Testing, Testing, 1, 2, 3

Interesting, how once they got an answer they didn’t want, Lark began to lag. Fate swore she could almost see them attempting to stop time, to slip into the space between seconds only to find the cracks patched up without warning.

It was also interesting how their facade of careful consideration cracked a little. They simply grabbed a card at random, without even pretending to put any thought into it. Not that it would’ve mattered, really. Even Fate didn’t know which card was which until it was pulled. One of her contacts had once droned on to her about its existence being a quantum paradox or something, but she’d tuned him out once he’d started trying to use Science to explain her cards to her.

They tossed the card onto the table with derision, no closer to their presumed goal than they were at the start. It seemed Lark was getting tired of their game. Unfortunately for them, Fate wasn’t done playing. She reached out to touch the card, her fingers pressing against the letters, and pulled. The card seemed to elongate, the helpless figure plummeting farther and farther as the Cups continued to empty themselves before Lark’s eyes. Fate matched their gaze, something just as hard but glittering with malice.

“You can’t.”

The words fell from Fate’s lips and thudded against the table. The falling figure crashed against the bottom of the card before it flicked back to normal, as if it had never changed, as if the very notion was ridiculous.

“No returns, refunds, exchanges, or take-backs.”
Fate giggled a little at her own joke before adopting a mask of seriousness.
“I couldn’t reverse it even if I wanted to. Once the cards have been drawn, they must be used. And once they’ve been used, they can’t be undone. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”

As she spoke, the card began to make its way to the other side of the desk, ever so slowly. Lark probably noticed, what with their eyes seeking out any little hidden trick or sleight. The card shifted until it was opposite the previous one, its face burning into the fake wood as the rest of the deck began to shift and move, lazily spinning in the air above the desk that separated them as a sly grin snuck across Fate’s face.

“Besides, Lark.”
She began, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.
“If you somehow did manage to reverse it, to time travel and see your other selves again,”
Fate’s voice dropped, as if she was sharing a secret.

“Wouldn’t you have done so already?”
 
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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.
 


Spork held onto her. Just like they always had. Blow after weak blow rained against them and they just weathered it. They were the only one who could, the only person who Mari could even think to open up towards. They’d only ever had each other, even when it was more circumstance than intention. What, was she going to tell her mother that she had a secret business of murder, theft, and extortion? That would go over well.

She listened to their words as they washed over her, their voice soothing in its roughness. Spork was comfortable, not just physically. Their presence was a blanket, and those few times they’d been apart for more than a few days felt like she’d been missing her right hand. Mari didn’t consciously register their words, too deep in her own thoughts, but the meaning behind them was clear. Spork would always be here for her. The unspoken response was that Mari would always be here for them. Of course she would be. They needed each other. She smoothed their harshest edges, kept them in check when all they wanted to do was rage. And Spork-

Spork picked Mari up when she’d run herself into the ground. Because she couldn’t stop going. No matter how much she wanted to, Mari could never stop. If she stopped, she made mistakes. She missed a patrol on the scouting and Spork got hurt. Miku’s sensors got screwy or she missed a part near failure in their gauntlets and Spork would get incorrect callouts or be in danger. If she fucked up even a little while upgrading, maintaining, or repairing their augmentations, Spork could end up paralyzed or worse.

She could bounce back. All it took was a single shot and she was right as rain. Spork didn’t have that luxury. They had to come back the hard way, slowly, and a misstep on Mari’s part could close that door for good. She had to keep going. And she needed someone that she could trust to pick her back up when she fell apart. Not if, when. Someone who could piece her back together again and get her back in the race.

Mari needed Spork.

“Til the end of the line.” Mari repeated hoarsely, trying to swallow around something stuck in her throat. “I’d say ‘til death do us part’, but I don’t think that’ll stick.” She tried to chuckle, but it devolved into a snotty, hacking cough.

Mari let Spork pull her up, holding onto them for a moment as everything swayed before taking a few shaky steps. She stooped over to pick up her mask and Spork’s discarded gauntlets, dropping them unceremoniously into the Hello Kitty backpack with a loud clatter. She swung it up over her shoulder, nearly losing her balance in the process, and attempted a smile at Spork.

“C’mon, I know a place where we can lay low for a bit.”

And they move forward. Together.

 
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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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