Kilroy's Story

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Lysergic acid diethylamide administered in three 100 mg doses during through liquid consumption on a period of 7 hours. The subject, a caucasian male, born 2533, physically adept, radio newscaster, on a government payroll, mutant. His state of mind is suitable for rehabilitation, open for external stimuli. He is tied to a bolted-down chair, he audibly prays to his superiors. The green-tinted light coming from the halogen tubes above make him nauseous.

And here i am, sitting opposite to him, staring at this automaton who has forgotten himself. He looks at me like i am some kind of demon, a manifestation of something he wishes never to become. They teach them to fear people like me. Me, their old attack dog. The powers that be have made his soul putrid. They have applied such behaviorism to him. Big brother watches, big brother punishes. I am probably too smart for my own good. One day i'll get myself killed for being what i am. When i am done with what i do, this star-spangled flag will either be upon my body, or upon the country i believe in.

I stand up and i grab my very own tool of the trade, a long aluminum bat. I open my mouth and speak to him these words: "You have won the lottery, the only one that matters, for you have born into this glorious age of liberalism. In this man's america we build our society upon values such as-.."

I hold my bat firmly, and swing at his legs. Shattered kneecaps, he will never walk again without biomechanics. He screams something incoherent through his gag.

"Democracy!"

A swing towards his legs. Mangled shins, nervous system going haywire, strokes.

"Equality!"

Another blow delivered to the lower thighs. He does not stop screaming for help.

"Safefty!"

Clean strike to the chest. Collapsed ribcage, possible punctured lung. He'll live.

"Justice!"

Swing for the left shoulder. Disjointed arm, the power of his strokes break his own wrists.

I administer adrenaline to keep him conscious. His mangled body has been pushed to the limit. Once again i sit down and stare at him. He wishes it to end, his mind is fading. He will not remember anything, i've made sure of that. The only thing that matters is the message that has been planted. I speak to him: "We are all his children. He has laid his mark upon everyone who have redeemed themselves from the powers that be."
I grab my combat knife and cut deep into his hand. I carve a symbol on his palm, a picture of a snake eating its tail. He is too tired to scream anymore. He is too tired of them to be afraid anymore.

I untie him from the chair and carry him to the back of my SUV. As i enter the driver's seat i remove my mask and place it inside the glove compartment beside the silenced handgun and my smartphone. I drive outside the abandoned warehouse, back to the old industrial district. It feels like only a few hours had passed, yet the sun was rising. I leave the rehabilitated automaton by a telephone booth. It's time to get some sleep.

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The air smells like iron.

Apparently my treatments enhanced my senses aswell and somehow i always forget that. I am laying and my bed, staring at the ceiling of my mansion, my very own cradle of filth. I feel as though weeks had gone by while i was asleep, that i am apart of the world around me. Yet the world around me always gets to me.

The air smells like iron.

I peek outside from my dusty, green-tinted window. The yard still looks like a run-down marsh apart from the chainlink fences the authorities installed. Apparently some contactor still owns this spot of land and doesn't know it, doesn't know that his personal bogeyman dwells there. Beyond the chainlink fences lie the old warehouses, old buildings now serving as hideouts or waste disposal sites, too expensive to demolish.

The air smells like iron.

I dress up in my normal attire. My old lime jacket and a t-shirt probably made for advertising some new food designed to shorten the lifespan of those too gullible for their own good. It's truly a miracle this house still stands. When i first found it, i never really bothered to look into it's history. No-one cared who owned it. No-one cared who i was. Then i started wearing a mask.

The air smells like iron, and suddenly i realize why.

Blood has been spilled around here. A bitter wind blows from east, blood, excessive amounts of blood.
I take a walk towards the left end of the street. I see dried blood by one of the warehouses. The air smells like blood and hate. Hate. Something of pure hate. A mutant.

The old comics from centuries ago talk about responsibility. One said "With great power comes great responsibility". Back then people like me and him were probably role models for children. They wanted to relate to a being with incredible powers, yet with a lawful soul. Even if the being was a creation of humanity's mistakes, it still tried to redeem it. A redeemer of man. Born to punish the wicked. The redeemer watches, the redeemer punishes. The redeemer has laid his mark upon everyone who has saved themselves from the powers that be.

The day is still young. I hop into my SUV and drive towards the commercial districts, hoping to buy new hardware.

The air smells like iron these days.

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Southern Gate || Abandoned Shipyard Hidden Warehouse || Late Afternoon

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His breaths were escaping from his mouth in short wisps of visible mist, thanks to the incredibly cold room he was in. A warehouse, heavily modified with freezer units. Afraid of the heat? Perhaps. Though the presence of not just one or two, not even three or four, not five, six or seven. Eight, nine, ten don't even cut it.

This room was built to help cool down the fifty-something units of computers, all linked up together, forming a kind of supercomputer.

And sitting in the middle of it, a young man with his hood on, but his eerily sharp yellow eyes illuminated as it flickered between the screens, lithe fingers tapping away at keyboards and touchscreens. It seemed that everything seemed to be of no interest to him, as he sighed heavily each time he came across something on his screen. It seemed that there were different people on his screens, some seem to show a detailed file, while others showed live feeds from the cameras throughout the city.

A young woman robbing a bank. With a flick of his fingers and zapping of a bright blue strand of light, one of the screens brought up her file. After scanning it and appearing disinterested, the young man sighed and focused on the other screens.

Two people talking with each other.

"Using the codenames Watcher and Afterglow." he noted, once again bringing up their files and then he sneered when he saw-

"Greystar... let's make a note."

Instantly, the files were prioritized.

To anyone else, there were so many interesting things to watch in the room of over fifty computers. There were multiple people on those screens, killing, being killed, saving people, being saved, stealing, being stolen from, the list was endless. Not even a fly was free from his scrutiny.

The magic man, the immortal, performing a daring show today with his audience sadistically trying to kill the man before them. This would've made anyone sick, but the youth seemed to take it in stride. After all, this guy was on his prioritized scrutiny file. He was unique.

A woman with the power to stop a person in their tracks, no doubt, after all those feeds from cameras... he deduced prowess involving the manipulation of blood.

Two individuals who could disappear, gifted with the powers of stealth. One who could meld with the darkness, becoming one. The other, genetically enhanced and experimented on, achieving a chameleon-like state.

A flying teenager, with presumably powers of the wind.

So many that he could list. So little time. Information could be deleted, but nothing was unable to be recovered. Especially not from him.

After all, everything was connected.

"... Tag, you're it." he murmured, tapping the screen of his intended victim for today. A bald man with beady eyes, multiple scars across his face and tattoos all over his body. Instantly, every screen in the room showed images, files, live feeds of the guy.

"Ihvan Ligardo. 34. Suspected of: Rape, theft, assault of a police officer, drug abuse. Charged with: Multiple first degree murders, mostly involving teenage woman, served only 3 years in prison, death sentence not given. Possibility of ties to primary target: 4.1%."

The youth stood up from his comfortable chair, picking up his short sword, pistol, a pair of unique looking spectacles and his phone, that was docked into the computer layout. He started for the door, whipping on his specs before pulling on his hood even further down his face.

"Chances of meeting and subduing target: 137%."

Everything was connected. There was no way you could catch him. No way you could find him. No way to stop him.

He is Rioned Tuduarge, known as the enigmatic and dangerous 'Grid Ghost' to every organization that feared him, making a new name for himself, 'V1RU5'.

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The clerk knows why i have come to the hardware store. He let's me off free with the tools i need, waving at me with his bandaged arm. He has proven to be a loyal and resourceful man in times of need. He too supports my cause. He is too tired to scream anymore. He is too tired of them to be afraid anymore. Several rolls of thin electrical wire, a canister of washing soda, a cement saw. The order from the sawmill should be arriving in the next days. I need to prepare, there are lots of people out there needing to be liberated. My next objective is getting my hands on the last piece of my mosaic. Mosaic, shattered pieces re-arranged to form a bigger picture, a bigger message.

I haul the equipment to the back of my SUV. As i do so, a strong gust of wind hits me. It almost blows me on my back, but i push up against the car, wondering what was the cause of this. The air smells like electrical burns, coming from further down the street. I hop on and drive towards 31st street. Approaching 31st i almost drive over a hysterical woman. I glance over the commotion to inv-...

Bank robbery.

Mutant.

Several.

I can smell it. I drive back towards the commercial district, parking the car away in an alley, not before grabbing the silenced handgun. It probably wouldn't help against electric mutants, but better safe than sorry. The other mutant i am not sure of, no distinct smells. The lack of authorities around the perimeter worries me. I move in closer to the bank building. A safer approach would be from the vents above. I climb along the side of the building until i reach the rooftop. Heat, coming from the air ducts. I remove my street attire and throw them off the edge to a dumpster lying in the alleyway. The only thing remaining is my chameleon suit. I used to wear this all the time in my mission days, almost feels like a second skin. It's true purpose is to blend in with my innate chameleon abilities, enhancing them as much as possible. I remove a large grate and slip into the ducts, crawling towards the bottom floor. I hear faint talking coming from below. It feels like the trenches all over again.

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Not a second passes and i hear the booming whirlwind outside again. That criminal can settle this with the electric one, i haven't seen a flyer since i came to this city. I dart back to the rooftop and look around for whoever went through. It's getting dark and i have a hard time telling people apart from the slowly lighting neon lights around the commercial district. There. Floating in mid-air above a plaza. I need to get to him before his foolishness gets him into trouble with the authorities. I gracefully climb down the building to fetch my smelly streetwear from the dumpster. I never knew banks had to handle such smelly garbage. A brisk walk to the alley where my SUV gives me time to think about the situation. The two people in the bank were obviously taunting judging from the tone of their shouts. The authorities might focus there faster than to the idiot floating in plain view, assuming he has been reported. I need to make sure the flyer is not her, otherwise my agenda might be compromised.
Yes, the agenda. My next human sacrifice is a judge. He will be a valuable addition to the squad. I still have time to check out the flyer before getting to work. My associates have set up a warehouse in the outskirts already. I get in my SUV, not before checking that my equipment is intact. I take a short drive to the shopping strip plaza and park my car. There he is. A few select people are already taking glances to the sky. This will not end up well unless they are distracted.
Even if that flyer is her, i need to buy some more time. Luckily i have a low-yield pipe bomb with me. Even if this might compromise my future endeavors, i set the bomb behind a commercial plaque across the street by a fashion store display window and dart past the fountain to a phone booth. People are too busy with their cozy lives to notice me. They are too gullible for their own good to take any details of me. I'm probably a hiker practicing for a triathlon. I'm probably a maintenance guy adjusting a screw behind a plaque. The authorities have assured that the criminals and mutants only roam outside the central.
I take a look at the woman sitting by the fountain, looking up. She'll be distracted soon enough, would be a shame if a piece of shrapnel would touch that finely carved body. Something seems off about her but i can't put my finger on it. She seems to be devoid of lighting even around all these neon signs and tv screens.
A few seconds later i hear an explosion, screams, shattering glass, an alarm. The explosion could have only injured about 2-5 people last time i checked. Even with grave injuries they'll live.

Living is a thing people forget to be grateful of.

Central Las Flores | Commercial District | Late Afternoon

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A presence.

Grim shivers slithered down her spine. She hadn't seen him approach, but instinctively, she could taste the salty iron that dissipated in the evening air. She took in a cool drink of oxygen. The curious taste was something she sought after - a unique smell that left a distinctive flavor on her tongue. Rarely, she could find such a beautiful scent. Immediately, she recognized the smell, the taste, the presence - a mutant. A powerful one at that.

In one swift movement she reached for her belt, wrapping her agile fingers around the smooth curvature of the custom engraved handle. The metal blade sliced through the air, stopping precisely in front of her. She sensed him there, but saw no one. It took a fraction of a second for her eyes to dart into the gloomy magenta sunset, and settle on their target- it seemed almost magnetic. So it is him. The flying one. Green eyes stared intently, filled with both curiosity and skepticism as she froze in a protective stance. It wasn't like her to solidify and arch her back like a stray cat in the eyes of a starving mutt, but something was different about this particular incident. This body that flew no more than a few feet away, it caused her great discomfort. Yet, she couldn't help but admire the sight. Every muscle in her arms stiffened and throbbed, nearly taking control in an unjustified urge to plunge the lengthy falchion into the still-beating heart of the unsettling stranger. However, she had chosen the wrong weapon, and it was far too late to swap for her bow.

And then she saw his face - the strange appearance of his almond blue eyes. Something about his gaze left her with a brooding tightness in her jaw.


Before an explanation could be given, a wave of anxiety flushed through her veins like an eradicating poison. With little time to question the strange sensation, a large flush of air whipped her hair back in a river of black threads. Heat erupted in a cloud of flames and smoke, and immediately she threw her arm over her face in a protective manner, her ears numb and ringing from the blast. Though the shock wave had passed, she struggled to pry her eyes open, the dust and bits of shrapnel still traveling through the air. Screams, crying, and of course, the rustic scent of crimson red being spilled upon the asphalt - it gummed up her senses, leaving her incapable of smelling, seeing or hearing much other than an unpleasant buz, and the thumping plea of her flustered ear drums. Had this been an attack on MYSTIC? Perhaps she should leave in the eruption of pandemonium. It was quite a veil, after all, and in contempt of her endeavor, she was incapable of fighting in her current state.

Still, though.

She slithered through the foggy clouds of smoke, climbing onto a commercial building - just tall enough to escape the chaos and clear her burning lungs.

That taste.