The Runaways Original

Modern Day New York


a part of The Runaways Original, by RainbowMotorcycles.


RainbowMotorcycles holds sovereignty over Modern Day New York, giving them the ability to make limited changes.
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Modern Day New York is a part of The Runaways Original.

8 Characters Here

Jamie Panacelli [0] "Uhm... I'm really no good at introductions"
Daj "Arakune" Tamone [0] "Why not!"
Wale Hasamos [0] Wale a man struggling with various issues in life from religion to his powers.
Jason Shepherd [0] "Of all the abilities one could be born with..."
Lilia Marie Ambrose [0] "if i die young..."
Alex Night [0] "Call me that name and you go boom!"

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Character Portrait: Mira Brown

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Mira finally learned what happened to her mother and although she understood who she was, the origins of her powers remained a mystery. Her grandparents didn’t know anything, even when Lucy tried to tell them, they were dismissive. Only one person had the answers, her father.

“Mama, where is my father now?”

“I supposed I no longer can prohibit you from him. And something tells me you are going to look for him,” replied Anita. “Your father lives in California.”

Mira’s grandmother walked out of the room and returned with a shoe box. She placed the box next to Mira. And Mira removed the lid, inside she found unopened letters directed to her, letters from her father, some dating back ten years, and others as recent as last week.

“Your father has written to you one letter a month since you was three years old. I ripped and threw away the first letters, I was angry, but through the years I kept some for you. I always knew one day you would have questions, questions I can’t answer. Perhaps in those letters you can find the answers. But you have to promise me that you will never forget Jeffry killed your mother. I’ve never been wrong about that. Promise me?” demanded Anita.
“I promise,” said Mira.

Mira sat alone in the room. She stared at the letters in the box, afraid of what they contained, for inside were the written words of her father, the letters he wrote since she was three years old, the pleads of a father, desperate to remain a part of his little girl’s life, the written thoughts of a stranger, the penitent confession of a murderer, the secrets of the past, typically carried by the wind through the years, locked away in a box.
She grabbed the last letter, dated from a week ago and read the address:

Jeffry Stern
610 W Ash St
Suite 1200
San Diego, CA 92101

She walked over to the window were the sun shined bright over the Lower East Side skyline, which opened to the Hudson River and Williamsburg bridge and met Brooklyn. She bit the lower part of her lips as her eyes read the address again. The sun rays felt warm against her tense face. And she heard the cold howling winds of winter rush past the window. Did she he have the nerve, could she do it?

There was no second thought, she rushed to grab a travel bag, a carry on, and picked a mix of clothing from the closet and dresser, and folded them into the bag, a pair of summer flats, sneakers, and even strapless stiletto sandals next, and last a small cosmetics bag and iPad, all carefully stuffed in the travel bag. A smiled crossed her face, the thought of going to California excited her. She walked back to the closet and pushed to the side several storage containers, searching on the left wall she pulled off a hidden wooded panel, inside was a peanut butter jar, and inside the jar was a stack of cash. She counted the money, a couple of hundred dollars, but not enough to get her to California.

Anita was back at her sowing machine, her foot pressing against the pedal, and her hands carefully guided the fabric under the needle. Mira walked past her into the kitchen. She knew her grandmother kept the purse in the kitchen, and there it was on the kitchen table, in the usual spot next to the sugar bowl, napkin holder, and salt and pepper shakers. She grabbed it and opened it, pulled out a credit card, and set it back on the table.

“What are you doing?” asked Joshua.

Mira was startled. Her grandfather falls backwards and lays cataleptic on the kitchen floor, after a spontaneous effect of her power hurled a toaster oven at him, hitting him on the head. She didn’t know he’d come home. The sowing machine stopped. She was suddenly at a loss. Frighten. Was he dead, did she kill him? The silence in the room was palpable and almost audible. Then the sowing machine started up again.

Mira made her way back to her room and grabbed her bags. She grabbed the letters in the shoe box and tossed them in the travel bag, almost crushing them, and hastily sneaked past her grandmother and exit the apartment. She didn’t bother to wait for the elevator and ran down the stairwells, jumping several steps at a time. Once outside she stopped a cab.

“Where to?” asked the Middle Eastern cab driver.

“Grand Central Station.”