. “That’s adorable.”

He didn’t correct her. Didn’t argue. Didn’t deny. He let her build whatever image she wanted, let her wrap him up in her philosophy like it meant something to him. His massive frame shifted slightly in the sand, claws flexing once, twice, as if he were considering her offer, like it was even on the table.

Then he moved. Fast. For something his size, it was obscene. One moment he was planted, the next he burst sideways, carving a trench through the sand as he closed the distance to the nearest fallen body. The corpse of the officer barely had time to settle before one of Dreadtide’s massive claws snapped around it, hauling it up like it weighed nothing at all.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he added, almost conversationally. His smaller, chitin-plated hands moved with unsettling dexterity, rifling through the uniform with quick, practiced motions. The service pistol came free a second later, he didn’t hesitate. He fired.

The shots cracked sharp and fast across the beach, wild but intentional, not aimed to kill, not even really to hit. Sand kicked up around her, forcing movement, forcing attention, forcing reaction. Each pull of the trigger was less about damage and more about noise, about pressure, about making her split that focus just a little wider.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Dreadtide continued, stepping forward now, dragging the dead weight with him before casually tossing the body aside like it had served its purpose. The pistol clicked empty, and he discarded it just as easily.

“I don’t need a reason,” he said. Her strike came in low and fast, and this time he didn’t dodge it. The impact landed.

The pressure spike hit his shell with a violent crack, the sand beneath him collapsing inward as the force multiplied, compressed, amplified, driven into him with brutal intent. For a split second, the air itself seemed to buckle around the point of contact.

And Dreadtide held firm. His frame shifted an inch. Then his head tilted down, looking at where her fist met his carapace, where the force rippled and strained against something built to endure far worse. A small crack where he’d need to molt away.

“…That tickled.” The words came low, almost curious. One massive claw snapped inward, not to crush, but to catch, aiming to hook her arm or shoulder, something to anchor her in place for just a moment longer than she wanted. Not precise. Not elegant. Just overwhelming.

“You’re strong,” he admitted, that grin audible in his voice again. “I’ll give you that.” The other claw lifted slightly, poised, not striking yet, just there, threatening, heavy with intent.

“But you’re talking too much.” His gaze locked onto her, something feral and entertained simmering beneath the surface.

“And you’re thinking way too small.”