Mutant Multiverse

Snow...

In October? Not unheard of.

Snow like -this?-

Rare.



It started as a hum.

Cars still honked, rev’d, and idled. Sidewalks slammed by boots, heels, and paws. Vendors yelling - trying to make a living. Everything was always so god damn loud.

The nearly bare tree’s swaying in a cool breeze on the edge of a fairly famous park - kids on swings, Bicycles rolling by.

So. Damn. Lou-

Crack

“Hm?”

Humming turned to buzzing.

Buzzing brought screams.

Light. Fairly blinding. The breeze stopped, the screams... Muffled.

As if covered.

As if all the voices were simultaneously closed in their throats by a quick hand...

The weight hit. Crushing, instantaneous pressure. Wet? Cold?

“Hmph!”

The light was gone. Breeze returned. It grew colder, quickly. Have to dig.

Have.

To.

Dig!

“...Uhg.”

Snow.

As far as the eye could see. White. Sun refracting over mounds and hills. Cars frozen in place, commotion settled. Sidewalks bare or buried or both?

Where did it...

How?

Rooftop nearby seems accessible - when were they not? Climb that fence, vault to that delivery truck. Fire escape, always a fire escape.

Need a better vantage point. Need to see further. How bad was that snow fall and how did it fall so quic-

“...Christ.”

As far as the Horizon... Snow.

They don’t make shovels big enough...

"...Hm."

The sunlight gleamed off of the white blanket of fresh snow on the roof-top's edge. Trudging thru large drifts built up around the air-exchange system. Worn boot finally able to push free and rest on the raised edge of the stone perimeter. Leaning down on the knee and peering forward the silence became deafening.

Hand gloved by partially shredded old combat leather moved slowly to a raggedy trench coat pocket. A small black pair of binoculars were removed and raised to squinted gaze.

Slowly panning around the city it became evident that it was empty. Not a soul in sight. The other quite noticeable fact could have been a possible source of the snow. A large, somewhat purple gash, for lack of a better word, seemingly torn thru the sky and closing quick, nearly out of sight.

Binoculars were returned to the deep pocket and the gloved hand moved slowly to a bearded chin. Scratching the grey mess idly the individual pushed off of the ledge and stood tall. Making their way over to the opposite end of the roof top they once again looked for any sign of life.

"..Nothin'"

He'd clear his throat and spit into a snow bank.

Right arm would be brought nearly to eye level. Coat sleeve noticeably bulged at the forearm. Slowly he would roll the sleeve back to the elbow and tap on what appeared to be a dense rubberized Gauntlet. A fizzle & spark later and the 'top' clicked open. A small dial and miniature speaker visible.

Radio tuner it would seem as the waves all around were traced and studied thru furrowed brow. Other hand turning the dial and occasionally smacking the apparently old/damaged Gauntlet.

Get back on the highway - And in other new- Welcome back to guess that SMELL!! - Blue-Forty-Two, Down, Set, Hut!-

"..Junk."

A stiff shot with the bottom of his opposite fist.

"...104.5 'The Dive'..."

"...Ok."

"...Always someone Watchin' you."

"...I've heard that before."

Radio was slowly clasped back in place, Gauntlet returned to a flush - albeit damaged looking - state. Sleeve was returned to meet his wrist.

"...Guess I'm walking until I find a sign of life."

With that the figure vaulted from the roof top with control and landed on the street below with a heavy thud in a thin layer of fresh powder.

Left hand worked towards a large belt full of pouches and clasps. An odd, very worn, black full face mask was removed and slowly adjusted over a head of long grey hair and previously mentioned grey beard. Optics were nearly white, reflective.

Alley's were best, and mostly uncovered due to the urban landscape and way the snow fell. The walk was on.

Where the hell am I going?

Frigid asphalt gave way after a few hundred kilometres. Nearly perfectly square on the ground was the change from snow to dry pavement. The air returned to a standard fall chill, and gloved hand was raised to remove the skin tight mask that had been keeping the weather off of the hardened skin, neck, and face.

South. Gotta head south.

Sturdy, yet very worn combat boots trudged methodically down alley ways, side streets, parking lots. Little pause on the journey aside an occasional break to urinate or spy thru his binoculars. Though he had no real goal aside a direction of the compass, he was encouraged when life seemingly returned around him. A murder of crows called from a power-line above as he sloshed thru a puddle on his way across a calm, yet dingy, street.

Faint reverb of a sound system shook out from a sketchy door-way just down from where he stood. Stale beer, ashtrays, and sweat were familiar scents that intensified on his approach. A brief sigh of hesitation before gloved hand shot forward and swiftly opened the door to the dark pub he had stumbled on.

"...'Ey! Close the fuckin' door, man."

A disheveled patron barked from his table positioned near the entry due to some leaves being blown in around his seat.

Cold gaze moved to the man. Little response given outside of an eyebrow raising slightly. Turning his attention over to his new goal; The Bar top.

Moving a tall bar stool out of the way and drawing his body to the wooden counter-top he'd place a twenty dollar note down and state simply: "...One Beer, One Jack."

Shoulders rising and falling with each breath, the large male awaited his beverages. Once placed before him the shot would immediately disappear thru open lips. Beer bottle gripped lightly by the top of the neck and a swift swig would give chase to the liquor. He'd turn in place to scan the bar-room a little more closely. It was relatively empty, aside a few hunched over drunkards who resembled furniture more than people. Bar tender was an older female, many miles on her face, poor homemade tattoos adorned her arms. She made her way slowly to the opposite end of the bar and fiddled with the radio briefly. Static of tuning rung out before it settled in on a channel the man was certain he had heard before he left...

"...104.5 'The Dive'."

Go figure.

"...Eh, Old Man. You comin'?"

Where?

"...Just follow the sound, man. You know where to go, don't you?"

"...South."

He found himself muttering out loud.

Bartender turned her head towards the large male.

"You say somethin', honey?"

"...Need a ride south."

The woman scratched under her chin and wiped her brow with the same cloth she had previously been wiping the counter/glassware.

"South? Well. How far? Could always grab a cab."

"...Seattle."

"Seattle! Ha! Darlin', you're gonna have to get thru the border, and with all the shit goin' on lately... You may as well sit tight and find a room."

The man moved his eyes over to his beer. The familiar liquid bubbled inside the brown glass, welcoming. Slowly he'd raise the beverage and drain it's contents.

He stood oddly quiet a moment or two before pushing off of the bar and towards the door. The change from his purchase left on the counter as a tip.

He'd adjust his long, weathered trench coat and slowly push the door open with a gloved hand. A stiff breeze kicking some leaves and garbage in from the street.

"Listen, you idiot."

The man sat near the door piped up once again. The larger males cold eyes resting firmly on the outside, door still held open.

"...Close." The man stood from the table and made his way over boldly. "The fuckin'." He'd reach for the door handle and attempt to pull it closed. "Door!"

The door would not budge.

The large man slowly rotated his neck causing an audible 'pop!' hand removed from the door lightning fast and gloved hand clasped around the rude mans throat.

"Keys."

His grip firm, but loose enough that the other male could speak.

"..H..Hey! *Cough* What the fuck... Dude.. Let me go! You're chokin' m-"

"...Keys. To your truck. Now."

Gloved hand tightened as behind him he heard the racking of a shotgun.

"Now you go on and get the hell outta here. Leave my customers alone."

The grip tightened once again and he began lifting the rude male up off his feet. Opposite hand thrusted down into the mans jeans and removed a set of keys. He would then thoughtlessly toss the male back into his seat, rocking the table and knocking his beer down into his lap.

"..Aw.. *cough* fuck come on!"

The door slammed shut behind him as he exited and moved with a steady pace towards a relatively beat up GMC pick-up, it's hay-day obviously lost in the '90s.

Starting the vehicle he ripped out of the parking lot. He knew he wouldn't be followed, but Police may be involved. He had to cover some distance as quick as he could and then dispose of the wheels.

South, Old Man. Gotta go South.

"...Shut up."

Border Crossing. 85 Miles

C'mon... Ah, you son of a whore.

The truck sputtered and seized. Thick black tendrils of smoke arising from the hood bonnet as it was guided to what would become it's final resting place on the side of an ancient logging road.

Gloved hands tightened around the wheel briefly. The rubbing sound of leather tightening and releasing as the large male calmed his inner desire to punch thru the vehicles dashboard. Slowly he'd release the wheel and lean over towards the passenger seat. Opening the glove box he'd rummage for anything useful the previous owner had placed there.

Matches.

A plastic grocery bag.

A Roll of quarters.

He'd pocket the items and then step out of the vehicle. Instinctively weighing the odds as he looked the truck over, he'd slowly look under the driver seat and sure enough: A Sawed off shotgun was wedged, stuck actually, under the drivers chair. Freeing the rudimentary 'Boom Stick' and stepping away from the truck. 'ka-chunk' He'd rack the weapon and clasp it off his belt with a small link of leather hidden almost entirely by his long coat, near his hip.

Cold eyes would survey the land. Map at a service station said this road would lead eventually to some dense woods, and gradually towards the water - his only chance of leaving one Country and entering another without being airborne.

Scratching his chin and making an assessment of the residual daylight he decided to begin walking. Long grey hair exposed as his mask was tucked away. Leaves and dead-fall rattled around him in the wind as each purposeful step left a slight imprint in the loose dirt road. He'd find himself oddly compelled to attempt to tune the radio on his Gauntlet, something he hadn't done since he left the 'big city'.

He rolled his sleeve back while maintaining his pace. Slowly fiddling with the over-sized rubberized contraption once again. This time it was nearly impossible to pick up a signal, he had been trudging thru a pretty isolated area, something he normally would have known - and known not to bother with it.

"..Hmph."

He'd catch himself and his oddly out of character behavior.

"...Stupid."

He'd stiffly return his sleeve and shake his head slightly.

Left alone with only his thoughts and the sound of trees would un-nerve most people, especially in such a remote location, but he continued on with confidence. Still only loosely aware of -why- he was going where he was going. He just couldn't shake a low and undeniable pull towards Seattle...

The snap of a branch just behind him was all it took for him to spin on his heels, crouch, produce the shotgun and...

Cold eyes buried beneath a furrow brow. Slowly studying the source of the rustling behind him. Shortened Shotgun held firmly a few seconds longer before slowly being returned to his hip. A small smirk formed briefly as his gaze followed the movement of a young male Deer.

"...Almost."

He muttered with a tone full of apprehension.

"...You'll learn some day, I guess."

The creature scuffed at some loose rock in the road and snorted slightly as if in response, purely coincidental, and eventually it stepped awkwardly forward and down into the opposite ditch, rustling thru the foliage and out of sight. A crow called out thru the forest as the Deer made it's way underneath it. Flying out from the trees and overhead, a single black feather fell down just by the mans left boot. He'd bend down and slowly pluck the discarded plume up, bringing it to his eyes he'd study every strand, line, and perfect pointed tip - he'd pocket the feather. Why? He wasn't sure. The man enjoyed nature. It was real and raw. He had lived a life of turmoil & politics so he often found reprieve in the simple complexity of the natural world.

Turning around slowly and continuing down the road, it would take him several kilometres on foot before the road gradually roughened and eventually ended.

"..Hm."

He'd look up in the sky. It would be dark soon. He could do a lot of things, but with little source of light he'd be better off sitting put near by and camping for the night.

Some fresh spruce bows would make a nice a bed. A few sturdy branches snapped off by hand and wedged into the crutch of a V-shaped tree. A few more sprawling spruce bows to provide a little shelter. He'd start a small, very small, fire almost out of an inherent human/mutant tradition. He'd lean against the tree and for the first time in a few days, would allow his eyes to close... ... ...

Who the hell are you?

Me?

I'm 'The Fix'.

Well, whoever... Whatever you are, big man. You gonna be able to keep these kids safe? Tyme's is going to need you.

What's the pay?

Hahaha! They told me you only cared about the money. Shit, John. Those kids are worth a lot more in the 'right' hands than we can possibly pay you, but you'll have a new chance. You'll be able to start fresh. Put a lot of your past behind you and get out on the right side of ... all of this...

Blood. Blood everywhere. Sturdy brick walls with massive fist shaped holes. Bodies piled up to the right. Smelled familiar. Smelled good.

"...What's the job, specifically?"

Oh, you'll love this, John. It's a Security Position. It's the best we could find. Figure you'd enjoy something that fit your... Skill.

A piece of paper. My thumb and finger, over sized compared to who I am now. Wait, am I dreaming? Hmph. Paper was from Tymes. Head Of Security? I remember... I remember those kids... They didn't stay kids... They didn-

So, they can't find out who you are, John. You need to be unique to them, but you can't give too much away. You're theirs, and for the foreseeable future too. Keep them safe until we can get the right buyer, then you just have to turn a blind eye. I know that's not your deal, John, but it's the only way we're giving you information on Trevor.

*BOOM!*

Thunder rang out and the rain started. The make-shift camp was tight enough, but things were getting damp. Fire fizzled out into a thin stream of smoke.

"...Three.. Four A.M.?"

Better keep moving.

South, Oldman, South.

Out of the forest and onto the shore.

No part of which would be occupied. No dock, no vessel.

"...Shit."

Endless rows of jagged rocks. Black, slippery seaweed. Hard crashing waves. Fog, wind, and rain.

"...Hmph."

Water pooled in places he didn't remember having.

~

Never liked the sea.

"...You hear what The Head of Security did? Killed that guy. Rock's splintered into his chest - like some god damn rock bullets or something!"

Didn't go down like that.

Did it?

Waves rocked the pier nearby. A calm cave setting. A small table, a roughly used bunk, and an old quilt. The smell of aquatic vegetation. Dank, damp. Home away from home. I... I remember this place. Slightly. Used to sleep here when things were too bad. When I couldn't keep it in.

I had one job: Keep it together.

Should of known I'd of botched that.

...They knew. They had to of.

~

A stiff breeze brought his focus back. Adjusting his heavy collar and searching with a cold gaze, he tried to find some sort of passage on the sea.

A Gull cried out and landed on a jutting rock just above the swirling water. Foam and ocean floor debris sloshing all about.

An hour longer on foot. Then two more.

Quiet rumble of large machines started low and finally grew loud. It was close to mid-afternoon and he had finally stumbled on a busy, yet small dockyard. Fishing it seemed.

Finding some shelter would be difficult but the rain had given way to out-of-season-like humidity. Air was stained with oil and diesel fumes. Not the most pleasant to inhale, but reassuring.

...Almost there, old man.

He'd find a large rock a few meters into the forest. Hunkering down and producing his binoculars he would scan the dock ahead.

I doubt you'll find one, man. You'll have to swim.

Pursing lips slightly and running saliva over unfortunately dirty teeth he'd spit to the side while maintaining his survey.

"...Shut up."

A small smirk forming slowly as he focused in on a small dingy. They wouldn't miss that, would they?

He'd have to wait for night fall...

Clouds danced before the moon.

It was time to act.

The Dock was nearly empty. An outfit this small wouldn't likely have a security detail. Maybe a local, unarmed, dime a dozen contract. 'Here's your flashlight and cell phone, kid, good luck!' Heh. Eh, shouldn't say that. People need to earn a living... Better than stealing a small, undoubtedly -barely- seaworthy fishing dingy...

But hey, here we are.

Over the fence. Away from the lone lamp post. Behind the crates, annnnd...

"...I know, ma. Jesus. I'll be there for dinner. I- I know it's late. Look, just wrap it up and I'll zap it when I get in."

The large male crouched silently and frowned beneath his tight black mask. Reflective optic covers tracing the individual before him who had been talking loudly on his cell phone as he had approached.

Hmph.

Time to say good-bye, Ma.

He'd run his hand casually down the length of the shotgun tethered on his hip. A momentary desire to make this whole situation entirely more loud, but a stiff shake of his head later and his hand reached into his pocket for the roll of quarters he had picked up from the now abandoned truck he... borrowed. Borrowing an awful lot lately. May have to start paying it forward.

He'd work the paper roll of coin until it was beginning to tear.

"...Ok. Ok.. Ok! Ma. I'm going. I gotta do a round here and then get down the road... Because I have another stop!"

The coins would be clenched tightly in their slowly failing paper construct.

"...Bye, Ma. Byyye!" The man would end the call and sigh loudly.

Fist readied, the masked man slowly crept forward until he could nearly reach for the male. Slowly and silently he stood up behind the man...

...Reared back his coin-holding-hand...

And...

*CLANG!!*

The sound of an empty oil drum further down the dock. It had been shockingly loud and followed by the messy jingle of many coins rolling all over the place.

"..What the-?"

The man fumbled for his flashlight and headed towards the sound hastily.

"..Hmm."

Silently he'd leap from the dock and land surprisingly gracefully in the small wooden vessel he intended to... Borrow.

He'd quietly adjust two large wood oars and slowly begin rowing away - as quickly and as quietly as he could.

When he was far enough away that sight nor sound would be a concern, he would remove his mask and place it in a pouch on his belt.

Sea was calm, which was helpful. Rowing sucked for a human. It sucks for a mutant. Rowing just sucks.

It'll be a while before the coastguard is visible. If I stay close enough to shore... With a bit of luck... I may be able to swim the rest of the way across when it gets dicey - and it -will- get dicey.

He rowed and rocked in the rhythmic ocean. Slowly becoming lost in thoughts and memories...

Jade liked the waves. Alex too.

Ever get that sinking feeling?

"...God. Fucking. Damnit."

Water pooled quickly in the vigilantes vessel. It was never as sea-worthy as he had hoped, but with his goal so close it would seem even he could have a lapse in judgement.

A few half-ass'd attempts to bail out the boat resulted in nothing more than frustration. A few more curse words under his breath before realizing swimming was going to be one of the only ways. He knew deep down he most likely wouldn't die, but what could happen to a man of his power-set at the bottom of the ocean could be... Unpleasant.

Though the concept of sinking, healing, drowning, healing, drowning, and having his brain kept alive time after time may sound appealing to some - he was not interested in being an aquatic ecosystems all-you-can-nibble-buffet.

Gotta swim, Old Man.

The coat was ditched before pushing off of the Dingy. Meaning he lost the remaining items he had procured from the abandoned truck. His belt was double checked, pouches and clasps hopefully able to survive the water. Shotgun was left on his hip. tethered to his belt tightly, but he wasn't certain it would survive the water without some lengthy cleaning & drying - if he ever found land.

The man was much older than he was the last time he had been forced to swim any great distance. A body that once operated at Peak Human, comparable to the legendary Captain America, was now operating at less than full capacity. He still had a step, or a stroke in this instance, over any peak athlete, but his days of swimming endless lanes were far behind him.

Slowly he swam. Solid form. Shoulder bothered him. Form failed after three hours. Dog Paddle.. Bobbing.. Suddenly a massive shadow blocked the early morning light.

"...Fuck."

A giant wave slammed down over his head.

When the ocean calmed and the choppy waves returned to normal size a thin black mask could be seen briefly floating on the surface where he had just been engulfed...

Tch. Tch. Tch. Tch. Tch.

"..."

Tch. Tch. Tch. Tch. Tch.

Head. Head hurts.

Cheek burns.

Pinches...

Slowly reality sets in. Consciousness gradually returns.

Sand. So much sand.

The large man struggles to draw his fore arms under his chest and eventually, after an attempt or two, pushes himself up and on to his knee's.

Tch. Tch. Tch. Tch.

A crab enjoying a free meal on the side of his face is swatted down and it scurries away with a small chunk of flesh.

Rubbing his eyes slowly and tilting his head to loosen some sand from his ear, he'd gradually bring himself to stand. Clothing was damp, but dry enough to show he had been laying still a few hours. Face slowly reforming as his tissues and skin laced together naturally from where the small crustacean had been dinning. He'd stagger a few steps, pause, shake his head and knock off some more sand from his body before slowly scanning the area to try and determine where the hell he was exactly.

He'd carefully stagger across the beach and throughout several large rock formations along the coast before he'd catch glimpse of a sign: 'Makah Indian Nation'

He'd think for a moment.

"...Neah Bay?"

His brain was foggy, and he'd need a map, but he knew he made it to the good old USA.

He'd sigh heavily as he started noticing buildings & other aspects associated with the areas tourism.

Boots slogged forward and eventually up onto a stretch of road.

He'd see a sign for a motel and begin walking that way.

Slowly checking his equipment as he paced forward. Most things were ruined or missing. Shotgun still swung by his hip, but with no coat to conceal it he may have to stash it or ditch it before he ran into too many people - regardless, it would need an intense once over, and so he thought it best to dump it in a nearby garbage bin.

He'd stand in the parking-lot of the motel and slowly remove a seemingly water sealed case. Within were a few stubby cigar's, aged, burnt, and gnarly. As well as a silver lighter. He'd light a stumpy cigar and have a slow puff or two. The vile smoke surrounding his tongue reminded him how many days it had been since his last.

Hand reaching up to idly scratch under his chin causing many grains of sand to scatter on his boots.

"...Could probably use a shower."