entrancelogs | i'm hardly capable of half the damage that i would like to do [open]

Entry tags:

i'm hardly capable of half the damage that i would like to do [open]

Who: Alex Kralie, some closed starters, and YOU
Where: All around the island of Genosha
When: August 5th - August 9th
Rating: Let's say PG-13 for general violence, colorful language, and trauma
Summary: Alex Kralie is one human attempting to tear down a society built for mutants. This is sure to go well. I'll match any format, brackets or prose!
The Story:

open to mutants; but you know i'm too full of shit to think this through

A man's been following you for a the past thirty minutes to an hour. He's been crossing every street you have, passing every establishment, stayed within a good thirty-yard radius of you this whole while. He keeps his hands in his pockets, his hood up over his features, his head low. Unobtrusive, except for the whole part where he's following you.

Maybe it's nothing. He looks normal. If he's a mutant, he's not an obvious one. He hasn't said anything to draw attention to himself or to you. All in all, he's been pretty harmless. So there's no cause to worry. Right?

Only the next time you look over your shoulder, the next time you wonder where he might be, you'll find he isn't behind you anymore.

Instead, he's walking toward you at a brisk pace, his stride hard and purposeful. There's a glint of something in his hand. A gun, or a knife, or some other weapon. He brings it up rapidly, his intent clear and telegraphed.

You can run, or fight, or let it be. But this man is here to kill you, and he's not leaving until either you're dead or his advantage is lost.

[ooc: Alex is intent on killing any mutants he comes across. He shouldn't die since he's scheduled to kill someone at the end of the event, but feel free to kick his ass if you like! Or he can kill you, either way.]

open to humans; i'm but a boy just like the rest of these thieves

A grimy office set up in some basement isn't the ideal living situation for anyone, but that's inconsequential. There's stacks of files, photographs pinned to his walls, papers with lines upon lines of names. Some of them are crossed out. Most aren't.

The Resistance isn't overly inclined to work with him. Alex clicks his tongue between his teeth, annoyed. That's a laugh. No, actually, it's not. It's bullshit is what it is.

He slips outside, stumping across streets and navigating back alleyways. He's had to lay low lately. Turns out committing acts of terrorism against mutants lands you on some higher-ups' watch lists, who knew? But he's got to stay on his feet somehow, and any humans sympathetic to the Resistance and any like-minded individuals are his best bet. He's not calling for charity here; he's got money, if only a little, and he can pay them back in favors - nothing's too unsavory for him. Whatever someone might require from him as payment, he's probably done worse for far less.

You might've heard of the elusive Alex Kralie, an anti-mutant extremist who can boast such achievements as attempted assassinations and bombings of mutants and mutant establishments. Maybe he comes to you in need of food or weaponry, offering his services in exchange. He's got no moral quandaries; he'll do whatever it is you need him to do, no matter how morally corrupt or inelegant. But if you turn him aside, think his methods too brutal - well, he won't blame you. He's on your side, after all. He's a human, just like you. Maybe you don't see it yet, but he's doing this for your own good. For the good of everyone.

Just help him out this once, and he'll never come to you for a favor again.

Threaded | Flat

Today he strikes a significant blow against the mutant society, the very highest echelons of that selective elite. The pomp and fanfare that constantly circulates around mutantkind's biggest current celebrity makes him laughably easy to track. Bland tabloids and bombastic headlines follow him wherever he treads, every performance a spectacle, every public appearance a scrambling event.

The latest file is extracted from the pile and carded through. It's stuffed to bursting with only the most critical information, reaped from every possible source, as the mutant in question (Mettaton, thinks Kralie snidely, don't make him laugh) has never exactly been careful about what personal information he releases for public consumption. It's a hilariously simple job to pin down his current location. There's a performance at one of those decked-out venues, something appropriately high-end with all the glitz and glamour and eye-catching sameness that comprises all of the mutant celebrity's performances. The backstage area is simple enough to get into - he had only to strangle a couple stagehands and bodyguards into unconsciousness, or possibly death if he didn't gauge his timing quite right, but there's a saying about omelettes and eggs, so he accepts their deaths as collateral, and stores the bodies in lockers and underneath shelves and boxes.

The pounding of drums and heavy bass vibrates beneath Kralie's feet as he navigates through greenrooms, eyes sliding past the assorted merchandise and miscellany with casual disdain.

As the performance winds to a close, Kralie positions himself by the stage exit. Mettaton will come through any moment, and then he'll take care of him as required. He removes the gun from his pocket, removes the magazine, counts out the bullets, and snaps the clip back into the place with the click of aligning locks and pins. He cocks the pistol, backs up, and prepares to take aim and fire in quick succession.

She wasn't, strictly speaking, a target. His target for the day had been one Philip LaFresque, but he didn't mind the detour once he spied her. The tattoos were a dead giveaway.

Kralie never leaves the house without a weapon. He has a switchblade in his pocket, but more efficient would be the gun he slowly withdraws from where it's been tucked near his waistband. They're on some public street, and it wouldn't do to make a display of this. That would simply aggravate human-mutant relations further.

So he waits for her to turn into an alleyway, a quieter place, an emptier place, anything. And then he raises the gun.

She always tries to keep a low profile when she's out and about- you can't exactly be public with the whole 'Hey, I'm working highly with a big resistance' sort of deal, but she knows she's got enemies on her back, mutants who would much rather see her taken out. Luckily, she's got some good connections, tech to pass for what she's not born with, until she can end this stupid war.

But she can see him trailing her, tries to place him as she moves. He looks familiar- she feels like she's seen his face somewhere before. Resistance, maybe? Trying to catch up and pass on some intel? Or a mutant who knows too much about her, someone's she's tangled with before?

Shepard snaps back when she realizes he's not following her anymore, and then when he approaches, she knows- Kralie. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Doesn't work close enough with the resistance to have seen her enough. Mutant hunter. So flipping on the cloak would be the opposite of help. She's gotta take this into her own hands.

... Quite literally, because she steels herself, sucks in a breath, and grabs forward for his wrists, aiming to disarm him and hopefully get the chance to talk him down the rest of the way.

Telepathy is invasive.

River's so glad to be taught how to control her mutant powers, so very glad that she can potentially avoid ever using them again. So when she sees the same man twice in one day, and her paranoia begins to eat at her, she can't let herself read his mind. She can't resort to that instantly. She has to be good. She has to be good.

But god, is it hard to stop a reflex. She hurries away, trying to focus on her own thoughts like her teachers instructed her. Scared. Scared. She shuffles through populated areas, where a slip and an errant thought entering her brain could be anyone's, until she eventually grows tired and moves away from the people and to solitude again. Safe. She's good, she's good.

A foreign word enters her mind -- 'mutant' -- and she whirls around to find the same man, knife in hand, so near...

Without thinking, a combat boot comes up and aims at the armed hand to deflect the knife, leg coming up straight and graceful as if she's simply dancing ballet.

[ooc: hi zero im late to the event you can kill river though]

Truth be told, Cami doesn't like using her power. There's something inherently wrong with forcing people to suddenly be at peace with something that enrages them, fills them with anger. The humans especially have justification for their frustrations, and Cami sympathizes with their blight. There is a better way for all of them to live, together, equal regardless of genetics.

Yet the optimism of her beliefs doesn't come paired with foolish naivety. She sees the scarce light reflect off something, sees his hand rise with clear intent.

Whatever rage, whatever frustration and hatred fuels this attack, should drain away the moment he steps within her sphere of influence. Unless he has found a way to guard his mind, just before he reaches her Alex should be overcome by a sense of peace, strong enough to will away his reason for attack.

But just in case it doesn't, Cami's hand slips into her bag, even as she speaks.

"Who are you?"

[and on one particular day, he gets followed... not particularly well, of course. his shadow is a small girl who can't be older than sixteen wearing a green pencil skirt and jacket combo like she's trying to look older and the awkward way she carries herself just shows she's a kid playing dress-up.

she has done this a hundred times, it seems. they tell you not to feed stray dogs, because the dogs stick around, but no one ever said anything about the people who give the hand-outs following you afterwards. Peridot's family is rich and supremely anti-mutant (and also mostly dead, leaving this little nerdy brat as the sole heir).

the exchange rate for funding some of his more lucrative projects and not thinking too much about the moral ramifications is that she doesn't let go. she fancies herself her own kind of extremist. what she is a beta programmer with a lot of money.

but she's also persistent.]

Stop walking so fast. I can't keep up. [and without missing a beat:] Ugh! Did you hear that announcement from the Queen the other day? One of these days, I'm gonna- [she kicks at a can brutally. it hits the side of the alley, ricochets, and hits a trashcan, making a satisfying amount of racket.]

Edited 2016-08-07 23:32 (UTC)

Bruce's powers may only work by touch, but his senses are sharp nonetheless, have always been.

Working in the Mutant District but living in a building complex that's almost exclusively taken up by human residents, this means he ends up walking for quite a long way from work to home every day, and passing by all sorts of neighborhoods in the process, starting on the rich streets and avenues where the buildings are state of the art when it comes to architecture, design and functionality, and ending on the run-down apartment blocks that side the poorly paved streets where the lowest and poorest humans live. Naturally Bruce is far from popular here, but he also keeps largely to himself, so for the most part, he's been left alone.

That was before, though; with growing tensions on both sides, he's started to get a lot more unwanted attention, and tonight, it's only the most recent of the times he's been tailed late in the day while he's on his way home.

He tries not to give into his growing paranoia at first, but when nearly half an hour passes and he keeps hearing the same steps, at the same pace, belonging to the same person, he starts to think that his paranoia is well-founded. Because it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you, and in this case it does seem that someone's out to get him.

He even takes a few unnecessary turns, rounding a couple of blocks purposefully just to see if the person would still follow him. When they do, that makes it obvious he's being tailed, and eventually he stops and turns around, ready to face this person.

But there's no one there. He's sure— they were there moments ago. They were. Which is why there's no relief when Bruce sees no one, only more worry and fear, and he turns around on the deserted street to see where they went, only to suddenly spot the young man coming right at him, something shining in his hand.

Bruce doesn't even have the time to make out what it is until he lifts up his hands to defend himself and the blade of the small knife cuts the skin of his palm. He winces at the shock more than the pain, the same injured hand curling around the man's wrist and twisting his arm around to his back in a strong hold meant to disarm him without causing too great an injury.

Threaded | Flat

closed to mettaton and alphys; august 6th; and i borrow phrases from dusty, faded, record sleeves

closed to jane doe; august 7th; i'm just like me, so who the hell are you?

mutant prompt for misunderstandings :V

mutant

mutants :D

human

mutant