Zephyr's Story

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Central Downtown Las Flores || Eastyard Boarding School || Late Afternoon

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Droplets covered a a leaf curled a inches from Aranza. A leaf among many others that was only just settling from the unnatural gale that had made a storm of the private gardens only moments earlier. Aranza suppressed a small shudder of pleasure as she allowed the camera to fall against her stomach, tugging at the strap that secured it to her neck. Seven! I got seven this time.

The girl, young and heavyset, sporting overly large glasses and a busted lip, stood in the middle of the foliage as opposed to the path. Her eyes alternated between the camera screen and the spot in the air that Owen had just vacated. Without meaning to, she muttered a couple awed expletives in Spanish. She really had to tune out her mother's tirades.

Aranza flipped through the images on the digital camera, stills of a young man she went to school with. Standing in the garden, suddenly amidst a prismatic maelstrom, floating dozens of feet above the ground, and finally being consumed by a swarm of small bits of folded paper before taking off. When first being assigned to the task, Aranza was not particularly pleased. The school was a horrible place to seek out any non-expendable personnel. Students with any interest in crime were brash at best and completely unusable sociopaths at worst. The few metahumans that did turn up were usually caught misusing their powers and reported to the authorities immediately. Those that actually came back to school were placed under heavy watch, and had a beaten cast to their eyes that Aranza did not think would be of use to her. Owen was the exception.

“Owen.” she whispered. The look in the eyes of the young woman could only be described as enchanted. His habits, while not particularly noteworthy at first, were noticeable. It was sheer luck that Aranza was held back after classes one day by her peers for some “tough love” that she found herself leaving shortly after Owen. Out of sheer curiosity, Aranza followed the boy only to lose him in the garden. Her curiosity piqued, Aranza spent the next several weeks waiting for him to leave late again. This time she followed more closely. The reward for her diligence was seeing Owen take off into the sky. Aranza took to trying to catch him on film.

In the following months Aranza had compiled over two-hundred photos of Owen in various states of flight. Although she had already reported his existence to Monty, the mental clone felt a certain peace while watching him. As she dusted the dirt and flowers from herself, courtesy of her hiding spot amid the taller plants, a delicious though struck Aranza:

Will I be there to capture the moment he finally falls to the ground?

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“You know the drill, Ledger: no phones.” Monty fixed the guard with a sour look.

“I am well aware, thank you.” with the petulance of someone that thought they were deserving of far better than the lot they were dealt in life, Monty handed over her phone. Both guards stepped forward with a metal detector and magnetic scanner respectively. After a few annoyingly slow passes, the all clear was given and Monty was allowed to pass in to a hundred-foot corridor that led in to the next room.

A large desk of lacquered black wood dominated the center of the otherwise featureless room. An assortment of hardcopy files were stacked on both sides of the desk, some already sorted and the others awaiting inspection. Hands folded and masked face staring ahead, Gabriel sat patiently in anticipation of Monty's latest information. An empty gesture, given the nature of their bond. It was still necessary to maintain the appearance of “lowly bookkeeper” reporting to the “paranoid enigmatic mafia lord”.

Monty took a few steps forward and leaned her backside against the edge of the desk, turning to regard the masked man with a smile.

So, Gabriel, how are things? Her mental voice was dripping with sarcasm.

The mask is itchy. Gabriel's response was curt without being rude. Monty frowned. This particular clone had assumed the role of Gabriel over a year ago and had grown increasingly taciturn with the relative isolation the role entailed. Knowing that he was in essence herself in the same position, Monty could not help but feel the faintest pang of sympathy. Very faint.

Well, I have news that you should bring to the next gathering. Monty began counting off the most recent developments on her fingers. We have located seven new metahumans who are interested in joining the Amaranthine. They shall remain nameless until properly inducted. Greystar has yet to find a counteragent to the two latest drugs on the market, meaning we can keep a few of our remaining non-compliant backers under our thumb for the moment before those bastards buy their way free of us.

The raised fingers slowly curled in to a fist as Monty had to take a brief moment to collect herself after that one. Greystar was becoming an increasingly difficult to dislodge thorn in her side. A substantial chunk of the Amaranthine's legal profit was the donated funding of a couple dozen of the wealthiest business families in Las Flores. The Amaranthine secured these payments by keeping the stupid children of the families doped up on the most dangerous drugs that could be secured, drugs that required constant dosage lest serious health risks pop up. Greystar had already provided “cures” to three of these families, and Monty would bet her left arm that they were working on others.

As I was saying. The last order of business for you to go over next meeting would be that of the MYTHIC. They have been stepping on our toes as of late, and somehow got their suppliers to to get them access to chrace a week before our own was ready for distribution.

Gabriel twitched slightly at the mention of the newest psychoactive drug to hit Las Flores, chrace. Monty felt his longing. None of the mental clones had yet tasted of chrace, so the sensation could not be shared by their neural network. A new pleasure, a new sensation. Pushing away the intrusive impulse, Gabriel nodded. If that is all...?

“I'll see myself out.”

As Monty strode through the corridor and exited the subterranean office to retrieve her things from the guards, she stiffened. One of her older clones, a bankteller, was staring down an extremely familiar power-user that had just finished disintegrating a glass panel and was now facing a Greystar operative. Monty clenched her fists so hard that she thought she would draw blood. The guards simply thought she was annoyed by the leisurely pace at which they returned her belongings.

Keep observing. I would like to know if I lose a potential asset.

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Things are not going well for the Amaranthine, Monty reflected. Accompanied by a lanky man of afghan descent–Ismail, another mental clone–she went about the rest of her day knocking off appointments from her list. Potential recruits, payments, shipments, and loans were all handled by Monty. She had to keep up the appearance of a busy little bee for the Amaranthine. Liking the micromanagement that the disguise entailed was a perk that the dark woman had not foreseen.

Near the end of her list, Monty found that she was supposed to pay Sandra Liland today. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth as Monty crossed the task off of the list. Sandra proved to be a far shorter lived experiment than Monty would have liked. Even if she did survive the encounter with Greystar, Sandra would be incarcerated or put under surveillance for the rest of her days. In any case, Monty would not be visiting her any more unless some miracle made the girl worth running the risk.

The last of her appointments for the day was looking into a potential recruit. Spotted a few weeks ago by one of the other gang members, the lanky little boy could purportedly create electromagnetic disturbances over a wide area. Perfect for knocking out cameras, lights, and electronic grids for quick raids. The boy, Kyle Gregson, was contacted shortly after his discovery and offered a job. Today they were to meet in a park in the lower side of town.

As she and Ismail entered the park, Monty fell back into her thoughts. Her power was crumbling as surely and inexorably as the sea wears away at the face of a cliff. The Amaranthine was growing, surely, even richer than it had ever been before. Not quickly enough, though.

The most obvious threat was of course, Greystar. If they could do here what they had done already in Europe, then this was all for naught. The only thing keeping them from overrunning the country with metahuman restrictions were a few flimsy civil-rights laws. In the meantime, the organization was making examples out of power-abusers and criminal organizations. That would be fine if they were not succeeding. Slowly, very slowly, Greystar was earning the approval of the people.

Then there was the matter of those three. The mental clones who were too smart for their own good, and in possession of bodies belonging to people influential enough to abuse their power. One had started a gang of his own, and the other two were threatening to reveal Monty for what she was unless they were afforded new positions of power.

Melrose and the Gridghost were the least of her major concerns. The new kid on the block, Melrose and her MYTHIC were causing problems all across the board. Monty felt in her bones that a demonstration would be needed to put them in their place. The Gridghost was another matter entirely. The only thing she knew of them was that they were watching almost everything in the city, courtesy of what glimpses of the strange program the ghost used that her people could catch. Which is to say, mere wisps of a presence. The only reason Gridghost was not higher on her list of concerns was the method in which Monty preferred to keep her real information to herself: Telepathy. Everything that needed to be said was being communicated in a way that the ghost would not catch anyway. Unless they could read minds. In that case, Monty was doomed anyway and would roll with the punches as they came.

“Ledger,” Ismail's thickly accented English broke Monty from her stupor. He was pointing at a wispy young man in a wheelchair up ahead. He was playing a morose tune on the violin. Ledger perked up in interest almost instantly. “Is that him?”

“I believe so. Thank you, Ismail. Go wait by the gate.” Ismail nodded once and gave the boy ahead one last glance before returning to the entrance. Short dark hair, white, skinny, and small. He matched the description to a tee. Monty strode up to September, her heels clacking on the pavement and golden bangles clinking with every step. She stood in front of the open violin case, taking in the scene with unhidden curiosity.

“Hello. I believe you desired to meet me.” Monty fixed September with a warm smile, glancing to the sides to make sure that no one was near enough to hear them. “We have been observing you for a while. So is that how you do it? The violin transmits your abilities? An odd way to use a power, but I've seen less convenient methods.”

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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.