Testing, Testing, 1, 2, 3

A shimmer, like a moment of bad reception on an old TV, and they’re closer. Their expression is practically the opposite of hers, their dull, blank stare contrasting her snarl. They’re still in the way of her gun, but with a flash of green light they shift to the side, another figure next to them. This one is much more familiar, the same little menace who’d carved her up last time. Oh she was going to enjoy this. Fate’s aim drifted over to Lark, a pout forming on her face as they spoke.

“So rude, Lark. You should consider yourself lucky. Most people meet me once and forget. You’re lucky enough to meet me twice. Well, maybe. Let’s see how this fucks with things.”
The pout shifted to a smirk as Fate’s finger squeezed on the trigger. An effervescent sour and sweet smell filled the air, black smoke and crimson light rolling out of the revolver as a glowing red projectile launched itself at Lark. Just before it hit, however, the projectile split into four, and wrapped around them, looking to strike at the younger figure behind them. The shots splashed against the floor as the emerald light flashed and the younger Lark had disappeared.

“Well shit. Guess that’s child murder out of the picture. Can’t we just do that? It’d be so much easier.”
Fate laughed as the chamber spun, another bullet ready.
“I’ve got some special ones. I can make it quick.”
She knew they wouldn’t take it. Good. She wanted things to be interesting. Lark lashed out, shuriken filling their fingers. Their expression finally shifts into a grin, as hollow as hers is malicious. Fate squeezed the trigger three more times, not bothering to aim as she dropped to the floor, the wide array of shurikens still managing to graze her in several places. Crimson darts swirl through the air, eleven in total, streaking towards Lark regardless of Fate’s aim.

Her deck was nearby, as always, she could quickly use it, get the Emperor up for some protection against the shurikens. Then she’d only need to deal with a time traveler. But that was the boring way out. This was much more exciting.
 
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Himiko didn’t fail to notice that the receptionist needed to look twice at Masami’s ID, while hers simply needed a single glance. No doubt because she actually looked the part of someone who belonged in DDC, whereas Masami should be dozing in the back of a classroom somewhere. She beamed at the receptionist as she stood and led them down the hallway to their training room.

"Thank you!" Himiko bubbled, eagerly stepping inside the training room, only slightly annoyed that she had to go after Masami. “I will, if you don’t mind.”

Himiko untucked the prism necklace from her shirt and brought it to her lips before letting it fall back down. Small splashes of rainbow clung to her lips and fingertips, spreading out from where the necklace fell against her chest. She ran her hands up over her face, bright blue skin trailing in their wake. They ran through her hair, shortening it and filling it with color before flicking the rest out.

“Iris.” she introduced herself with a little bow, basking in the glow of her transformation. She didn’t have the wings out yet, those would come later.

“Go ahead,” Iris gestured towards Masami. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
 

Janis was mortified. She felt a flush creep into her cheeks as her wife’s familiar made a giant robotic heart and blew her a kiss. Fortunately she didn’t have a ton of time to be embarrassed as the Circle was cast, the swirling fog of the Nightmare solidifying into a thick sludge that coalesced further into gross shapes. She registered the Salamanders and winced as the piercing crow of the Cockatrice reached her ears.

The others were already springing into action, and Janis wasn’t going to let herself be caught gawking. She pressed a few buttons on her console and grinned to herself as music started filtering in through some speakers she’d put up. They weren’t exactly regulation, but if they thought she’d be able to kick Nightmare ass without something playing, they were sorely mistaken.

As she felt the drums and guitar fill the space, a grin crept on Janis’s face as she pushed Medusa forward. Aphrodite and Brig appeared to be handling the Salamanders, with her wife providing backup. That was good, as long as Meena was safe things would be a lot easier.

“I’ve got the other leg!” Medusa surged forward, skirting the edge of the fight before abruptly shifting focus, darting in to mirror Echo, slashing at the Cockatrice’s other ankle. Any of her hair snakes that got in range lashed out too, intent on making this thing sluggish and slow. They’d show this fucking overgrown chicken not to mess with them.
 


It was an easy job. Well, easy was relative in their line of work. Spork had finally agreed to some simple jobs once she’d been deemed “death-free” a few weeks after the incident. She hadn’t argued with them like that in a while, but with things smoothed over, Mari had found a couple jobs to help them both ease back into things. While they didn’t scratch that problem-solving itch that was the whole reason she did this work, it helped to prove to Spork that she was fine.

It also helped prove to her that their teamwork was still solid. That had been her biggest worry since their argument, that some part of their bond had been irrevocably severed, that she and Spork had become a pair of mismatched gears, grinding and grating against each other before one of them broke. Mari had been relieved to have that question answered on their first job back, reassuring her that they were just as effective a pair as they always had been.

Eventually Mari had figured they’d be ready for something a little more complicated. She’d floated the idea to Spork, perhaps downplaying a bit of the complexity, but dammit she needed something to challenge her mentally, otherwise this was just shooting people for money. They’d agreed, once she’d told them about some of the work their target had been doing, and unfortunately that’s what led them to be in this situation.

It was supposed to be an easy job.

The information had been straightforward: military tech was being smuggled into the city by an unknown party, and there was currently a stockpile in one of the city’s seemingly endless abandoned warehouses. Mari had received the address and scouted the area, both in the light of day and the dark of night. Security presence didn’t seem to change with the time of day, but based on the numbers she saw coming and going, it shouldn’t have been a problem.

Someone had fucked with her plan. Now they probably didn’t know it, being the asshole of a vigilante they probably were, but something had spooked the targets and resistance inside had been a lot heavier than expected. They’d attempted to slip through a side entrance after taking care of the exterior guards and had found another pair waiting for them. After that it hadn’t taken long for the alarm to be raised. She’d gotten separated from Shiba at some point, although Kitsune could tell they were still alive from the quips and sounds of violent melee combat. At her last glance, they’d been in their element, gauntlets dripping with red, darting from cover to cover, and just being a general menace.

The sound of shots ripping through the air shoved a cold dagger into Kitsune’s heart. “Shiba, status.” She growled, gaze flicking to the vitals display she had running. They were still going, which meant they weren’t dead, but they could be in the process. Shiba’s response took too long, but was no less relieving when she heard it. The sharp crack of gunpowder now added to the general din that filled the space, and Kitsune knew that a single well-placed shot could- no.

Focus.

Kitsune felt the world around her slow for a moment. State, analyze, plan, execute. Targets: gunmen. A quick scan of the space and she found them, perched on the catwalks up above, raining lead down on her and Shiba. Analysis: they could see almost the whole space, and Shiba had been the one carving a trail of red while Kitsune had picked off some of the targets that had been too far off the path. She inhaled sharply as it clicked in her brain, Kitsune’s blood turning to ice.

Shiba was their primary target.

Plan: change that. Kitsune ducked down behind her stack of crates, reloading her pistol and pulling a few components out of her pouches. A handful of moments later (every second was precious why was she wasting time she had to move dammit) and Kitsune held a rifle in her hands. Spork’s jokes about her shit throwing skills echoed in her head as she pulled out a flashbang, taken from Shiba’s stockpile when they weren’t looking, activated it, and tossed it behind her, over the crates, and into the unknown.

The deafening bang drowned out all other noise, and through the ringing Kitsune couldn’t hear the crack of gunshots. That was her cue. She darted out from behind cover, lined up her first shot, and squeezed the trigger. A gunman fell, she moved to another pile of crates. The sound of bullets smashing into the concrete where she’d been before signalled that the gunmen had recovered their sight. That was fine, it had gotten their attention. She ducked out again, took another shot, and took cover in a new spot. Move, shoot, move, shoot. She got into a rhythm, and a certain warmth filled Mari as she drew attention away from her partner. She could do this, she could keep Spork safe.

That warmth turned into a burning sensation as the air was shattered and something ripped through her torso. Mari glanced down at the golf ball-sized hole in her chest and felt her legs give out. Her gun slipped from her grasp and her head smashed against the ground. She would’ve seen stars if there was anything to see. One thought went through her head as darkness claimed Mari, another life expended.

At least Spork knows this time. They’ll be safe until I get back.

 
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On a quiet street in downtown Pittsburgh, deep in the heart of the shopping district, there lies an unassuming store. Above the doors to the store, as with all of the other shops around it, there is a sign. “Dual Flame Outfitters,” the sign proclaims, clarifying in smaller text, “Handcrafted Weapons & Apparel.” As if to emphasize this point, a smaller sign hangs down beneath it, depicting a sewing needle and a hammer crossed in front of a flame.

The inside is comfortable, with wooden beams, high ceilings, and a couple of small stained glass windows casting rainbow light along the floor. Half of the store is lined with colorful clothing and accessories, the other half with glinting weaponry. The two seem to mix in some areas, with chainmail accessories arrayed beside colorful weapon wraps in bins by the counter.

There is one central counter, behind which sits an old, matronly woman, humming to herself as she sews, knits, or crochets. From somewhere behind her, beyond the half door and curtain demarcating the employees only area, the faint ringing of a hammer against metal emerges, keeping time like an unorthodox clock.

The store itself seems normal enough, if a bit eccentric in its offerings. The woman tending the counter certainly seems to treat customers with the cheerful hospitality of any shopkeep. But there are whispers of a different side to the store. Rumors about how the light stays on long past dark, after the other shops on the lane have locked their doors and turned their cameras inwards. Rumors about cloaked figures, masked figures, people with strange silhouettes coming and going at odd hours.

The Seamstress does her best to fuel these rumors, saving pages in her sketchbook and room in her schedule for any metahumans who may require a more specialized outfit. She does love to see her designs out on the streets, be that fighting crime, causing it, or simply existing. And she’s well aware that the Blacksmith enjoys swaying the younger generation towards blades and blunt objects rather than bullets, when she can be pried from her forge.

Alas, attitudes towards metahumans change with the tides of popular opinion, and so the rumors remain relatively quiet. But with any luck, they’ll reach the right ears. The proprietors of Dual Flame are always willing to strike a deal with a young meta who needs equipment. They may even offer a heavy discount in exchange for help with the materials and labor.

 
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div snatched 1

golly gee i sure do love crime

 
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The Blacksmith

Name: Myrna Turei
Alias: Vulkan None.
Power Level: Low
Alignment: Retired Hero, now Neutral
Age: 62
Alliances: Dual Flame Outfitters, the weapons/clothing shop that she runs with her wife, Florian.
Appearance: A heavy-set older woman with volcanic gray skin, dark eyes, and gray hair. Volcanic cracks peek through her skin, glowing faintly in red, orange, and yellow. She dyes her hair red sometimes, but it’s grown out and faded. She wears a wedding ring; a simple gold band that she takes off when blacksmithing.
​
Powers:
Heat-Resistance & Durability: Myrna is heat-resistant up to 5000 degrees Fahrenheit. This means that she can handle objects of this temperature or be exposed to this temperature without any negative effects. She can still feel the temperature and be aware that it is quite hot, but objects below this threshold will never burn her. As a result, her skin is tougher than average. While it won’t stop bullets or knives, splinters are a non-issue, and doctors have a tough time getting her blood.
Enhanced Endurance: Perhaps another side effect of the heat resistance, Myrna can keep going long after others have stopped. It comes in particularly handy around the holidays when the Christmas orders flood the shop, and her anvil rings well past midnight.

Skills: Myrna is a highly skilled blacksmith and woodworker. All of the inventory in her store is her own handiwork, and she does take commissions as well. She takes pride in her work, and ensures that every weapon she makes is balanced, sharpened, and ready to be put to work.

Equipment: In her shop, Myrna has access to a wide variety of both melee and ranged medieval-style weapons, all of which were made by her own hand. She knows how to wield them all with deadly efficacy, if not finesse. She has a soft spot for spears and an unexplained bitterness towards swords. She keeps her favorite spear under the counter along with a crossbow loaded with a bolas for any attempted robbers.

 
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“What gave it away, kid?” Myrna scoffed. “The apron or the fact that I could probably throw you out by the scruff of your neck?” Truth be told she felt a bit of pride swell in her as he complimented her work. It wasn’t much more than the ‘sick work, dude’ she got from most teens today in terms of substance, but there was that extra bit of deference in it that made it worth more to her.

“No need for payment yet, we like to discuss designs first.” The older woman reached under the counter, fingers brushing past a strung crossbow and a simple hatchet to press against the button embedded in the underside that would let her wife know they had a metahuman client. While normal business had been steady, she knew making costumes for criminals and vigilantes was her wife’s true passion, so she'd probably be down before her tea was even ready. “Follow me.”

“Couple of disclaimers, kid.” Myrna began as she led him to the back room they used for these sorts of conversations. It was comfortable enough, Florien had seen to that. There were several chairs of varying levels of plushness, as well as a handful of side tables. A larger table sat in the middle, well-worn from use, and it served as the center for their discussion. Myrna noticed that at some point one of them had replenished the little coffee and tea cart they’d insisted on having. She’d been against it, but when your wife could make any discussion three against one, you learned to concede pretty quickly.

“First, we don’t care what side of the law you’re on, just don’t tell us. Plausible deniability and all that.” She checked to confirm the filter already had grounds in it (of course it did, because her wife was a saint) and began brewing a pot of coffee. The midnight-black liquid slowly began to fill the carafe as she turned back to her guest.

“Second, we’re gonna need a way to contact you, let you know your stuff is ready or if we need you to come back in. If it’s a costume, Florien almost certainly will want a fitting. And third,” At this point Myrna’s blazing eyes locked firmly onto the kid’s.

“If you do anything to hurt me or my wife, we will make sure whatever happens to you is ten times worse.” Her voice roughened, the old habit of making threats coming easy to her. She picked up the carafe as the coffee maker ended its brewing with a wheezing gasp, filling up a mug decorated with pastel flowers. She flicked on the electric kettle before settling in chair, taking a sip of the scalding, bitter liquid.

“You want anything?” Florien would have given her hell if she’d forgotten to ask. Even if she didn’t really care.

 
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​
Name: Erin Mercury
Alias: Fortuna
Media Titles: Soup Slinger, Bat Girl
Gender: Female (she/her)
Age: 16
Height: 5'7"
Hair Color: Erin has naturally straight hair that she curls and dyes blonde (although the black roots have grown out quite a bit). For heroing purposes, she straightens her hair as best she can with as little effort as possible (usually by dunking her head in a bucket of water).
Eye Color: Green

Powers: Erin has an internal stockpile of luck that she uses to fuel various abilities, primarily using it to make herself more lucky in various ways. These can include dodging incoming attacks, landing difficult hits, and generally doing things that are tricky for the average person to do. The only caveat is that the more impossible a feat is, the more luck it drains. However, she can manifest minor impossibilities freely, such as flipping a coin and having it land on the same side repeatedly or always managing to throw trash into a can on the first try.

She can also teleport at will, drawing on her luck reserves in accordance with the distance and visibility of the space. She usually ends up where she wants, although that only works when she's awake. Erin almost never wakes up in her own bed, instead teleporting to a random location upon waking. This teleportation doesn't drain luck, but the emptier her luck stockpile when she falls asleep, the further away she wakes up and the more difficult it is to get back.

Everyone person's luck stockpile naturally replenishes over time, except for Erin's. The only way she can add luck to her stockpile is to take it from others, from at most a few feet away. She never takes luck from those who can't spare it, and tries to give some of her own to people who need it.


Equipment:
  • Baseball Bat: Wooden and durable, ready to go to work. If it breaks or she loses it, Erin has a knack for finding another one or something close enough to it. She also is usually able to find objects to hit towards her targets (usually soup cans when dealing with gas station robberies).
  • Visor: Keeps stuff out of her eyes and slightly obscures her face, meaning her powers don't have to work as hard.

Trivia:
  • She is a Scorpio, and her birthday is on Halloween.
  • Erin tries to sleep as little as possible in order to minimize her unwitting teleportation. This has resulted in a caffeine habit that means she's never far from a cup of coffee.
  • Fortuna doesn't wear a mask, instead relying on her power to innately obscure her face in any pictures through natural phenomena. When she's not in costume, she tends to put a lot of effort into her makeup and hair, meaning that if anyone had seen Fortuna's face before and then met Erin, they'd have no idea they were the same person.

​
 
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“Yes!” Fortuna pumped her arm as she let out a whoop. Her plushie of destruction had smashed clean through the goo monster’s cranium and left it headless. She waved her bat in appreciation at the paint-covered hero, who she now realized was Griffonage of all people, before she heard her yelp of alarm. The thing had begun to regrow, merging with its torn-off pieces and slurping up the Ribbon Wielder’s ribbons like they were spaghetti. Ooh, spaghetti sounded great, actually. Maybe she could find a cheap place around here to get some with meat sauce. That would really hit the spot.

Too distracted by a grumbling stomach and a strong desire for cheap Italian food, Fortuna didn’t notice the balloon sailing towards her until it exploded at her feet. Well, it hadn’t originally been sailing towards her, it just happened to shoot straight through the goo creature. Almost instantly the foam swelled around her, encasing Fortuna in a purple prison. The Goo, as she decided to call it, had now started peppering Ribbon Wielder, Metal Bender, and Griffonage with tiny chunks of something. Both seemed to be holding their own, especially Ribbon Wielder, but Fortuna couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste. Not when there were actual superheroes here to see her!

Fortunately, heh, she managed to keep the baseball bat clutched in one of her hands. One moment she was encased in foam, doing her best impression of a statue. The next she was directly behind The Goo, wound up and ready to swing for the fences. She aimed for its chest, figuring that might be where whatever kept it goo-ing was. Once her swing was through Fortuna stepped again, appearing up on the roof next to the other girls. There was no fanfare, no flash of light. Just one moment she had just introduced her bat to The Goo’s chest in a rather graphic and gelatinous fashion, the next she was crouched behind the metal with the other two, her bat dripping with a little goo.

“Hey Griff.” Fortuna said, as casually as possible. It was a little hard to be casual when a superhero you’d spent way too much time researching was actually in front of you. Especially when you didn’t want her to actually know how much time you’d spent researching her. That would’ve been awkward. “Hey Metal Woman.” So cool. “How’s it going?”They hadn’t answered her last time, but she figured they’d been too busy ducking to answer her. Maybe now they could strike up a conversation.
 
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Freyja sighed as she let the bar raise slowly, letting it slip from her grasp once her arms were fully extended. Music blasted in her headphones as she stood from the bench, grabbing a cloth and spray to disinfect it and the bar before moving away. She rolled her shoulders, growling at the persistent itch between her shoulders that refused to dull.

Veljara hadn’t let her wings loose in her last excursion, despite their desire to be free. She’d thought that it would lead to a more interesting fight, but all it had led to was a draw, and almost all of the heroes had fled with their tails between their legs. She had gone back to being Freyja, for longer than she had expected this time. She needed something new, she wasn’t going to bring about the end of things by appearing in random intersections and killing civilians. She’d already tried that and it hadn’t brought the heroic conflict she’d needed.

Hells, she’d had more heroes who tried harder to stop her at that stupid concert that had started all of this. She could attempt to fight regular people, or even villains if she could get hands on one. But it wouldn't be the same. Heroes were so much better to fight, so much more eager to put her down, willing to let go of all restraint if it meant a shot at putting her down sooner. It got her blood pumping, and Freyja’s temperature was rising just thinking about it.

That was why she’d been working out more, whipping her body into the highest shape it could be in, especially her back. When Veljara finally ascended to her true form, when her wings pulled into existence, she had to be prepared to use them to their fullest extent.

But still. So much focus on preparing for Veljara’s duty had left Freyja with little time to herself. She scanned the gym as she began to make her way to the exit, eyes fixing on one particular figure. She’d seen them in here a few times before, although their presence wasn’t consistent enough to be part of a routine. It was clear from the weight they stacked onto the bar that they had quite some strength in them, and judging by the lack of oiled-up definition, it wasn’t purely vanity lifting.

That was good. Freyja preferred to keep preening show-offs out of her bed.

She changed course, moving to approach the lifter at their bench. She noted that they were somewhat attractive, albeit in a scruffy way. While Vasia had been long and lean, the body of a dancer and warrior, they were built more ruggedly, a stone outcropping whose sharp edges had been smoothed by time and weather; still dangerous, but not apparently so.

“Need a spotter?” She asked as she got within range. She noted that no one else had offered, and in fact a few of the regulars had glanced in her direction before quickly looking away. Curious. “You’ve put quite a lot of plate on that bar. I don’t doubt your strength, but still. Better safe than sorry.”

“Freyja.” She offered a hand in greeting, reaching out to clasp their forearm if they extended theirs. “And you are?”

Code by Reyn
 


Necromancer wasn’t sure why it had decided to go along with this job. The money was nice, sure, Whisper had a knack for squeezing every last cent out of whoever was foolish enough to contract the three of them, after all. But after a handful of jobs, it had been satisfied with the money. Whisper wanted to continue this work to amass more, a hole that could never truly be filled. No, Necromancer felt there was something more it wanted. A chance to test its power, perhaps, or just looking for something more interesting in its last contract before it retired.

Whatever the case may have been, it was enjoying the quiet that came after Whisper went out to answer the call. He was more than a little impatient, and had yet to learn the intrinsic value of silence. Necromancer was slowly working its way through its book, occasionally casting glances at the third member of their merry band to ensure that he wouldn’t run off.

When the beep came again through the earpiece, it ignored it. After all, it simply could’ve been a repeat of the order that Whisper had already gone to answer, presuming he didn’t get lost between here and the actual warehouse. Then the signal came, two rapid beeps. Necromancer let out a sigh as it closed its book, turning to find Barricade staring at it expectantly, head tilted slightly as though he were a dog asking a question.

Necromancer simply nodded as Barricade bared his teeth in response, a malicious grin that bore no levity. It picked up its mask from the table and donned its disguise, a silver skull coated in gold filigree, splashed with red and black. It rose from the table, gesturing for Barricade to follow. As Necromancer walked, it sunk into the depths of itself, the pool of dusty gray power that lay within, oft left untouched.

Still Water was a simple thing, and yet it required hours of preparation in order to be somewhat useful. One did not create an army without proper preparations, of course. It had found that most mercenaries were rather receptive to a free shot of whiskey on the job, especially if it was delivered alongside Whisper’s easygoing smile. The man had his uses, it had to admit. Primarily dealing with the ordinary people that it would rather avoid. The alcohol - cheap of course, it would never waste good liquor on these plebeians - ensured that the few milliliters of Necromancer’s saliva went unnoticed. Once it was properly integrated within their bodies, then they were within his power.

It felt them now, the tiny little specks of dirty gray that matched its own pool. They sung to it, like calling to like, and it answered. Darts of ashen light spun from its fingertips, seeking a connection as they darted through the hallways. The first one found its target, diving into the bloodied corpse with a whisper. The rest followed suit, each dart finding its own.

It clenched its fist, tugging on the power, bending it to its will as Necromancer lived up to its title. The bodies shuddered, eyes sliding open to reveal dusty ashen sockets. It strode onto one of the many catwalks in the warehouse, somewhat aware that it had lost track of Barricade at some point. No matter, he would sniff out his target in due time.

The dead rose to their feet, movements far too smooth to be considered remotely human, as Necromancer issued a command. At this scale, it could hardly exert fine control on the various corpses under its control. It could, however, plant a single directive into what remained of their minds and let them carry the order out.

And so the dead began to move, abandoning their firearms as they shuffled towards their destination. Other than the sound of boots on concrete, the army was eerily silent as they sought to follow their command with hungry jaws and desperate nails. They sought to kill the masked mercenary who stood over their comrade’s body.

 
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Freyja let out a polite ‘hm’ at their stonewalling, choosing to use that moment to take another sip of her drink. Their avoidance was interesting, as a name was something usually freely given in these parts. Well, as long as it wasn’t a Name, those tended to be rather nasty things. But Freyja had only run into a few artifacts that made use of fae rules, so that almost certainly wasn’t the case.

Her drinking companion sat down properly, taking the towel offered by the bartender with seemingly no offense. Freyja did her best to keep her eyes off them, even if she wanted to pry. People didn’t refuse to use their names or cloak themselves in leather and reflections if they wanted to be an open book, or indeed if they wanted to tell anything about themselves.

What could only generally pass for camaraderie passed too swiftly, however, as they quickly downed the rest of their drink (Freyja winced, didn’t that hurt?) before paying for both their drinks. She raised her glass in a toast, one traveler to another, before she realized just how close they were. A faint flush touched her cheeks as they whispered to her, rough and low. They were kind of attractive, in a scruffy sort of way. Something the way they held themself, the way they moved towards the door reminded Freyja of a predator, the way that lions or panthers moved, knowing that almost nothing could possibly hurt them.

Veljara noticed too, her internal approval rippling through Freyja as she turned back to her drink. That itch wasn’t going away anytime soon, but she almost certainly wasn’t going to see them again any time soon. Pulling their money out from under their mug, Freyja decided her drink was starting to taste like another, and signaled the bartender.


It wasn’t until she’d finished her third drink that Freyja realized something was wrong. She’d drank through the money her mysterious stranger had left and was reaching for her wallet when she found that something was conspicuously missing from her pockets. Something metallic and vaguely key-shaped.

That bastard.

Freyja quickly let go of the mug before her hand reflexively clenched a second later. Her teeth followed, and she threw down some cash onto the counter before storming out, practically ripping the door of its hinges in the process. Cold steam wafted from her as Freyja stomped towards where she’d left her truck.

It was gone. That was the final straw. With a roar and the sound of shattering ice, wings ripped through her back as frost-coated armor snapped into existence around her. Veljara clawed her way into the air, wings now dry as a bone (funny, she could have mentioned that sooner). The rain had long since washed any tracks away, but Veljara had the eyes of a hunter, and the movement of prey drew her attention like light to water.

She took off like a shot, choosing a direction and loosely following the road. It wasn’t the fastest Veljara could travel, as she occasionally had to revert into Freyja to dry her wings, earning a few choice words as they fell before Veljara managed to pull them higher.

Eventually she saw movement, a lone truck doing its best to weather the storm. Frigid vengeance sang in her veins as Veljara drew her weapon, one of the few artifacts Freyja deigned to keep for personal use. A lone pocket knife, in its most basic, deceptive form. But as Veljara flipped it open-

-nothing happened. She cursed loudly, though only herself and the heavens bore witness.. What was the point of sharing a body with a nigh-immortal valkyrie if Freyja insisted on small things like using the safety latch on her knife.

With a frustrated sigh, Veljara clicked the latch off before opening the knife. The blade flipped open, and kept unfolding. The blade lengthened and thickened with each fold, the handle turning into a comfortable grip. It only stopped when the blade was almost three feet in length, the worn handle comfortably nestled in her hand.

Sword in hand, Veljara dived towards the moving vehicle, wings tucked in tight against her to gain the most speed. A wicked grin split her face as she snapped them open, slowing her fall just enough so that she didn’t punch through the metal as she crashed onto the roof, blade angled downward as she stabbed it into the roof of the truck, slightly too far to the left to properly hit the driver, but enough to let them know of her presence.

“Relinquish the vehicle!” Veljara yelled to be heard over the storm, holding on tight as the driver attempted to shake her off. Her claws dug gouges into the paint as she stabilized herself, tucking her wings in to avoid being blown off. “I won’t ask twice.”

Code by Reyn
 
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