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You Can't Take
The Razorback

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Age: 25
Player: Bashi
Joined: 19-July 17
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Last Seen: Aug 13 2018, 08:27 AM
Local Time: Aug 14 2018, 01:04 AM
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Aug 13 2018, 08:27 AM
In the few weeks since Sinister had rescued and freed Arlo from her years of internment, He’d kept her on quite a short leash. But now that she had been healed and given a greater purpose, the young mutant was excited to be turned loose in the city. Well, relatively loose, seeing as she didn’t go anywhere without an accompanying Marauder. Riptide was driving the white sprinter van with Arlo riding shotgun, the woman’s attention flitting over the cityscape passing by the window as she eyed the streets of Manhattan’s Mutant Town. Arlo had never been a proud mutant until she met Sinister and He explained the strength and importance of her power. It didn’t hurt that he also gave her a way to finally turn it off.

“That spot there, on the corner,” Arlo piped up, sitting up in her chair as she spotted the bar. She’d been watching Kingtide on CCTV and various means of hackable surveillance for some time now. People were creatures of habit, and Arlo was quite confident the teen would show up to her typical Wednesday night spot shortly if she wasn’t there already. “Stay close, I won’t be long,” she informed Riptide with a giddy grin before hopping out of the passenger seat and onto the city’s busy street. The amount of people, the sounds, the smells… it was all so new and foreign. She’d known the inside of a concrete isolation cell for too long that being free now was like turning the color on an old black and white TV.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door of the bar, Arlo wasted no time in seeking out her mark for the evening. Kingtide's red hair lit her up like a flare, drawing her pursuant's eyes to the teen leaning on the bar top waiting for a fresh drink. There was no need to play coy or to strategize means of getting her attention. Not with Arlo’s skill set. Sauntering through the crowd of diverse mutant fare that peppered the establishment, the brunette focussed her potent pheromones to the surface of her skin, concentrating them further on her fingertips. When she reached her target, the scent of the ocean may have subtly alerted Six to Arlo’s presence before the Israeli reached for the girl’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze for her attention. And, of course, her intoxication.

“Excuse me… Ms. King? The Mackenzie King?” she tempted, rocking a solid fangirl impression that really wasn’t far off from the way she was feeling. Arlo was thrilled to be given this task, one that would set a series of other operations in motion. The intel she was planning on scouring Six’s mind for today was exciting to say the least. All she needed was time for her pheromones to do their work, and she’d have little Mack wrapped around her finger. “Arlo Essex, pleasure to finally meet you!” she continued with a warm smile, extending her free right hand for the customary greeting. With no recollection that the two were thoroughly well acquainted in her past life, Arlo watched Six’s eyes for indications of how much of a task this might turn out to be, as well as indications that those pupils were dilating and her mutation was doing its work.
Aug 5 2018, 06:43 PM
Salvatore Stalteri was a good cop. Given the climate of current human-mutant relations, his position within the mutant community was becoming more and more a rarity. The residents of mutant town trusted him, which was worlds and away more than they could say about most in the NYPD. Sal had worked over the last few years to build trust and understanding with the mutants in mutant town, succeeding in part due to his empathy and genuine likeability. But mostly, and unbeknownst to the members of his squad, because he was the son of mutants. For better or worse, the X-Gene had skipped right over Sal, but it gave him an insight into the world that otherwise might have gone misunderstood.

Every Friday Sal went to the same deli in mutant town and ordered the same thing: pastrami on rye. He ate half of it there, and saved the other half as a snack back at the station. This was one of his many times built into his work week to visit with the locals, get a pulse on the goings on in Mutant Town, and inquire about any open cases he was working. The routine, one some might deem monotonous, was perfect for the young man. It was also perfect for his pursuers on this particular Friday afternoon. A woman in black had struck up a conversation in line as Sal waited for his order while a rather gruff looking man waited outside. An introduction and a brief conversation later, the seed was planted to set something sinister in nature into motion.

Cooly and calmly, as if he was retrieving cream to add to his coffee, Sal made his way out of the shop without his pastrami sandwich. He proceeded to the trunk of his police cruiser and pulled the five-gallon jug of gasoline that he’d come to keep for emergencies out with little effort, then without a word proceeded to the sewer grate on the adjacent sidewalk, pulled it open, and slipped inside. The next few moments of silence were punctuated by the echo of the slosh of sewer sludge around his boots in the large passageway. Then, the glug-glug-glug of the contents of that bright red gas can being upended into the flow of water. His face was expressionless, lips set in a thin and determined line as his thoughts were consumed with a singular line of thought: “As she wishes.”

Out of the putrid darkness, Sal flicked open the Zippo his father had given him nearly a decade ago, and tossed it deeper into the flowing waters of the mutant town sewer. In an explosion of light and an intensification of stench, the accelerant dancing upon the surface of the sewer water caught flame, illuminating more than the faces of those residing in the tunnels underground. Their screams were delayed, the sheer surprise of the onslaught keeping them from registering at first that some of them were, in fact, set alight. Then, one by one, the poor unfortunate Morlocks caught in the carnage began to run. Not with any semblance of a plan, just away from the blaze that was suddenly consuming them. Right toward dear ol’ Sal.

The woman had told him very clearly what to do. Flush them out, she’d said. Then, put them down.

Sal raised his service pistol, took aim, and one by one slew the fleeing Morlocks as they made their way toward the exit to the surface and inevitably toward him. He pulled the trigger methodically, no hesitation or resignation in his movements, just calculated placement of each shot that resulted in a pile of dead, disfigured mutants at his feet. By the time he’d emptied his clip, the trance he’d been subject to began to fade, his mind slowly seeping back to reality. And with that transition came the sickening realization of what he had done. Sal blinked rapidly as if it’d somehow take him out of this nightmare and back to his cozy bed in the Bronx. It was soon glaringly obvious, though, that this was no dream. He could feel the heat coming off the people, still set alight, pushing past him on their way out of the now smoke-filled passage. He could smell the acrid stench of burning flesh, clothing, hair. And though the last few minutes were a fuzzy blur, the pieces of the puzzle laid out ahead of him were easy enough to assemble.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t help… not after what he’d done. Due to the smoke coming from the open sewer grate, it didn’t take long for the responding officer to find a stunned Sal frozen in his tracks in the tunnel.

“Sal… Sal! What did you do?!”

(( OOC: Open for up to five ))
Aug 3 2018, 12:21 PM
The mind is a malleable thing. And when left in the hands of an adept sculptor, the shapes and forms one’s psyche might take can be hewn to a certain liking. With broad strokes of brilliant white, He erased the canvas of Notion’s mind and started fresh. Wiping away the memories of her mother, her childhood, her service, her life in America, all the people she’d grown to care about. Without the pretense of what had been, there was much more room to build anew. This allowed Him room to shape her, to make her His own. For every detail he inlaid in her mind, every fabricated memory He made real, was strategically placed to ensure that she would follow Him. That she would see Him as more than a man. That He would be a god in her eyes, her savior, her salvation. There was no room for doubt or disillusion, not with the reality He’d crafted for her.

And it worked.

Charlie was gone. Though the body housing the being was the same flesh and bone, more or less, the mind behind those honey brown eyes bared no resemblance to its previous conscience. As far as her memory could recall, she was captured near the completion of her service with the IDF. They interrogated her, tortured her, isolated her, until she began to lose her grip on reality. Hope was lost after a year, the marks on the wall of her cell trailing off when she resolved to stop keeping track of the passage of time. The young woman had resigned to give up on clinging to mortality, but they wouldn’t let her die. She held no value to them dead.

Then, finally, He came. Lifting her out of despair, slaying her captors, bringing her to safety. He healed her body and, in time, her mind. He showed her the value in her gifts that she’d only viewed with disdain before. He gave her safety, security… a purpose. In the young woman’s eyes, He was infallible, and she would follow Him to the ends of the earth to serve and honor Him for what he’d done. Sinister’s newest Marauder was just as faithful to and adoring of her new master as He’d intended for her to be.

Which was precisely why she was slinking into the armpit of New York’s establishments at His request. Sinister desired disposable muscle for his latest move on the massive chess board that detailed His endeavors, and what better place to find such caliber of lowly mercenaries than at Sister Margaret’s? The mutant formerly known as Charlie strode into the grimy bar and took a moment to survey the cast of characters scattered around its interior before addressing her usual companion for such outings, Scrambler.

“I’ll give you first pick,” she tempted, her tone of voice a bit more playful than the placid expression she wore. They’d need a significant amount of brute muscle for this endeavor, but its absence for the sake of skill wouldn’t hurt. Scrambler had already proved an adept spotter, with her ways of persuasion long past tried and true. All there was to do now was set the hook and gather a few quality catches before their work here was done.

May 9 2018, 10:35 PM
Casie Evans wasn’t the kind of girl you’d expect to be sleeping on a subway grate in a mess of tarps and blankets. She was a good student, played club soccer, and stayed well away from the rough crowds and burnouts at her high school in Manhattan’s lower east side. But a little after her fifteenth birthday, her rosy upbringing took a sharp turn for the worse. Manifesting first as what could be written off as the effects of sleep deprivation and fever dreams, her mutation of telepathy and premonition soon became something she nor her family could no longer ignore.

It didn’t take long for them to commit her, seemingly their only choice given how much her mental state had deteriorated. Casie couldn’t keep the voices out, couldn’t keep from seeing every morbid detail of someone’s impending demise as they passed her on the street. Schizophrenia was the best guess any of the doctors at the mental hospital could give her, and while they couldn’t provide an accurate explanation they could provide drugs. Lots of them, coupled with heavy sessions of electroshock therapy. At first, there was relief, her brains so scattered by the current made to course through them that she could finally enjoy silence. The pills were working too, numbing her into a stupor that made her disturbing fits of truth much more intermittent than when she’d first arrived.

But for all their progress, they couldn’t cure Casie. And when her support ran out and she was finally released, she had nowhere to go. Home held no welcome for her anymore, her family unable to cope with how irreparably changed their daughter was. With no high school diploma, skills, or money, Casie took to the streets, making money where she could through a myriad of unsavory means and using whatever she had left for drugs to numb out the voices.

Anything to keep from seeing the fates that passerby’s were so blissfully unaware of.

Charlie had come across the young woman when she first arrived in New York, a fixture in Mutant Town if you’d traversed the area for long enough to notice. Always keen on building useful relationships, Charlie began slowly with the teen to establish trust. She’d learned long ago that street-folks saw and knew a great deal more than people often gave them credit for. Buying her a meal wrapped in foil here or there, or just taking the time to talk to the disheveled and dirty outcast, the Israeli had begun to make an impression. More infrequently, Charlie would provide Casie with relief from her drug cravings with a dose of her own personal chemical concoction. Her pheromones provided a high without fear of overdose, dependence, or discomfort. Of course, Charlie expected something in return. Well, two things really. The first being the understanding that Casie wasn’t to share any premonitions she had about Charlie’s fate. And the second, that Casie would tell her of anything of particular importance going on in Mutant Town.

Most of the time, these conversations led to nothing useful. But given how many mutants had gone missing by now, she figured it would be worth a visit to the young girl to ask her a few questions. She’d picked up Casie at one of the usual spots she was posted up, leading her to a nearby diner where Charlie was sure to order more food than the skinny teen could possibly eat. By the time the food arrived, they’d already gotten through the pleasantries and were onto the meat of what Charlie really wanted to know.

”I know you see a lot of what goes on around here. A lot of our kind have gone missing… I’m looking for any information you might have on who we’ve lost, and anyone that might involved,” she laid out her intention clearly to the shaky woman in front of her. It was clear that Casie hadn’t had a fix in some time, and given how eager she was to sit with Charlie it was clear she expected a high sooner or later. Perhaps, the sooner she was dosed, the sooner she’d be willing and able to share. Reaching an arm across the table, she rested her hand palm up on its surface for Casie to hold.

May 8 2018, 01:15 PM
Charlie in a garden nursery was very much like a kid in a candy store. She had schlepped all the way to Red Hook on this weekend afternoon in order to spend her precious free time wandering through aisles of green. The small Brooklyn apartment she’d been laying low in since leaving the Brotherhood and engaging in an array of precarious activities was hardly spacious enough to accommodate the type of garden that Charlie was used to growing. Now that she’d procured an apartment in Manhattan with ample space in its rooftop greenhouse for her to experiment with, she had the green light to go on a botanical shopping spree.

Some of Charlie’s fondest memories of her late mother revolved around cultivating a myriad of plants. She’d learned to grow much of her own food, to work what the dry desert offered her into sustenance. Gardening was Charlie’s connection to Sapir, and she was excited to finally get her hands dirty in the soil again. Chelsea Garden Center was the most sprawling and diverse option that she’d found in the five boroughs to satisfy her needs for seeds, starters, irrigation, and more. Hence why she opted to borrow a large van from Frost Intl. instead of using her Mustang when it came to transporting her bounty home.

Crouching down to examine the undersides of the leaves of a few heirloom tomato plants, Charlie scrutinized their condition and potential before adding them to her nearly full cart. A contented smile played on her lips, her mind already busy planning the layout and logistics of her greenhouse. There was a great deal that growing outdoors in New York’s natural climate limited her to, but having her own climate controlled space to work with in the greenhouse eliminated many of those hurdles.

Look out, date palms. She has plans for you.

Rising to her feet again, Charlie placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the aisles within view before a helpful nursery attendant noticed her looking at a bit of a loss. “Hello miss. Can I help you find something?” The bright eyed twenty-something offered, her long blonde hair braided and tossed over the shoulder of her soil stained apron. “Yes, thanks. I’m looking for a drip irrigation setup,” Charlie replied, the last on her to do list doubling as one of her favorite parts of garden setup. There was a great deal of merit in putting a lot of legwork in the setup, just to sit back later on and let it take care of itself.

The blonde was kind enough to walk her a few isles down, where a dizzying array of different lengths and widths of hoses, adapters, valves, and nozzles was stocked on shelves twice as high as Charlie was tall. “Perfect. I appreciate the help. I think I’ve got it from here,” Charlie managed distractedly, her eyes and thoughts pouring over the possibilities ahead of her.

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