Dylan Ashe's Story

It's no secret that the New Years is no mere passing holiday in the eyes of those living in the metropolis of New York City, the name itself enough to set its rambunctious populace abuzz in anticipation for what is to come. The citizens of New York? They know how to party. The dawning of a new year comes a new excuse to pull out all the stops, along with an alarming amount of second-rate booze which may taste like cat piss in the beginning but become more bearable once one hits the third or forth drink, as many acknowledge that it is the one night of the year that is truly meant to paint the town red. Whether it be a small house party among friends who had preparing weeks in advance by buying party decorations, a gathering of lonely souls at a local bar who just want to get away from the worries of life, or families of all types who condensed within Time Square to watch the famous dropping of the ball, people were out for blood and looking for a good time. The feeling of elation rippled along society and enabled an atmosphere that was shared among all.

On this night in New York City, minutes inching ever nearer to a fresh stretch of time, alcohol was overflowing from the cups of the masses and there wasn't a soul whose eyes weren't occasionally straying to their clocks, watches, and cell phones, checking to see how much longer they would have to wait until midnight. With baited breaths, there wasn't much else to do other than enjoy the chicken wings that were on for cheap because of the New Year special or keep an eye out for that possible other who might want to share a kiss at the peak of the evening- neither of which was really a tragedy. For those willing to brave the slight chill in the air that came with the winter season, they were able to experience the wonder of bright, exploding color, light illuminating a sky that would have otherwise been dark, dreary, and full of smog. The fireworks displays alone were enough to leave those who had witnessed its splendor, breathless.

There was one specific individual who was breathless for an entirely different reason, however, not a single firework bright or colorful enough to catch his attention. No, his heart was racing in such a way that could only be the result of not happiness or jubilation, but rather, the feeling of becoming helpless prey in a scenario that was not in his favor. The blood that coursed through Lionel Lee's, a man who was unfortunate enough to call the dirty city streets his home, veins ran an icy cold as he stopped to catch his breath. He was in desperate need to stop running, to allow his screaming muscles a moments rest and his pounding heart a chance to steady itself. Lionel Lee could only press himself into a crevice of a red brick wall and attempt to suppress the scream that wanted to rise out of the back of his throat.

The Shadow was still after him; it was lurking somewhere in the alleyway with him, an alleyway that had been transformed into a labyrinth when Lionel became a mouse in a maze riddled with cats. The dark figure was out to get him- it was out to kill him, Lionel was sure of it. It was a dark, tenebrous shape that loomed over even the tallest of walls and buildings, overwhelming the area with an aura of power and dominant so staggeringly potent. The Shadow was nothing less than a natural-born predator with a lust for blood.

Lionel had been living on the streets for years now, and with that in mind he knew the very culture that coupled with that lifestyle. He knew that some of the best places to sleep were in playgrounds and beneath bridges, places deemed safe enough to spend the night and warm enough to evade the bitter cold. The schedule of the local soup kitchen, when was the best times to ensure that Lionel would get a hot bowl of soup to eat, was permanently engraved in his mind. Lastly, but most importantly, he knew how to steer clear of the potential dangers. There were some people that could not be trusted, places that he would never intend to visit, and conditions that he would avoid out of his best interest. But those were dangers of the earthly sort, mainly defined by the dealings of the black market and gang movements. They were unlike the kind of The Shadow: an unearthly danger.

Suddenly, rapidly, something darted out of the corner of his eye, a black shape that moved with speed and agility that could be dubbed inhuman. It was a movement enough to draw a loud whimper from between Lionel's lips and cause his shaking hands to push him away from the wall, springing the homeless man into the middle of the alley. As his feet thudded against the ground and his body seemed to turn from corner to corner to corner of the maze, it was pure instinct that overtook his mind and flooded his thoughts of run, escape, and survive. He could pay no heed to the patch that slipped out of his pocket and drifted to the ground, a singular beam of moonlight shining onto the words "SGT. Lionel Lee."

He didn't want to run any more, he was tired and consumed by fatigue, but he had to. The Shadow was everywhere all at once. It dashed and flew, scampering out of the corner of his eyes and disappearing before he could truly construe it. Finally, it would be the way The Shadow swiped along the length of his spine that would send Lionel tumbling to the ground beneath him, a scream ripped out of him as he scurried to pull himself up and face the demon. As he did, Lionel squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tingle of vapor at his fingertips, water from a nearby leaking pipe collecting on his palm. It was a sensation no longer familiar to the man, as he had long since abandoned the use of his abilities. On an occasion like this, however, it was his second nature as a Gifted individual to try and preserve his life.

Flinging the water in the direction of The Shadow did nothing. It was a pathetic attempt that portrayed the weakness of the prey, a mist of water that only seemed to send The Shadow into a hoot of joyous laughter. It was if the thing was equal parts pleased and mocking at Lionel's little display of Adam's ale. The Shadow knew that he had won.

In the darkness of the barren alleyway his screams had not been heard or attended to as The Shadow overtook him, and instead the cheers of nearby party-goers could be discerned in the far distance. While people laughed merrily, kissed enthusiastically, and roared with delight at the strike of midnight, they would not know of Lionel's demise on account of a battle lost. Nor would they care.

On January 1st, 2016 Lionel Lee would die a homeless veteran, his legacy having fought in wars smothered, and lines and scratches marring his arms would show that he had been driven to drug use and addiction. He would be a man forgotten. A man murdered.

Anyone born in the last few decades can attest to how revolutionary the creation of the internet was. Its development since has created a whole new method for obtaining information. Suddenly anyone with a home computer could cruise the web, information was only a mouse click away. Chatting with friends halfway across the world, or meeting like-minded people on anonymous chatrooms was easy.

One such chatroom, entered only through a password, has had a steady stream of patrons for the last month or so. It was originally created as a safe space for Gifted kids to communicate, those individuals who felt they couldn’t speak with anyone face to face about the many problems they might face day to day. Recently, the chatroom has been dedicated to the disappearances that have been plaguing the homeless youth of New York, and the ineffectiveness of the local police.

’This is bullshit.’ KidBig66 writes, breaking the momentary silence that had hit the board after the most recent disappearance had been announced. ’How come no one’s looking into it??’

’Same excuse as last time, I reckon.’ Lucky_Lady types back, ’Police say it’s not suspicious. Claim he’s probably just on some drug binge or moved cities.’

’Basically, they don’t fuckn care about any1 hu doesn’t ‘fit’ into their picture of society.’ The_Alpha8921 types.

He wasn’t far off the truth too. For several months now there have been losses, street kids disappearing, homeless men and women vanishing without a trace. Bodies have been rare, only a handful have been found and even then, it’s hard to identify the remains. Yet, the police have remained largely inactive. Their excuses? Not enough evidence, or not enough resources to investigate the disappearance of individuals who are prone to moving without word. After all, who would spare an officer when the victim in question is one of those who have fallen through society’s cracks, whose ‘home’ moves depending on the weather and the good grace of others?

’Fucking hell! They’re gonna sit and do nothing while some psychopath picks us all off.’ KidBig66 writes, the anger evident even across the internet.

’We do it then.’ The response comes from renegade777, one of the quieter presences in the chatroom.

’Do what?’

’We find and stop this killer.’

The words are read across the city, fingers stilled against their keyboards as pros and cons are weighed. Could they? Could they do this themselves? Do what the police won’t? It was a mad idea, and yet… who was to say they couldn’t? A stream of replies come at once, some for the idea, some vehemently against it.

’You’re crazy.’,
’FUCK YES!’
’How could we do anything? We’re just a bunch of nobodies.’
’I’d rather do something and die trying than watch as more are killed.’
’Screw u, im nt dying for shit.’

’We can do this, guys.’ Renegade777 explains, gaining the chatroom’s attention as they continue, ’Think about it. We’re all gifted, we’re strong and powerful, and we know the city better than any police officer. Together, we can do this.’

’Not all of us can control our powers.’ Someone points out.

’Then we’ll train. We’ll share information and tips, help each other out. We can do this!’

While some refused to be part of this supposed madness, there was enough of a consensus that a date, time, and place was picked. Word spread, radiating out from the chatroom by word of mouth and rumour. As the time drew closer, an exact week after Lionel Lee’s disappearance, the meeting had grown from the handful that frequented the chatroom to more than a dozen individuals. Some came with the intention of doing good, others out of pure curiosity. So it was that, on the 8th of January, as the sun was about to set across the City that never sleeps, a small gathering of Gifted young adults was assembling.

Outside the weather turns from chilly to cold, a blanket of white snow turned to discoloured sludge as pedestrians and vehicles crush it beneath feet and tires. There’s no sign of snow at the moment, though thick, heavy clouds hang low in the sky, sunlight catching the underside and offering a crisp winter vision above the city’s skyscrapers. For those with the option, it would be a perfect evening to watch the sunset from an insulated and heated penthouse apartment, but for those forced out into the biting air, it would be best to wrap up tight.

They trail in alone or in pairs, pushing aside rusted metal fences and entering through a door that’s on its last breath. Graffiti decorates the walls, while empty beer bottles and the evidence of furry inhabitants litter the floors and corners. In the middle of the warehouse’s hall a patch of blackened floor remains as evidence to when some miscreant attempted to start a fire within its four walls. The walls are rusting, the ceiling looks set to cave in, and yet miraculously it still lives, as if the abandoned building has been imbued with an unnatural ability to survive whatever dangers is thrown at it, natural or not. Decrepit and lonely, a shell of a building that once held the industrial hopes of the neighbourhood, it now offers the ideal set for a meeting of concerned youth.

They take up places around the edge, or huddled in small groups in the middle, waiting for someone to start the affairs –renegade777 perhaps? Yet, the chatroom member doesn’t step forward, assuming they’re there yet. Instead, it is another member of the chatroom that kicks things off. The back door squeaks on its hinges as one individual pushes through. To those from the chatroom, he’s known as The_Alpha8921, while in real life he’s Garth Holden, a troubled twenty-one year old with the power of super strength – fitting given his internet pseudonym. He comes to stand in the middle of the room, glancing around at those already there, a cursory gaze that is at once judging and cocky.

“Well? Are we going to do this thing or not?” He asks, cracking his knuckles out of habit as he eyes up his peers. “What’s the plan? We go round an’ tell what we can do?”

The day had been a beautiful one, for wintery New York, and yet neither Kipling twin had been able to witness the colourful hues the heavy clouds took, or the way the sun’s faint rays had cast breath-taking shadows across snow drenched streets. Instead, Toby Kipling had been confined to his room, head bent over his desk in an attempt to decipher the latest book of ‘spells’ that he had managed to acquire. Sighs of frustration had escaped his lips, his fingers aching from the intricate movements he’d put them through, and all for nothing. The book was a dud, one of those new age magic tomes that simply stuck irrelevant words and ingredients into its pages in the hopes of duping modern day ‘witches’ out of their income. Well, the book was either a fake or Toby was just terrible at this magic stuff. It could be either or, really. Toby didn’t have much faith in his abilities.

With another irritated huff, Toby pushed himself back from his desk. He had wanted to master at least one spell before the meeting. Something other than the cheesy mini-fireworks display that was currently one of his only mastered spells. As pretty as the little exploding lights looked, he doubted that it would impress anyone. Though, as Toby glanced at the time he realised with a start that his spells wouldn’t matter if he and Bast missed the meeting entirely.

Jumping to his feet, Toby strode out into the living room, “Bast! You ready for the meeting? I almost forgot.” He called, searching for the pantless sod he called a brother. Sure enough, Bast was still sitting on the couch, controller in hand, probably battling some fourteen year old on one of his games.

"Bast! Pants!" Toby cried, exasperation clear in the tone of his voice. His feet stomped into the younger twins’ room, stepping over empty packets of cookies and random doritos strewn across the carpet in search of the item of clothing that Bast refused to wear within their own home. “We’re going to be so late.” Toby continued as he searched through Bast’s drawers for a pair of half-way decent trousers. There wasn’t much that wasn’t dirty or crumbled on the floor, yet luck was on Toby’s side as he pulled out a pair of jeans that had no stains on them and weren’t five years old.

“Put these on now and turn off the game, or I’ll… I’ll hide the console.” Toby threatened as he returned to the living room, throwing the pants at his twin. He wasn’t very good at threats, and Bast knew Toby well enough to understand that Toby’s words were hollow.

There was nothing more difficult than being the self-proclaimed king of the technological jungle when your title was constantly being threatened by new opponents; they were opponents that had little to no chance up against him, no less, but the occasional reputable foe dared to step out onto his turf. But listen, if this was an analogy, you know, like, one of those thoughts that have another thought's hat on, Bast would be the lion, the very king of the jungle, and everyone else would be the lambs or the squirrels or whatever sort of weak, defenseless animal who lived in the same niche. Because Bast? Bast had the most limber and controlled thumbs than anyone else on this Earth, and that much he knew he could claim with the utmost amount of assured confidence.

But as Bast was saying, living life as the main man was no easy, breezy walk in the park when it required his attention in it's entirety, thus resulting in his current position on the couch for the past couple of- few- er, however long he's been there for. Everywhere his graphically-rendered cartoon self turned, a new challenger appeared to attempt to shoot him down and demand that the title of high-score holder be given to them. To that Bast says that they can drop dead (and to that they respond by saying some pretty mean things about his mother and his sexual orientation) because there was not a chance in hell that he was going to give anything up. He was going for gold.

They could kiss his godly tushie.

Needless to say, he didn't exactly notice when one hour had turned into two and two had turned into a shit ton, and he may have, in his trance of concentration, only recognized the semblance of Toby's voice saying something to him at one point. He was probably saying something like Bast, pick up your clothes. or Bast, did you take out the garbage? or Sebastian Isaiah Kipling, what the hell did you do to the laundry!? Did you, or did you not, separate the lights from the darks because all of our whites are now pink!... he was kind of like the adults off of Charlie Brown when they talked.

It wasn't until Toby charged into the room full speed ahead, like a cute little extra off of Thomas the Tank Engine, and tossed a pair of pants at his face did Bast startle and break from his very deep, video game-oriented tunnel vision. But in that moment it wasn't like he could actually see anything now that the legs of the pants were wrapped around his head and blocking his vantage point, so he could only begin to flail and sputter as he pulled the article of clothing off of his face.

"Toby! What was that for?" He could only whine when his twin came into view. Looking at Toby was kind of like looking at himself, devastatingly handsome and the picture of perfection, only less adorable and looking very stern with his hands on his hips. "I swear I didn't do it! I don't exactly know what I didn't do, but I didn't do it and that's the important part! There's no need to go put pants on about the whole thing."

Exasperation was a default setting for Toby, at least when dealing with his brother. He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a calming breath in order to steady himself before replying, with some measure of patience, “Bast, we’re going to be late to the meeting. Put your pants on so we can go.” Honestly, Toby’s ability to remain patient in the face of such… Bast-ness, should mark him for sainthood. He supposes, that when you’ve shared a womb and a troubled childhood together, dealing with your twin brother’s inane nonsense isn’t the worst.

For a moment Bast struggled to comprehend what Toby was talking about, his head swimming with images of his top title being taken away from him as more time ticked on. In the corner of his eye he could see his character lose a life, red filling the screen along with the current player scores, and his fingers itched to grab the controller and keep playing. Hand twitching, his gaze turns back to Tobias "Grumpy Gus" Kipling, and Bast takes in the look of exasperation that etched his handsome features. For a moment Bast considers telling him that his face will get stuck like that if he keeps on looking so ruffled at the feathers, but before he could open his mouth the memory hits him.

Oh, that meeting.

Bast paused, gaze flickering between the screen and the pair of jeans in his hands and... well, Bast is kinda busy right now, so maybe if he gives Toby the puppy eyes they could stay home. He might have been the one to bring it up to Toby after coming across the forum, but things change! Plans change! That being said, Bast fixed a look upon Toby and he doesn't need twin telepathy to know that his message of let's-just-stay-home is being relayed quite well.

Of course, just because the message is being relayed, doesn’t mean that Toby is in anyway likely to agree with it. In fact, instead of a happy nod, Toby bites his lip and rolls his eyes. “Pants, Bast! We’re going in two minutes.” Toby replied, even as he was turning and making his way back into his bedroom to collect his wallet and phone. One might wonder why the pants-wearing twin didn’t merely go to the meeting on his own. Certainly, at the age of nineteen Toby was old enough to hold some independence from his twin. And yet, the shy boy didn’t quite find the idea of addressing a room of strangers a happy one. So, he would wait for his brother to dress and hope that they weren’t too late.

Grumbling at his brother's relentless response, Bast feels himself drooping in disappointment as he turns off his gaming console and begins to pull the pair of jeans on over his legs. In an instant the freedom and liberation that he once felt was stolen from him, the legs of the pants oppressing not only his appendages but his will, sovereignty, and birthright to uncovered limbs. Alas, Bast can only do so much to please the public and he doesn't want to get charged for indecency, nor does he want Toby to give him the 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' look because it rouses the worst feeling ever. With the pants now on, Bast meets one Toby by the front door and he sulks. "The pants are on. The console's off. My will to live on is dwindling. Let's go."

Shrugging into his coat, Toby fights back another urge to roll his eye and leads the way outside. Their little house quickly falls behind as the twins slog through melting snow towards the nearest bus stop. Despite Bast’s earlier protests, Toby is sure he’s appreciative of the extra layer between his bare skin and the cold outside, and as they wait for their transport Toby’s sure the temperature drops as the sun’s rays become masked by the surrounding buildings. The bus arrives late, the driver smells like old cigarettes, and an old woman glares at the two boys as they take a seat across from her, but at least it’s warmer in the clunking metal vehicle than outside.

Their stop leaves the pair with a little over a block to walk, which they do quickly to avoid the creeping cold and because Toby is well aware that they’re definitely late. “Is that it?” Toby asks, squinting up ahead at the ramshackle warehouse. The neglected building looked more like a death trap than the meeting place to a group of Gifted vigilantes. With the sun setting all the lower as they approach, Toby is even keener to get inside, yet he pauses momentarily as his eyes catch on what he thinks is a figure crotched on the roof. Toby blinks, wondering if it is merely the light playing tricks on his eyes, or his eyes playing tricks on his brain after straining for the whole day to read his book.

“Is that…” Toby starts to ask his twin, before noises from inside the building catch his attention instead. Shaking his head, Toby puts it down to tricks of the light and then heads towards the entrance.

It was Toby's questioning voice that had called Bast's attention, eyes flitting over to see that his gaze was fixated on the rooftops, and soon he was following Toby's line of sight to see... nothing in particular. "What is it?" Bast asks, only to receive a shake of the head as Toby ultimately brushed off his original statement in response. Shrugging, he pulls his hands out from the depths of his jacket pockets to reach for and open up what seemed to be the entrance of the warehouse; it was a bit worse for wear, he had to admit, but what else did you expect from this area of New York? Bast could accept the chipping paint and crumbling walls as aspects that added a little bit of rustic charm to the whole building, and rustic charm was totally cool.

Having decided to take the lead, Bast was able to enter the warehouse and survey the area before Toby could peer his head in, taking into account the small crowd of Gifted gatherers that stood within it. It couldn't have been more than a couple of dozen people, but still, it was more than Bast thought would show up to this meeting... all knowing the intentions. Perhaps a few Gifted were simply curious and wanted to know if anyone was going to do something about the recent murders, for peace of mind, and perhaps some were hot-blooded and eager to play hero, but there was a sense of nervousness and disarray that made the whole crowd seem unorganized. There was a particular group of individuals that everyone seemed to be fixated on- a couple of people Bast recognized instantly and wanted to pick his hand up and wave to as if he were a first grader waving hello to his mom after his first day of school. But there's a time and place for everything.

Suddenly, the appearance of a boy stepping up to the center of the group caught Bast's eye; he was a bit mousy in stature, small and skinny, someone who looked like his heart beat too fast for no real reason, and his facial features were soft and Asiatic. There was a blush high on his cheeks, giving a rosy hue to ivory cheeks, while there was a slight moment of silence as it looked as if the boy was attempting to build confidence. The voice that tumbled from his lips suited his meek, boyish appearance as it rung shaky and unsure. "I'm... Sunny. Sunny Ahn. A-and I'm from here. In New York." Sunny stuttered over the words and he couldn't maintain eye contact with anyone for very long. "I-I... my power isn't very... like your guys'. But I want to help."

A loud scoff sounds from a large, beefy-looking man who reminded Bast much like a bull in stature. "So what is it that you can do then? Get it out! We already have someone who turns into a fucking tea kettle." He motions to another guy standing near him. "Your power can't possibly be worse than that."

Toby’s eyes dart around the group as he enters, finding comfort in the sight of familiar faces – Frankie, Sam, Grace – while taking in the many new individuals who had come seeking justice, or merely come out of boredom. The twins are late enough that they had missed the earlier introductions, which apparently included an individual with the ability to turn into a tea kettle. Toby absently wondered if that was the only thing they could turn into. Yet, before he can contemplate it too much, his eyes are drawn up to witness a bulky young man growling at an obviously intimidated boy.

“Clouds.” The smaller boy mumbles, his cheeks turning a bright red at the scrutiny being directed his way. Sunny’s head ducks further at the scoff pulled from the bully’s mouth.

“Clouds?” Garth repeats, glancing around with an incredulous look on his face, “What, you mean you can create storms?”

“No, I-…” Sunny swallows, looking decidedly more nervous by the second, “I can just m-move them, slightly.”

“Oh, well that’s going to be useful against a fucking killer!” Garth spits in return. He looks ready to blow, anger seething from his bulky body as his small eyes glanced around the group. His gaze lands on the twins, his lips forming into a sneer as he spat, “What about you two? You gonna contribute a power that’s actually fucking useful? Or join this pathetic lot?”

Having all of the attention placed upon them without warning suddenly made Bast feel as if he was connecting with Sunny, the boy having turned pale at the bigger dude's response. Startled and rendered clammy at the large group of people who looked at the late pair with interest, it takes Bast a moment to collect himself before he can respond to being called to. Out of the corner of his eye, Toby was already making himself small, shoulders bunching and head ducking, in an obvious tell of his shy nature. "Uh." Bast manages to spit out. "I don't- I mean, Toby and I just came here looking for a good time and this atmosphere is pretty weird, dude." And alright, maybe that wasn't the right thing to say because a vein throbbed on the guy's forehead. Quickly, Bast rushes to add. "I'm Bast and the handsome devil beside me is my twin brother. I do computery things and he does magic."

So sue him if he's not good at introductions, but he didn't expect the guy to let out a frustrated growl and bark out a, "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"No, on the way here Toby said he made baby fireworks using his magic! He's pretty good, if I do say so myself." Bast's arm comes around Toby and he squeezes the other with pride.

Toby’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink as attention jumps between him, his twin, and the angry troll currently glaring daggers at the pair. He wishes he could take a step behind Bast and disappear, but at the evident anger in Garth’s eyes he feels he should make some sort of addition to Bast’s introduction. Anything that might make that anger evaporate slightly.

“I’m still learning, but I-… we want to help.” Comes Toby’s quiet reply. Apparently, however, they’re not the words that the red-faced man wants to hear.

“You want to help?” Anger surges from Garth Holden, and it’s all Toby can do to not take a step backwards, away from it. “I thought this meeting would bring together people with actual, fucking fighting powers! People who can do something about that killer. And instead I find little shits who can manipulate clouds or make baby fireworks. How the fuck does anyone think those powers are useful?”

“Hey asshole, we didn’t come here to judge everyone’s powers. Lay off.” Frankie’s voice was the first to stand against Garth’s rant, though it only caused the brute to round on her instead.

“Of course we fucking did! If someone doesn’t send the useless kids home, they’re going to end up getting themselves and anyone forced to rely on them killed.” Garth’s words ring out around the warehouse, and Toby can’t help but notice that a few of those gathered around – those individuals hanging around the outskirts of the room – were nodding in agreement, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan on being murdered because some little shit starts playing Disney princess instead of fighting, or can’t back me up because there are no fucking mirrors around.”

"I think we came at a bad time." Bast whispers to Toby at the explosion that was suddenly released out of the human equivalent to actual testosterone. His words are soon drowned out by Garth's impassioned statements, but it seemed as if Toby was too caught up by Garth's rant himself, leaving Bast's words unheard. The man began breathing heavily through his nose while he spoke, chest heaving, and a crazed look in his eyes sparked while he looked about the room.

"So does anyone here actually have a useful power? Or better yet, a fucking plan as to how we're going to take this guy down?" Was is just Bast, or was everyone's ears popping at the sound of the dude's voice? Nevertheless, it didn't really matter because at the questions, it seemed as if no one was willing to speak up, a silence settling within the warehouse while people began to look at one another. Did anyone actually have a plan? Did they have a power that might be useful to take down a serial killer? Those were the questions that danced among the members of the meeting. Biting his lip, the young, mousy boy, Sunny, looked to finally break the disturbed silence.

"I'm s-sure that if we all put our heads together and think we could-"

"Oh, what, so we have nothing!? Come on, we all gathered here because we're getting hurt. Some motherfucker is out there trying to kill us and-" Garth's bellowing voice is reeled back in when he stops abruptly to suck in a breath. His voice is lowered when he speaks next. "It's clear that this is all a joke. Clouds? Magic? Mirrors? What's the use of fighting when we don't have a God damn fighting chance. Listen, I don't know about you all, but it's pretty clear to me that we're in over our heads." There's a ripple of chatter that courses throughout the room, most muttering their agreement. "So what I say is that if you're smart, like me, you're going to pack up your things, walk out that door, and go home. Because if not we're going to risk our lives and never get anywhere." Garth looks around the room. "I'm leaving. And anyone else who knows that leaving this shit to the authorities might be the best thing after all can come with me."

And with that, Garth walked out the door. What a small group of rag-tag teenagers weren't expecting was that he'd take almost everyone with him, leaving a fraction of the original meeting on their own. The kids who still wanted to make a change.

At the age of seventeen some teenagers have already experienced the harsh truths of the world; the lies, deceit, and scandals. Others, however, remain cocooned within the comforting confines of childish naiveté, where trust is given to strangers with ease and happiness is bought with the simplest of devices. Stupidity has no implication here, for even the smartest individuals can be ignorant to the darker aspects of the world. Jack Lacey, seventeen years and two months old exactly, would easily be put in the latter category, that of blissful naiveté. In the case of the curly-haired boy, it is his upbringing and a kind nature which offers up such an image of childish innocence. Coddled and protected by a close-knit family, attending the same school for the entirety of his education, and barely being exposed to the harsher realities of the world have all combined to make Jack who he is today.

Of course, that innocence is perhaps the reason why he’s standing in a rusting warehouse at a meeting aiming to stop a mysterious killer. Simply put, Jack wants to help in any way he can. It may seem backwards and decidedly out of his comfort zone, but people were being killed and cruelty, to animals or humans, didn’t sit well with the young boy. Nor, for that matter, did Garth Holden’s tone.

Jack’s brows furrowed slightly at the perceived slight to himself and Frankie, yet he didn’t raise his voice in protest. Instead, Jack’s arm came up, his bright pink glove coming to press lightly against his lips as warm brown eyes followed Garth Holden’s path into the corner.

Truth be told he was worried. Had he done anything to upset the other boy? Surely not, they’d just met! And yet, the way Garth had called him a ‘Disney princess’, as if it were an insult, left Jack fairly certain that something Jack had done, had irritated the other. Jack’s eyes darted across at Frankie, and something in the young man’s gaze must have caught her attention, for she leaned in and told him softly,

“Don’t worry about him, Jack. He’s an ass.”

Jack nodded, though his eyes still fell back on the bulky young man. He watched, slightly stunned, as Garth’s anger once again overflowed, this time directed at another young man who, at first sight, seemed just as young as Jack. As Jack watched the exchange he grew certain that such confidence had to belong to someone older. Jack had never been a loud person. Shy wasn’t exactly the word, for he was never reluctant to talk. Rather, he merely preferred to listen and pipe up when a subject of particular interest caught his attention. Like felines, or canines, or really anything in the animal kingdom.

There were so many people in the warehouse, it wasn’t long before Jack’s attention was shifted away from the pair in the corner. Jack’s eyes, wide and excited, jumped from individual to individual as figures stepped forward, introduced themselves and became names and a power. They were an eclectic collection of young Gifted from almost every walk of life, some faces he recognised – Grace for one received an excited wave and a dimpled grin as she entered. Another young man, a red head who walked through a pillar without even blinking, also caught Jack’s eye. If Jack wasn’t mistaken, he had seen him at the veterinarian clinic a few times in the process of bringing in a wounded animal. Other faces were new to the boy, their powers sounding amazing even if they gave no demonstration.

Everyone seemed impressive, and it amazed Jack that most people had come in the pursuit of justice. Slowly, Jack’s mitten shifted from its position worrying against his mouth, and his frown turned into a dimpled smile as introductions continued. Another teenager, who would introduce himself as Sunny, came to stand beside Jack and together they shared a gleeful laugh as a newcomer turned into a teakettle. Then, Jack’s new acquaintance stepped forward, introducing himself with a nervous stutter. It was then that Garth decided to step back into the mix, showing clear derision not only for Sunny and his power – and how cool did Jack think Cloud manipulation was! – but for the vast majority of those gathered around. Sunny stepped back, cheeks a deep red, eyes downcast as a result of Garth’s derision.

“I think your power sounds great.” Jack mumbles to the other boy.

Sunny smiles slightly, his eyes taking on a curious spark as he whispers back, “Yours does too. Can you really talk to animals?”

Jack nods, about to continue their talk before Garth’s loud voice drowned him out. Sunny stepped forward, showing far more bravery than many might give him credit for as he suggested that they could put their heads together to come up with a plan. Garth didn’t appear to appreciate Sunny’s advice, for the next minute he was stalking out of the warehouse with at least half of those gathered around. Jack watched with worried eyes, though his own feet made no move to follow. He was here to help, and he had every confidence in those gathered around that together they could come up with some plan to find and stop this killer.

The awkward tension that had been left in Garth’s place didn’t dissipate quickly, and Jack’s mitten was once again pressing against his mouth in a clear sign of worry. Then several things happened in quick succession. A loud creaking and the sudden shower of small roof particles preceded the arrival – fall – of a girl into the middle of the room. Her scream echoed around the cavernous space moments before an abnormal blast of wind cushioned her downward acceleration. Eyes wide in shock, Jack’s gaze flicked up to the roof and the hole that she had apparently fallen through, before landing back on the girl in question.

Kina was her name, and that was all the information provided before two more arrivals once again diverted attention. Jack’s first thought was that they too had fallen from the roof, at least until he looked up and saw the odd shape hovering in the middle of the warehouse space. It vanished after the second figure fell through, leaving Jack wondering if it had anything to do with one of their powers. The girl was first up, her gaze taking its time to inspect each member of the party. Jack’s own gaze in turn looked on curiously at the new three members. Unlike Kina, both of the new arrivals were dressed for something much fancier than this meeting. A floor length dress certainly seemed like an odd garment to wear to a dirty warehouse, not to mention the suit the boy was in.

Jack hadn’t even gotten his thoughts straight when Scott, the boy who Jack recognised from the vets, responded to the latest arrival with clear sarcasm. Even Jack, who sometimes missed sarcasm, couldn’t mistake the comment for anything else. His eyes darted back to the new pair to see how they’d respond, but all that was uttered from the pair was a clear display of confusion from the male.

Casper, whose smirk indicated that he found all of this very amusing, spoke out next, “I think you two might have dropped into the wrong party. Like Red said, we’re all about to go home for milk and cookies.” Casper's eyes fell slowly down each of the pair, noting and admiring clothing and bodies, while a grin spread across his face. “Though, seems you’re a far way from your own homes, so you’re welcome to come to mine.” Casper didn’t wink, but the implication behind his invitation was clear enough without it. Whether he was joking or serious was another matter not so easily discerned.

Jack, for his part, was more concerned that no one had yet answered the male's questions. In an attempt to be helpful, and lowering his mitten so that his words wouldn’t be muffled, he offered, “You’re at the warehouse.” The exact address escaped him, which shouldn’t surprise anyone who knew that he had been partially led here by a dog named Diggles. “We’re trying to stop the serial killer.” Jack continued, perhaps missing the fact that the last question was directed towards the girl. Eyes turned to look at him, and Jack had to hold his hands behind his back to stop himself from covering his mouth again. “The-… the police aren’t doing anything, so we- we’re trying to help.”

Beside Jack, Frankie stepped forward to support him, her voice filling the space, “The killer that has been targeting Gifted youth and Gifted homeless. We’re here to figure out some way to stop the death, because so far the police have refused to take it seriously.” Her gaze flicked around the standing group, the numbers severely diminished since Garth’s exit, “We may not have a plan yet, but like Sunny said, we have enough heads here that I don’t doubt we’ll be able to come up with something. Even if we’re just able to prove to the police that this is a real case, we’ll have done something.” Her eyes turned back to the three new entrants, “So, if you guys are planning on hanging around, how about you introduce yourselves?”

“Or we could skip introductions and get right to the good stuff.” Casper suggested with his usual grin. When Frankie huffed a sigh of exasperation and rolled her eyes in his direction, Casper held up his hands and added with an innocent bat of his eyelashes, “I only meant, show us your powers.”

So, apparently Scott had a new nickname. Red, as dubbed by Casper. Being familiar with the whole situation already, that was the only thing he really paid any attention to when other people were debriefing the new arrivals. The boy didn't seem quite as irritating as the girl, but even his mannerisms radiated money. He doubted they'd ever even walked past a homeless shelter.

The boy's ability, though, did catch his attention. Fear manipulation. He was somebody they needed on their side- because the thought of working against him was... Well, terrifying. The boy didn't seem particularly proud of it, either. For a moment, Scott sees past the fancy suit and the eloquent words. For a second, there was something more to Atticus- and then it disappeared as he mentioned a previous engagement. Scott's expression shifted from whatever it had been, back to his scowl. Good to know where Atticus's priorities lay.

And now he was quoting famous authors Scott hadn't even heard of. Hopefully, he had more important engagements because Scott wasn't entirely sure he could stand the pretentious behaviour for too long. He then went on to overly simplify the situation, something that Scott could no longer hold his tongue about.

"And enlighten me, sir, on how exactly we are to obtain that information. Should we go around knocking on doors and asking those who answer? Or, how about this, should we ask the police to kindly share their information with us?" He asked, stepping forward and walking towards Atticus, momentarily distracted enough to forget that he was in a room of strangers. Or, well, mostly strangers. He was just hoping that Grace would have his back if anything was to happen.

"And, besides, I'd be willing to bet that witnesses are few and far between. People don't notice u- People don't notice homeless people. Gifted or not. Potential murder victims or not." Had anyone picked up on his slip? Hopefully not. "They're always just there. Even when they talk to people, ask them for help or even just saying hello, they're invisible. Homeless people are attacked all the time, and you don't hear about it. The police don't care about them. The general population doesn't care all that much. If people really cared about the homeless people, the homeless Gifted, don't you think that there would be more general outrage? That things would have been done already?" He asked. "There was a physical assault on a group of homeless Gifted teenagers a few years ago. At least one person was killed." He swallowed, forcing himself to keep calm and to maintain his mask. He sure as hell wasn't exposing his life story to these people. Exposing his back was bad enough. "The police didn't care. They said they'd look into it. They didn't. Did you even hear about that?" He asked, but he didn't wait for any answers.

"If we want information, we're going to have to steal it. We don't even know if the cops took that much information. But they won't give it to us, and the general public won't remember. Any physical evidence will have been logged by the cops and destroyed by this point. Any blood, fingerprints, or anything like that will long have been washed away. The only information available is in some office somewhere. If anyone else has any ideas, I'd love to hear them," he said, somehow making it sound like a genuine question. He knew that they were just trying to help, but... The only reason he wasn't still on the streets or even dead was because he'd gotten lucky. In a different set of circumstances, he could have been one of the victims, or living in fear of being one of the victims. And in that situation, he would sure as hell be hoping that the people trying to help would be going about it in the right way.

If Toby thought his entrance, and the subsequent exit of Garth Holden and well over half of those gathered in the warehouse, was dramatic, it was only because he had yet to witness not one, but three individuals fall from the sky. Well, technically one of the newest arrivals fell from the sky, or roof, while the other two came through some kind of portal. If Toby had any doubt that this was a meeting for Gifted youth, it was well and truly squashed at that. Toby's earlier confusion regarding the figure on the roof was also solved, his gaze holding for a moment with the girl - Kina - who had fallen first.

As others in the group sought to find out who these newcomers were, while one of the new arrivals apparently attempted to find out where he was, Toby took the time to inspect those that still remained. He recognised several of them of course, Frankie and Sam, Grace, and their familiar faces eased the nerves that tended to gather when Toby was pushed into a new situation with strangers. Bast, standing beside Toby, was a welcome presence too.

The twins missed the majority of the introductions, but Toby learns one new name as Atticus Zhao speaks his name. Atticus' display of his powers is more than a little... unsettling. Toby watches quietly, anticipation and confusion growing as first nothing happens, and then suddenly Sunny reacts. Toby feels his heart go out to the younger boy, yet he can only watch as Sunny stumbles from his place standing in the circle and hastily begins thumping on the warehouse's rusting walls. Sunny's screams echo around the otherwise silent room, the thuds of his fists making dull thumps too. And then he stopped, confusion apparently setting in as Sunny's fear vanishes.

Toby watches both Sunny and Atticus as the latter reveals that his power is linked to panic and fear. That much was obvious from his display, even though Sunny doesn't appear to know that he just made a mad dash for an exit a few minutes ago. Toby wraps his arms around himself, repressing a shudder as he thinks what he would see if his worst fears were realised. He fights the urge to take a step closer to his twin, instead distracting himself as Atticus continues to talk.

Toby thinks the young man's suggestions show some merit, even if how they were ever going to find any clues was beyond Toby. It was one thing to hear rumours of the killer, to know the police were brushing it off, and then it was another thing entirely to find any potentially witnesses, discover clues, and connect the dots. At least, that was Toby's opinion. Personally, he would feel as if he were drowning if forced to do any of this alone. He guessed that was the advantage of numbers, they could pool their talents and resources to do things they might not be able to achieve alone... Toby just hoped that he had something to offer as help.

Toby's gaze finds another boy, longer red hair, passion shining in his eyes as he questions Atticus' suggestion. He offers his own alternative, to steal the information. Toby gulps, a growing feeling of uselessness overwhelming him. He couldn't steal anything, not because of a particularly strict moral code - though stealing did make him uncomfortable for that reason too - but because Toby knew he'd be more likely to get everyone arrested than sneak in and out of a police station escaping detection.

"We need to do both." Comes Frankie's reply, her voice confident despite her own uncertainty with what she was about to suggest. Toby had always admired that confidence, as he had both admired (and cursed) his brother's. "We need whatever the police have, and we need whatever they've missed. We need to figure out... I don't know, the killer's patterns, if there's somewhere they usually hunt. For fuck's sake, what he even does with the bodies. Anything."

"Stealing police information shouldn't be that hard." Frankie's twin, Sam, adds. The male de Vries rests his arm on his sister's shoulder and flaps his hand from Casper to Scott. "Not when we have guys who can turn invisible and walk through walls." Sam's gaze flicks to the well-dressed female who had fallen through the odd portal, "Or when we have whatever that was." he adds, waving his hand next at where the portal had been.

"Yeah, 'cept I can't turn anyone else invisible. And police stations usually have cameras and passwords and shit." Casper pipes up, grinning as he adds "I'm too pretty to go to jail."

Toby's gaze met Frankie's across the circle and he knew without words that they were both thinking the same thing, that Frankie, technically, could replicate both of the powers and slip in and out of the police station without being noticed... if she knew how to control her power. Frankie gave a small shrug, as if telling Toby she wished she could do more. More than once the friends had commiserated together over their lack of control of their powers. Frankie always told Toby that he'd get it, eventually, but the magician could tell that right now Frankie was feeling frustrated that she couldn't do more too.

Gulping back more nerves and shoving shaking hands into his pockets, Toby takes a tentative step forward. "Maybe..." Toby began, hesitating slightly as eyes fell on him. He can feel Casper's gaze too, and that more than anything has Toby nervous. "Maybe some of us... we aren't all... I mean, maybe for those of us who can't control their powers that well, like me... maybe we could set up some kind of practice. I... I want to help, but I need more practice." Toby's words trailed off, his eyes trained on a spot on the floor rather than meet anyone's eye.

"Good idea, man." Comes Sam's words of encouragement, before a teasing tone sneaks into his words, "I know Frankie definitely needs all the help she can get."

"Hey!" Frankie protests. Toby looks up in time to see Sam give his sister a shrug and a wide grin. Frankie rolls her eyes, shakes off Sam's arm and adds a moment later, still grudgingly, "He's not wrong. I do need some training."

Perhaps boosted by this partial acceptance of his idea, Toby finds himself offering up another, "And maybe... Maybe Bast you could look into the police records? Or... or Grace you could freeze time and if someone is fast they could run in...?" Toby shrugs his shoulders and glances around at the group. He didn't hear what half of them could do, but he was sure that together they would be able to figure it out. Somehow. They had to, or risk letting this killer continue picking people off.

Maria watched with exasperation as the crowd withered away. Her teeth gritted in annoyance, before forfeiting with a sigh. Damn. Well, if they were that easily convinced to scram, I doubt they'd be much help, anyway. Not an inspiring thought, nor much of a consolation, really, but it was all she could think of to boost her own dwindling morale.

She looked over who was left with growing uncertainty, her loyalty to the 'cause' slipping as she noted who was still present. Oh, thank God. We still have Bambi and the teakettle-

Then a girl fell through the ceiling. And then two more teenagers fell out of a swirling, glowing... thing. Maria wasn't entirely sure what one's typical reaction would be for such occurrences, but everyone else seemed to take it all rather well. Perhaps she should have expected that; this was literally a meeting for super-powered New Yorkians... they'd all likely seen a hell of a lot weirder.

The arrivals added a sense of courage to the air, at least until the young man, Atticus, revealed his ability. Then suddenly, everyone was uncomfortable again. He made up for it, though, by quoting the world's most depressing author. "As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles." The Murders in the Rue Morgue... at least the guy's got a sense of humor.

She liked a bit of bleak irony here and there, to take the edge of the dully morbid. Which this situation definitely was.

A small smirk touched her lips as the phasing redhead snapped back at Atticus' suggestions. Her eyebrow quirked at his little stumble, unnoticed by the majority of the others. Some skeletons in the closet there, I see.

"Maybe some of us... we aren't all... I mean, maybe for those of us who can't control their powers that well, like me... maybe we could set up some kind of practice. I... I want to help, but I need more practice."

Maria looked to the boy that had spoken. He was quieter, softer, than most of the others that made up their little group. His shyness was endearing, but his idea was actually a rather good one. She could do with a little practice. Practice that didn't involve screwing over well-off assholes.

"And maybe... Maybe Bast you could look into the police records? Or... or Grace you could freeze time and if someone is fast they could run in...?"

Maria frowned slightly, and with a sudden thought, turned to look at the tea kettle still settled near the edge of the group. She nudged it with the toe of her boot. "Or, Mrs Potts does people as well as he does kitchen appliances..." He could just walk in, pick out whatever he wants from the police records, ask a few questions while he's there, and walk out.

Ah, this was better. The more illegal side of the issue -the lying and cheating and rule-breaking. To put it simply, Maria had more... experience, in this particular area.