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.
 


“Mhm.” She murmured noncommittally. In truth Mari had no doubt that Spork could have cleaned themselves up. It just would’ve taken longer, been less effective, and somehow they would’ve caused more damage to themselves in the process. Mari knew that she wasn’t good at this, but she tried to remember moments of her mom cleaning her cuts and scrapes, her gentle touch, her soothing words. Spork probably would’ve taken to the words like a cat to a pool filled with dogs, so Mari tried to stick to the touch.

Every flinch gave Mari a shock of some feeling that she did her best to push down. It was fine, sometimes you had to hurt a little to help. That’s how it always went. She looked up at Spork as they peeled their sunglasses back, their eyes bloodshot and watery. The gray one looked worn, the green wilted. Both looked faded. Mari didn’t want to think about whether it was just the alcohol, or if the mischievous light that had burned so bright during their youths that it had shown through the clouds had dimmed so severely.

The shades fell back down, drawing the shutters closed so hard Mari could almost hear them slamming shut. Mari noticed Spork pulling away, pressing themselves against the wall in either an attempt to escape or a search for something to support them. Perhaps some of both, if the dark circles under their eyes were any indication.

After some effort, they managed a thanks before giving her another half-hearted smile. Even through all the shoring up, Mari could still see the cracks at the edges of their lips, the barely-held together facade that would crumble if she pushed. Their silence spoke volumes about it, even if they didn’t want to say anything. Spork was never quiet, would never turn down the chance to chatter excitedly about whatever had happened to them that evening.

Mari slumped down by them, letting the tub press against her back as she studied Spork. They leaned heavily against the wall, as if it was the only thing that kept them from collapsing to the floor and laying there forever. When they weren’t moving or running away, Mari could actually see how tired they were. Their ragged edges were thrown into sharp relief by the bathroom light and their uncharacteristic stillness. How could she have missed this? Mari already knew the answer to that. She'd watched Spork play a wide variety of parts in their life: the perfect child, the cool kid, the rebel. She just never thought that she wouldn't be privy to the script.

Mari let her head fall sideways, resting on Spork’s leg as her gaze shifted away from them to slide out of focus. She could feel the tiredness creeping into her muscles, her eyes getting heavier. Part of Mari knew that she should be trying to get Spork into bed, to help them sleep off the alcohol and get a fresh start in the morning. But that would be forcing Spork to do something, and forcing them was the quickest way to get them to stonewall.

She’d just rest with them for a moment. And when they were ready, she’d help them get moving.

 
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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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