[Following this...]
The sewers of Darien City have been quiet.
Once a hive of activity in times past, great warriors using it's long, winding tunnels and various hidden chambers to meet and plan as they waged wars of survival on the surface.
Trevor Lancin. Identity. Artimus Monjula... A Skrull invasion... all thwarted, though were it not for the safety and privacy of the vast sewer network beneath the city, who knew how these battles may have turned out?
Below the Ghetto large, steel-reinforced concrete doors sat hidden behing a fascia of brickwork. Small electronic panel ripped from the wall beside them, hanging by wires as security seemed to have been bypassed. A large figure approached, trudging through sewer muck, oversized hand reaching to pull the doors open with relative ease, figure slipping through the opening.
In the years since the world finally found some peace, these sewers had grown forgotten. It's remaining denizens were, on the whole, solitary... The secret planning these tunnels were once a hub for had now been replaced with the occasional territorial battle between those who had deemed themselves as unfit for life above ground.
The figure pulled the doors closed behind itself, stepping into what had been used in previous times as a secret bunker. Old, forgotten machinery lined the walls, a long wooden table stretching through the middle of the room. Large screens, if not hanging from the wall, were smashed beyond use. One dim bulb shone light down from the ceiling. A simple home for a simple creature.
Footsteps thudded, kicking up dirt as it crossed the room, catching a quick glimpse of it's self in a cracked mirror.
Thick, moist orange skin was now heavily scarred, rough bumps across it's head would be a sign that either this creature had seen it's fair share of action, or that the years had not been too kind.
In the case of Olegario Salvador... it was both.
He was a man, once. Handsome, too. Originally mutated in a much more svelte form, mind relatively in tact as he served as both an Agent of Atlantis as well as an ambassador for Atlantis with various 'X' teams. First in Washington, Tyme's Institution and then... here. Darien. His new home.
Five years of respite followed The Catalyst, an event which had left the man stripped of his physical mutations, resuming his human life back on the surface. That is... until he found himself abducted by Skrull researchers, his abilities jump-started and triggering a second mutation which turned him into... this.
He'd turn away from the mirror, tentacled mouth exhaling a jet of warm, humid air as he continued down a small hallway to a room in the back of the bunker. Wooden door barely clung to it's frame as he pushed it open. A small mattress sat in one corner beside a large stack of torn up, empty cans of food. He'd drop down onto it, thud likely resonating through the sewer tunnels as he did so. Large hand reached out for a small radio that sat atop a shelf beside him, clumsy digits pressing at buttons until he'd eventually find the right one, static sounding in between choppy voices.
"S...range news fro.... Seattle tod... online forums and chatroo... crazy with spec....ulation as large.... 'creature'..... Seattle docks...."
Head lifted in vague interest as he listened to the report. He'd grunt as he leant over, large hand sifting through the pile of empty cans, eventually finding one that had been left untouched. He relaxed back against the wall, lifting the can to inspect it's label. Refried beans. Not his favourite, but it'd do. Can was pushed beneath the small tentacles that hung over his jaw, seeking out the sharp beak that now served as his mouth. Piercing of metal rang out through the room, beak forcing itself into the can as loud slurping noises sounded over the news report.
A new voice began to speak through the static. Civilian. An interview?
"Saw it myse.... like a big.... big toitle.... jus' sittin' there... in the trench.... only saw... shell... but he was a big one..."
The slurping would stop.
Turtle?
"Turtle." An echoed voice rang out.
Large black eyes shifted focus to his left hand. Smaller... much smaller than the other, orange coloration much lighter. Fist clenched, Olegario groaned as dull pain radiated through the hand.
"Tar...ta...ruga..."
He'd pull himself to his feet, can ripped from his mouth and launched off to the side, colliding with the wall as refried beans splatted across it.
The sewers had been quiet for far too long... and now he knew why. Olegario would move back into the main chamber of the bunker, large hand reaching for a something on a shelf, slamming it down on the table. An atlas? Not an official publication, that was for sure... Hand swept a layer of dust from the cover to reveal that it was a guide to sewer systems stretching across the entirity of the United States. Old, sure... but it'd help. A gift from the bunkers former occupants, who Olegario would look to in the form of a small, dusty photograph that sat in a frame atop one of the nearby consoles. Left as some form of tribute to the work done here. A small group of people, faces scratched out... though two in particular were very familiar to him.
A larger man stood at the back of the photograph, his reluctance to partake quite apparant by his posture... and the one stood beside him. A little shorter. Trenchcoat.
"Cajun."
An old friend. As the world grew calmer and quieter, Olegario had made an agreement with the man. Amongst other things, the cajun had provided access to the various bunkers and caches spread throughout the depths of the sewers. In return, Olegario remained here, protecting not only the sewers and city if required, but the secrets that had been left within, long forgotten by anyone that would still be around to remember them. He'd look away from the picture, eyes fixing on the door.
"Unimportant."
Usually a man of his word, mental state had long since deteriorated and as important as his job was of ensuring the secrets (and mistakes) of the past remained exactly that... the desire and possibility of revenge for battles lost was much too tempting.
The sewers of Darien City have been quiet.
Once a hive of activity in times past, great warriors using it's long, winding tunnels and various hidden chambers to meet and plan as they waged wars of survival on the surface.
Trevor Lancin. Identity. Artimus Monjula... A Skrull invasion... all thwarted, though were it not for the safety and privacy of the vast sewer network beneath the city, who knew how these battles may have turned out?
Below the Ghetto large, steel-reinforced concrete doors sat hidden behing a fascia of brickwork. Small electronic panel ripped from the wall beside them, hanging by wires as security seemed to have been bypassed. A large figure approached, trudging through sewer muck, oversized hand reaching to pull the doors open with relative ease, figure slipping through the opening.
In the years since the world finally found some peace, these sewers had grown forgotten. It's remaining denizens were, on the whole, solitary... The secret planning these tunnels were once a hub for had now been replaced with the occasional territorial battle between those who had deemed themselves as unfit for life above ground.
The figure pulled the doors closed behind itself, stepping into what had been used in previous times as a secret bunker. Old, forgotten machinery lined the walls, a long wooden table stretching through the middle of the room. Large screens, if not hanging from the wall, were smashed beyond use. One dim bulb shone light down from the ceiling. A simple home for a simple creature.
Footsteps thudded, kicking up dirt as it crossed the room, catching a quick glimpse of it's self in a cracked mirror.
Thick, moist orange skin was now heavily scarred, rough bumps across it's head would be a sign that either this creature had seen it's fair share of action, or that the years had not been too kind.
In the case of Olegario Salvador... it was both.
He was a man, once. Handsome, too. Originally mutated in a much more svelte form, mind relatively in tact as he served as both an Agent of Atlantis as well as an ambassador for Atlantis with various 'X' teams. First in Washington, Tyme's Institution and then... here. Darien. His new home.
Five years of respite followed The Catalyst, an event which had left the man stripped of his physical mutations, resuming his human life back on the surface. That is... until he found himself abducted by Skrull researchers, his abilities jump-started and triggering a second mutation which turned him into... this.
He'd turn away from the mirror, tentacled mouth exhaling a jet of warm, humid air as he continued down a small hallway to a room in the back of the bunker. Wooden door barely clung to it's frame as he pushed it open. A small mattress sat in one corner beside a large stack of torn up, empty cans of food. He'd drop down onto it, thud likely resonating through the sewer tunnels as he did so. Large hand reached out for a small radio that sat atop a shelf beside him, clumsy digits pressing at buttons until he'd eventually find the right one, static sounding in between choppy voices.
"S...range news fro.... Seattle tod... online forums and chatroo... crazy with spec....ulation as large.... 'creature'..... Seattle docks...."
Head lifted in vague interest as he listened to the report. He'd grunt as he leant over, large hand sifting through the pile of empty cans, eventually finding one that had been left untouched. He relaxed back against the wall, lifting the can to inspect it's label. Refried beans. Not his favourite, but it'd do. Can was pushed beneath the small tentacles that hung over his jaw, seeking out the sharp beak that now served as his mouth. Piercing of metal rang out through the room, beak forcing itself into the can as loud slurping noises sounded over the news report.
A new voice began to speak through the static. Civilian. An interview?
"Saw it myse.... like a big.... big toitle.... jus' sittin' there... in the trench.... only saw... shell... but he was a big one..."
The slurping would stop.
Turtle?
"Turtle." An echoed voice rang out.
Large black eyes shifted focus to his left hand. Smaller... much smaller than the other, orange coloration much lighter. Fist clenched, Olegario groaned as dull pain radiated through the hand.
"Tar...ta...ruga..."
He'd pull himself to his feet, can ripped from his mouth and launched off to the side, colliding with the wall as refried beans splatted across it.
The sewers had been quiet for far too long... and now he knew why. Olegario would move back into the main chamber of the bunker, large hand reaching for a something on a shelf, slamming it down on the table. An atlas? Not an official publication, that was for sure... Hand swept a layer of dust from the cover to reveal that it was a guide to sewer systems stretching across the entirity of the United States. Old, sure... but it'd help. A gift from the bunkers former occupants, who Olegario would look to in the form of a small, dusty photograph that sat in a frame atop one of the nearby consoles. Left as some form of tribute to the work done here. A small group of people, faces scratched out... though two in particular were very familiar to him.
A larger man stood at the back of the photograph, his reluctance to partake quite apparant by his posture... and the one stood beside him. A little shorter. Trenchcoat.
"Cajun."
An old friend. As the world grew calmer and quieter, Olegario had made an agreement with the man. Amongst other things, the cajun had provided access to the various bunkers and caches spread throughout the depths of the sewers. In return, Olegario remained here, protecting not only the sewers and city if required, but the secrets that had been left within, long forgotten by anyone that would still be around to remember them. He'd look away from the picture, eyes fixing on the door.
"Unimportant."
Usually a man of his word, mental state had long since deteriorated and as important as his job was of ensuring the secrets (and mistakes) of the past remained exactly that... the desire and possibility of revenge for battles lost was much too tempting.
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