"We're Maybe Homes!"

"Marcy Holmes baby."  The mother of the little kid who had been pointing at the apartment building had shook her head.  "And that isn't our building.  We're over there."

A couple of weeks ago, you had been bringing in a box of your stuff from Aunt Marlene's car, walking up the sidewalk from the parking lot when you had gotten stuck behind that woman and her kid.  The kid had pointed at Marlene's building and said that.

"We're Maybe Homes!"

The little time you've spent in Minneapolis thus far has taught you the city is mostly green and grey.  Green trees.  Gray weather.  It's been a wet summer thus far.  It's just mostly rained or been overcast for the couple of weeks you've been here.

Aunt Marlene lives in a four unit, two story building.  Unit 201, the upper right apartment.  The building fronts on to 5th Street Southeast, right by the corner where 5th Street intersects 5th Avenue Southeast.  Fifth and Fifth.  No joke.  Apparently every street in the Marcy Holmes district of Minneapolis has Southeast at the end of it's name, which just makes the situation even more confusing.

You woke up this morning with that memory of the kid and his Maybe Homes in your head.  Maybe you were having a dream and that memory had just been replaying.

Marlene was already gone by the time you walked out of the small room which is now 'your room' and into the kitchen.  Marlene's apartment is:  a living room large enough to hold a love seat, an ottoman, and a big screen TV; a kitchen which is actually bigger than the living room with a round kitchen table; her room; your room which used to be her storage room; and the bathroom the two of you now share.  That's it.  Home hadn't been that big either.  But it was sure bigger than this.

She left you a plate with some bacon, an english muffin, and a hard boiled egg wrapped in plastic wrap on the table next to the chair that was now 'your chair'.  Beside it was the stack of 'your mail' which you haven't really done anything with yet.  There's a packet from Thomas Eddison High School.  You'll start there in two days.  And a copy of the Minnesota Practice Driver's Exam.  You have the learner's permit.  But driving has kind of been...on hold.  What with everything.

Today there's also a note.  You should buy some new shoes.  Here's eighty $$$. There's a Sav U Shoe story on University Ave and 4th.  Take a look at the park while you're there.  I'll be back late.  We have a girl's night out after work.  So get a big lunch too.

She actually only left $75.  You know if you walk two blocks southwest down Fifth Avenue Southeast, you'll come to University Avenue Southeast.  Then you should be able to walk a block northwest to Fourth Avenue Southeast.

Looking out the window, it's another overcast day.  The bacon somehow tastes like it wasn't salted.

Marlene's right though.  You do need new shoes.  Your left sneaker has a hole on the instep which is just getting bigger.

You lock the door with the spare key copy Marlene gave you.  There's a set of stairs down to the mailboxes and entry.  At the bottom of them, on his knees, is an old guy you haven't seen before.  There are two paper bags of groceries sitting on the bottom step and another paper bag with a large hole in it on the floor below them.  Scattered across the walkway are several large pink grapefruits.  The man is probably a neighbor who was bringing groceries home when one of the bags broke open and spilled the grapefruits all over.

You'll have to step over the grocery bags on the bottom step and walk past him to get out to the street.

“Marcy Holmes,” Jack repeats a few times to himself as he stirs to wakefulness. He could go a long time without sleep, but sometimes it was simply mandatory for his sense of self, a means of decompressing a lot of stored up information. It was also necessary so that he would pass as normal with his aunt. He doesn’t think she’d sell him out or anything, and he has little fear, but the rules his parents had instilled on him since he was young: “Don’t let anyone know.”

The summer is fading fast, and while he doesn’t quite expect it to be exactly as cold as it is just an hour and a half north, he expects that soon the leaves will fall and the snows will come.  This deep in the downtown area, he expects the amount of times he’ll need to push a car out of a ditch will be minimal, not that he minds doing that sort of thing.

Rubbing the remainders of sleep from his eyes, Jack pulls on the same clothes he’d worn the day before. He can get away with that sort of thing as long as he didn’t spill anything on it, since he creates essentially no bi-products, despite his agegroup’s notoriety for being ripe.  His aunt probably didn’t notice, he expects, because she had never raised a teenager before, but from his fellow students he knows he is sparing her a certain amount of work on the laundry.

Eating the food she has left out, he stares out the windows, watching the traffic in the nearby streets. Unable to stop himself from looking at and listening to the area, he can get away with the looking. His eyes piercing the veils of concrete and plaster, wood and drywall. He stares at the people going about their business for a mote, irresistibly curious about the lives of others. He’d never had so many people around, doing so many things. Never so many good looking women, either.

Realizing he was being creepy a moment later, he hangs his head and sighs into the remainder of his English muffin. Scolding himself for looking where he shouldn’t, he nods to himself while he reads her note.

“New shoes?” he questions and looks towards his pair of shredded Converse near the door. “Yeah, okay,” he confirms with the note. He’d try to stretch that seventy-five though. Goodwill and Savers first, and then if he can’t find anything cheap there, he’ll go to this ‘Sav U Shoe’. So he looks that up and plots a course.

Finding the man on the stairs, Jack doesn’t recognize him from the other three units, but he doesn’t think anything of it. Stopping by the man, he grabs up a few of the grapefruits and holds them out for the guy. “I'm Jack, staying with my aunt in 201," he explains and then looking at the man, he asks, "Which unit are you in? I can help carry your stuff up," being respectful.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:21, Sat 16 Nov 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 2):

The old guy straightens up when you speak, blinking in surprise.  A grin slides across his face.  So you're the new guy, huh?  Marlene.  She said she was gonna go get her nephew to come stay with her.  And here you are!  Good to meetcha!  I'm Sol. Rabbi Soloman Letz.  But you're not Jewish.  So just cal me Sol.  I'm across the way from you.

He points up at Apartment 202.  I moved in about a year ago.  Downsized since my wife died.  Schlotz!  Will you look at these cheap bags?  He holds up the broken one that caused the problem.  He then holds it sideways, so the two of you can dump the grapefruits on the unbroken part of the bag.

I say schlotz a lot cos I can't say 'shit' since I'm a rabbi.  Well I could.  But I'm not supposed to.  Bad for the image.  Yeah if you could follow me up with the unbroken bags.  Oh you're a life saver!  At my age, going up and down these stairs can be a real schlotz.  Ya know what I mean?

He manages the key to his apartment and you help carry the bags inside.  He has a bigger place.   His living room is large enough to hold everything a living room should and still have space to walk around the sofa.  He sighs.  You want a soda or somethin'?  School hasn't started up yet right?  Where are you gonna go?  He walks back from his fridge with two cold cans of Fresca.

You findin' your way around okay?

"Yes, sir," Jack confirms when the rabbi questions his bona fides.  "Good to meet you too," he says, being polite. It's not that he's unfailingly polite, or a boy scout like some might expect, but leaving an old man to deal with spilled fruit seemed rude. Glancing up the stairs toward the apartment in question, he looks at it from the bottom of the stairs before he looks back to the old man.
Walking up the stairs with him, holding whatever is necessary, he carries it into the apartment. Fearless.

"Mel Brooks is the closest guy to a rabbi I've ever had around me, so you could swear and I'd have never known," he points out. The DVD collection back home had been somewhat limited. Blazing Saddles was one of the handful. "Your place is a lot bigger than aunt Marlene's," he points out with a smile and looks around a little, his hands staying in his pockets.

"A soda? Sure. No, school starts in two days, Edi-- Thomas Edison," he answers. "Yeah, just on my way to Goodwill and a few places to see if I can find a good pair of shoes, and maybe some replacement hoodies or something for the year with the seventy-five my aunt gave me."

He pauses then, like he's dwelling on a question.

"Say, do you know if this place Sav U Shoe is good? She recommended it, but I think she just didn't want to send me to the thrift store. But I don't mind," he explains.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 4):

Sol raises an eyebrow, apparently surprised by something in your answer.  "You are a very honest young man.  Aren't you?  It's a good way to be.  Cheers."  He toasts you by bumping his Fresca against yours.

"I know that Sav U place.  Meh.  Not bad.  Just meh.  But thrift stores aren't so great a place if you don't have to.  Tell you what.  It's a little bit of a walk.  But you're young.
You go down 5th Street.  Not the Avenue.  The Street.  You go until you come to Central Avenue.  You turn right.  You'll see a Ray J's cafe.  Not a bad place for a sandwich by the way.  Anyway, about four?  No.  Five doors down from Ray J is a Emily's Boutique.  You go in there and you tell them Rabbi Letz sent you for some shoes.  And tell them I said treat you right.  Trust me on this. If Emily can't help, she'll still find a way to help.

If you don't want the walk, the Sav U isn't bad.  I think there's a Good Will a block farther north from there as well.

As far as a hoodie..."  He sets down his Fresca and holds up a finger, telling you to wait.  He goes down a hall and enters a room off it.  You wait a few minutes, enjoying the citrusy refreshment that is Fresca, before he comes back taking a plastic garment bag off a hoodie.  "Here!  This should fit you."

It's an old hoodie in arctic camo colors with solid black sleeves.  It's in suprisingly good condition.  "Go on.  Take it.  It's just taking up space in my spare closet.  It was my son's.  He doesn't need it anymore.  Go on."  He kind of thrusts it at you, not in a hostile fashion, but like he's not going to take no for an answer.

Jack takes the bump to his drink with a smile and sips at the Fresca, it isn’t his favorite, but it isn’t bad either. Apparently a bit like Sav U Shoe. Meh.

“Fifth street to central, five doors past Ray J’s sandwich place, Emily’s Boutique, tell her you sent me,” he repeats it back to make sure he caught the right directions, not because he’d forget, but it’s one of those normal people behaviors he’d picked up on. Making it less obvious how little he forgets, his eyes flicking from the top of the can to the man and then to him as he goes walking down the hallway to that room.

When he comes back with the hoodie, Jack manages to look genuinely surprised. He’d actually sort of hoped that the old Rabbi knew a good place to get shoes, because old people always know things like that, and pastors/rabbis doubly so. It’s in the job description. But the hoodie is a surprise.

Taking it in his spare hand, he looks at it and then at the Rabbi, like he’s trying to imagine him wearing the camo. Hearing who it belonged to, he nods his head a little and says, “Thank you, Sol.” He doesn’t ask about the son, because that’s Sol’s thing, and he doesn’t want to prod a raw nerve with someone he just met.

“What kind of sandwich do you like there?” he asks. “What do you recommend?” he clarifies.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 6):

Sol looks surprised.  "I'm Jewish!  So the Reuben of course!"  He chuckles.  "They actually make a nice Philly.  I like the mushroom burger too.

You got the directions down straight.  So be careful.  It's not the neighborhood it used to be."

He seems like he's about to consider saying something and then shrugs.  "Well. You seem like you got some sense.  Just be careful.  'kay?"

Hearing the sandwich of choice, Jack nods and makes a mental note for later. Taking the hoodie off of the hanger, he pulls it on over his Coca-Cola Classic tee and listens to Sol’s final mention of the neighborhood he is headed toward. “I’m sure I’ll be fine Sol, but I’ll keep my head on a swivel,” he declares and gives the old man a thumbs up.

Holding up the finished can of Fresca, he asks, “Where is your recycling bin? Oh, you know what, I’ll throw it in the bin on the way out, in fact, if you want I can take your trash down if you have anything that needs to go down, since I’m on my way out,” and then after a half second of thought proceeds to feel his pockets with his fingertips. Switching the can between hands so he can alternate the hands. Checking to make sure that he’d grabbed the money, his phone and his keys. The keys now consisting of his key to aunt Marlene’s building, apartment, and one for the old house in Saint Cloud.

The keys are there of course, he’d locked the door on the way out, and his phone is where it belongs. The money is in his wallet, and that’s there too along with his learner’s permit. “Thanks for the help, the soda, and the hoody, Sol. I’ll see you around sometime,” he says and starts to back to the door.

Of course, he takes whatever Sol asks him to take down without complaint. The advice, the potential help with the shoes, and the hoody was more than worth the price of a chore. Also, Sol seems like a cool old guy, and he thinks he might offer to help him with other stuff from time to time.

It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.

---

A few minutes later, his departure from Sol managed with typical Minnesota goodbye traditions, making it slightly longer than is strictly necessary, Jack begins making his way down fifth toward Central. His hands sliding into the pockets of the hoody as he walks, he lets his eyes rove over the area. The refreshing breeze on his face, the crisp approach of September’s autumn air and the departure of the stifling Minnesota humidity.

Not that he really experiences such things like a normal person, but he’s aware of the change in the humidity in the same way that he might be aware of the change of the breeze. He can enjoy and differentiate, even if neither makes life better or worse.

The passage between blocks from residential to more commercial marked with his purposeful stride. Tireless and athletic, he occasionally has to remind himself to settle.

Make it less obvious.

He stumbles deliberately on a crack in the sidewalk, stabilizes, and starts dragging his feet a little. Trying to make himself look less purposeful, less resilient and athletic. More normal. Whatever that is.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 8):

Sol waves off the offer with a cheerful smile.  "No.  I'm fine.  Just be good.  And Jack?  Take care."  The old Rabbi is smiling as he says that, but he puts a little emphasis on the last two words.

---

The neighborhood seems to be mostly college kids attending the University, younger couples just starting out, young families, and small pockets of elderly people like Sol.  You pass a small park.  There's a jungle gym and a swing set and benches set around where parents, mostly women, sit and chat while their kids run around whooping at each other.  It's almost so perfect you could mistake it as fake.  Like the sky and trees were a mat painting, and the kids all had agents who were trying to get them Nickelodeon shows.

You pass by a pizza kitchen that hasn't opened yet for business, but appear to be baking off a few pies.  The smell of the fresh bread and garlic sits like a fog bank along the sidewalk in front of the store.  The place is called Skelly's Fine...well.  Just that.  Skelly's Fine.  It looks like the 'Pizza' that was supposed to appear after 'Fine' has faded off.

About a block away from your destination, you see a group of kids your age on the opposite side of the street, headed the way you had come.  It's not the fact they are of the same age as you that draws your attention.  You've passed a couple of other groups like that.  It's the fact they are all appear to be color coordinated.  The boys wear blue denim shirts which look ironed and khaki slacks.  The girls all wear comfortable looking plain brown skirts and yellow blouses.  You can see several of them have pins attached to to their clothes, just above their heart.

You have no trouble reading the pins from this distance.

One says BE Content

Another reads BE Happy

Another reads We must all BE as we must all BE.

The group is laughing and talking amongst themselves as they walk down the street.  You see an older woman ahead watching after them.  She clicks her tongue, shakes her head, and goes back to sweeping the steps leading up to her dress shop.

You see the signage ahead.  Ray J's.  It looks like it's just about to open.  You don't know if there will be a lunch rush, but you could get there ahead of it.  Emily's store should be five doors down from that.

Given the events of his recent life, Jack is trying his best to feel that Rockwell vibe. He doesn’t. His mother’s recent arrest, his move to the big city, they are simultaneously the best and worst things that have ever happened to him. He’d felt like life was stalled in their cabin southwest of Saint Cloud. They were near a lake (everywhere is near a lake in Minnesota) and there was plenty of room for him to run around or even fly if he felt like he could get away with it.

But even at night, his parents didn’t want him flying too high, or too fast. Either might set off the military, weather monitoring stations or even whatever passed for the local Meta Elements in the local region. He’d not had a great childhood, and he largely put his blame on his homeschooling and the remoteness of their lives. So while he treasured the idea of finally joining society, he was doing it because of the absence of his mother, and he constantly wondered at her well-being up north.

It was too far for even him to look in on her, though he suspected if she started yelling, he might hear her. He'd never really tested the range of his hearing. He suspected it was far enough it might reach.

Walking along, he looks at the frat boys and the couples, and then the kids in school uniforms? Mormons? The matching buttons and the matching outfits makes him think of something. Cults? BE. MayBE Homes.  Marcy Holmes.

Maybe that's what his dream had been about, he'd been listening to conversations and picking up on things in his sleep. Block-adjacent conversations.
*Note to self: buy ear plugs and shooting ear-muffs from a gun store.

The pizza place and the sandwich joint both get a glance, not because he’s necessarily hungry, he scarcely needs to eat to survive and he does it mostly out of the compulsion to BE normal, so the woman shaking her head becomes his destination. Listening in on their conversation as he walks, he turns his eyes toward the woman shaking her head at them, and comes to a stop near her to ask, “What’s the deal with the school uniforms?” Out of curiosity.

All the while, he keeps his ears on the teenagers. Trying to figure out the answer, even before she can give it. A perpetual solver of riddles.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:03, Wed 20 Nov 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 10):

It's hard to quite understand the conversation the kids are having.  You've missed part of it, and maybe that part would have provided some context.  But it sounds fairly innocuous.

"Oh my!  I know exactly what you're talking about!  I got that look when I asked for a second helping of the lemonade!"

"So I tried playing it off.  I was all like...'Oh!  This isn't for me!  This is for Barry!'"

They all laugh.  One of the guys throws up his hands and rolls his eyes.

"Sure," he says. "Blame it all on me!"  But he laughs along with everyone else.

"Oh Brad!  Just BE happy the girls are thinking of you!"

They all laugh again.  The only weird thing is the way that last guy said BE.  He kind of gave the word a weird emphasis.  It's hard to explain.  For some reason, you just think of the word in capital letters.

---

The woman with the broom starts a little when you speak to her.  "Damn!  Just about gave me a stroke!"  But she doesn't seem to upset.  Or at least her body temperature doesn't appear to have risen significantly the way you would imagine it would if someone suddenly became agitated due to anger.

"Those kids?  Well..."  She hesitates a second and then shrugs.  "They're good people.  I mean.  All the BEs are always very nice and polite.  But...I dunno.  I'll just be standing here minding my own business.  But then they pass by, and I can't help but look at them.  You're too young to remember the Stepford Wives.  But I swear, it's like watching a bunch of Stepford Wives in real life.  But that's probably just me being bitchy."

And again, you heard it.  The weird way she said BE that one time.  It just came out different.  It's like he speaking pitch changed and her voice sounded a little tighter.  BE.  It just feels like the E is capitalized.

Leaving off on listening to their conversation, Jack rotates his attention fully for a second to the woman sweeping and smiles a little, holding up his palms in a soothing gesture. He lowers his hands again when she begins to explain and looks after the teenagers for a moment. His attention drifting, even as his ears listened to her.

They have friends. They might BE weird and be part of some cult or something, but in at least that one aspect they are ahead of Jack. Maybe Sol is a friend in the making though.  And with luck, he’d make a few more at school once that started. He has nothing to fear in a physical sense, but he does worry that he might make an ass out of himself.

The pressure to be not just normal, but likeable.

That was the hard part. Being normal. Processing everything faster, seeing the small glances they’d have probably hidden, the furtive looks between people, overhearing conversations, it all added up. Every sense made him more odd, because his view of the world was unlike anything they could imagine. His mother had once asked him to describe how he saw things, versus how things appeared on television without the benefit of his senses picking up everything they might normally. “I imagine it’d be like you looking at the world with a bucket on your head, stuffed with foam?” he had answered, not sure how to explain the difference.

Muted. That was the word he should have used. The idea that normal people couldn’t see the stars in the sky had baffled him in his early years. Of course, it also meant that they didn't deal with the smells of others quite as distinctly, that loud noises weren't unpleasant to an alarming degree, and they could enjoy the small things. Like when someone hadn't done a great job butchering their meat and left extra fat and gristle. He noticed these things in ways that others probably did not.

As his mind processed and remembered, he realized that his attention had been inappropriately split, and his head had nodded as appropriate. His mind replaying the conversation for him, he nods a bit more firmly.

“I see,” he says and glancing back at them again, he nods at the woman. She’s working in front of a dress shop, and at a glance, he doesn’t think she sells anything that’d work for him, so thankfully he is spared trying to explain why he isn’t going to go in to her store after her helpful tidbit. No feeling of obligation there. “It's good that they're pleasant. The B.E. thing though, is that like a cult or self-help group thing?” he asks, since she hadn’t really explained what they were, then again, she hadn’t corrected him when he’d said it was a school uniform.

Edison would make for an E initial, but it’s Thomas. TE. Not his future high school then.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:41, Thu 21 Nov 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 12):

She stops sweeping at your question and seems to think the answer over carefully.  "Honestly.  I...don't really know.  They just kinda started showing up one day, and that's just how they were.  I'm not even sure I know any of them personally.  Huh."  She shakes her head and then gives you a wry smile.  "Listen to me.  Making judgments about people I don't know a thing about.  Ha.  You never realize how high you have your nose in the air until it rains, do ya?"

She shrugs, gives you another smile, and heads inside her store.  She's humming under her breath.  It's the melody from The Girl From Ipanema  YOu can hear the BEs still.  But it's more inane chatter.

A guy comes out of Ray J's carrying one of those sandwich boards.  The daily specials are being advertised.  A Philly with fries and cup of tomato basil soup.  $8.

Ray Js?  Or Emily's?  Or wherever Jack would like to go.

“You didn’t say anything negative, ma’am,” Jack replies, and gives her a nod as she walks back in to her shop. Turning his attention back to the street, he makes another mental note to look up the group later on the internet, or maybe ask Sol about them. Sol would know, probably. Turning back to his track, he continues forward again, hands dipping into the pockets of his hoodie as he makes his way towards Emily’s Boutique.

He has a plan to stop at Ray J’s on the way back, if he has any money left, but he can’t count on that. Emily’s might give him a discount, but the likes of Wal-Mart and other businesses in that category had made it hard for small businesses to be too generous. That said, he might get access to her discards or items she was otherwise going to be throwing away.

Who knew? A guy could only hope that whatever she came up with wasn’t going to get him ridiculed at school.

As Jack approaches, he lets his gaze wander slightly and he checks to make sure that it should be open: checking the time, before he pulls on the handle. He’d learned to do that when he was half his current age when he pulled the front door off of a local business on a trip in to town. His mother had been good about making it seem like it was the owner’s fault, had threatened a lawsuit, but afterward, he’d been made to learn to look to make sure places were open—and even then, to open a door at a sedate pace.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 14):

I love the Wal-Mart bit and the careful thought in to opening the door.  That's great

Emily's is open and Emily herself turns out to be a young woman in her late twenties.  A little heavy set but with a pair of very big, bright green eyes.  She also has a sort of lop sided grin.  It's like more of the left sided part of her face is smiling than the right.  But she seems pleasant enough.

"Rabbi Sol sent you huh?  Shoes?  Let's see.  You look like you're about a....size 11?  Medium?"  Whether you believe she's close or not, the two of you measure.  "Shoot.  Eleven and a half.  I used to be better at feet than that."

She shrugs and sort of trudges back to the racks, gesturing you to sit in a chair.  "How'd you meet Rabbi Sol?  Me and my husband go to Beth El.  You go there too?  Not Jewish?  Huh.  You Lutheran?  No.  I bet you can't be Lutheran.  You didn't come in with a coffee in your hand.  Lutherans are great.  Love 'em.  But man do they love their coffee.  I had a neighbor when I was in college.  She and her roommate were both Lutheran.  And they would spend more money on coffee than they would on everything else combined.  But man! They had some of the The!  Best!  Coffee!  I mean brands I'd never heard of.   They weren't going through Amazon either.  Here we go.  What abou'...

So anyhoo.  You go to Edison?  My husband Barney used to teach there.  Biology.  But honestly back in 2010 we kinda had to let two of the three girls we had here at the store go.  Part of it was the Obamacare and minimum wage thing yeah.  But it was mostly business.  One of the girls honestly I had been thinkin' about lettin' go.  Nice girl, but I can't be sure she wasn't stealing.  The other girl...Claire?  Oh, that broke my heart to tell her.  Such a nice girl.  Whadda ya think about these?

My Barney teaches at the junior college now.  That's how we get our health insurance.  We only have a part timer.  Sweet girl.  Lacy Hilden.  She goes to Edison.  Known her family for years.  They go to the non-denominational church Sacred Hands across the river.  The Hildens are wonderful people.  Lacy only works Saturday though.  And is about the only one I trust to run the shop by herself.  Cos..you know.  Jewish.  So I'm off on Saturdays.

Now then.  These also might be nice...

You might meet Lacy.  She's gonna be a junior at Edison this year too.  Don't know what I'm gonna do when she goes to college.  Do you want a Jolly Rancher?  There's some in that bowl there."

During all this, Emily rummages around and produces three choices for you.

A cheap...and they look cheap.  Almost bad cheap...pair of blue sneakers.  The material is pretty thin.  She'll sell them to you for $30.

There's a pair of cowboy boots.  They look in good shape and feel comfortable.  But they are boots, which may or may not be to your liking.  The price on those are $55.

The last option is a pair of knock off brand Nikes (the brand name is not one you've heard of before called Kines).  The Kines are decently made but kind of an odd bluish color.  Not neon blue or anything.  But kind of sky blue.  $50.

"Anything else you were lookin' for?"

“He’s my neighbor.”

Jack is mindful of her apparent palsy, but can’t begin to reckon the differences between varieties of disorders that might cause it, or if it’s just a tic. “Yeah, eleven-ish, I don’t think I’ve grown too much, these are still pretty comfortable,” he’d answered but as she’d pointed out, it was always necessary to double check. The shoes she produces in the 11 ½ size being a bit funky for his tastes. He felt like he could get a better deal if he waited for Black Friday.

Not some fancy pair, mind, but something new and not liable to get him made fun of. But until November he’d make do with what he could get, and he’s fairly certain these are at least close to the options he’ll find at the Goodwill. Maybe a touch more expensive, and with less variety to choose from, but he can’t know for certain, and if he burns this bridge he can’t rely on good Emily in the future.

The question of his denomination has him answer promptly, “I’m agnostic ma’am, my parents were Presbyterian and um.. I think my dad’s family was Jehovah’s Witnesses, but we never really met them and obviously never went to any sort of events with them. I don’t know how I feel about things, personally..” he answered smoothly, and without shame.

Looking at his three options, he weighs them. The first pair is straight out. No shoes could really survive him running in them, and while he imagined in his mind that someday he might meet a tinker or inventor worth their weight in gold, and ask for a pair of Meta-level running shoes, he knows that nothing he buys here should be based on the notion of running at full speed in them.

Instead, he has to weigh them in the same way a regular teenage boy might.

With vanity in mind, he says, “It’s the boots or the Kines. I don’t know which one they’ll tease me for less. The cowboy boots may me look like a redneck, which isn’t good, and the Kines will make me look poor. I might be able to unstitch the lettering on them though, I’ll just need one of those little scissors,” he reckons aloud.

That seals it for him. The revelation that he could make them non-descript.

It also helps that in his mind’s eye, their odd bluish color is probably somewhat similar to his eyes, and girls might like that. “I’ll take these. Uh, hm.. I packed ten shirts, five pairs of pants, plenty of socks and underwear. Sol gave me a hoody,” he is thinking out loud and lightly fingers the hoody he is wearing. “I suppose maybe a hat? The Wild as a team could be good, or maybe something just plain, something for when my hair isn’t looking so slick? And uh, another hoody, since it’ll be getting cold before jacket weather, what do you have?” he decides. “I only have seventy five, and I was hoping to get Sol a sandwich, but I guess can do that in the future.”
This message was lightly edited by the player at 05:44, Sun 24 Nov 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 16):

Emily laughs.  "You're a good kid, aren't ya?

Tell you what.  Buy the hoodie from me an' the shoes an' I'll throw in a hat for free.  Hoodies...here we go.

She shows you a section of the rack which has several hoodies.  They're all flat zipper up hoodies of single colors.

The hat section takes up one half of a wall.  Baseball caps with team logos, a lot of funny logos like Deny Everything and I'm not desperate enough to settle for you yet, and several very plain ones.

I'll let you decide.  As long as it's not too exotic, go nuts

She looks at your choices and says, "I'll make you a deal.  You promise to visit again an' I'll sell you the lot for...$58.  Deal?"

You notice a community style paper on the counter by the cash register.  The lead story's headline reads Has the Minnesota Monkey Returned?!?

Emily sees you glancing at it.  She snorts.  "That rag isn't even much of a scandal rag.  But it does have a good listing of stuff going on like festivals and concerts an' stuff.  The Monkey comin' back is just a bunch of nonsense.  He'd be older than Sol if he was back.

You have no idea what she's talking about.  The confusion must show on your face.  "Oh!  You really aren't from around here, right?  The Monkey was kind of a' small time meta back in the...I guess it was the early nineties.  Closest thing we've had to a Cowl type since I've lived in Minnesota." She uses the euphemism for a meta-vigilante.

Listening to her offer, Jack nods his head and looks at the wide variety. He settles on a black baseball cap with only a single white lightning bolt on it. Nothing too special, just something that catches his eye. He puts it on, and tests the fit, and finding it acceptable, dons it right there on the spot. With his seventy five, he talks to her while he sorts out his money and hands over the fifty-eight.

The hoody he had decided on was similarly plain, dark grey with a logo for some sportswear company on the breast and a pair of draw straps for the hood.

He takes off his shoes once he has paid and hands them over for her to throw in the trash. "Don't suppose you have a sewing kit? So I can remove the lettering?" he asks, looking at the Kines logo on them, and not holding out hope, starts to lace them up. Bending over to do it with a small show of flexibility.

Looking back up as she is explaining the Monkey, he nods his head and picks up the paper, looking at the price on it.

He could use some details on meta news. He can always get info online, but it was so easy for metas to scrub those websites that got things right that all that was left was the conspiracy theories and the hard to find sources.  That from his limited computer experience, anyway.

"So he was a big deal a while ago and then disappeared? Wonder why they think it's him."
This message was last edited by the player at 05:59, Tue 26 Nov 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 18):

Emily laughs and holds our her hand for the shoes.  She has some sewing equipment and unstitches the logo for you while you peruse the paper.

The newspaper is free.  It's called the Minneapolis Market News.  It seems to be some local paper that's really a lot of advertisements, but does have a few articles about local news and event announcements.

Please see the Market News thread for the article

Emily hands you your shoes, logo free.  "Thanks.  See you around Jack."
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:08, Tue 26 Nov 2019.

Walking out of Emily's boutique after browsing the article, taking his time about it with a few glances over at Emily as she pulls the stitches out. He  smiles at her when she hands the shoes back and tucks the paper into the bag for the hoodie he'd just bought. The hat on his head, the shoes on his feet, he can tell the difference in padding, and the feel of the new hat. Like a new man!

"Thanks, Emily," he mentions. "I'll tell Sol you said hello," he mentions.

As he walks, he reflects on the tone and facts of the paper, his eyes gravitating towards Ray J's diner as he walks. Eventually, he should maybe try to meet 'the Monkey' or whoever it is, and see what they are about, but he had to be ready for his full debut at that point. He'd need to get some sort of mask to cover his face at the least, and he needed to make sure that his aunt didn't find out.

He didn't think he wanted to wait until he was eighteen before he ever did anything. There were too many people in need of help most nights, their cries and pleas falling on nobody's ears but his. He could do things to help them, and his parent's rules had handcuffed him. But he would only let that last for so long.

It was never going to be a matter of if he came out of the phonebooth, but when.

Opening the door, he steps inside the diner, intent on ordering the special for Sol. Since Sol had done him a good turn.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 20):

"Welcome to Ray Js.  Come in and have a seat."  A woman about Marlene's age but a bit pudgier and with noticeably graying hair stands behind the counter at Ray J's.  The counter is long and lined with stools with thickly padded red cushions on the seat.  There are tables off to the right, but at this time of day, no one is sitting in any of them.  There's one other customer, seated all the way at the other end of the counter.  He's probably a college student, but pretty muscular.  He's wearing a grey and brown flannel shirt, jeans, and one of those hunters hats with the ear flaps, also brown in color.

The waitress smiles and plunks a glass of water on the counter in front of you.  There is a stand with menus between the salt and pepper shakers.  A half filled bottle of ketchup sits beside the pepper.

"Got a real good special today.  Also we got some good hot dishes,".  The menu does indeed have a selection of every casserole Minnesota is famous for.

Juanita...that's what her name tag says...motions she'll be right back and goes down to the college student.  He's having the Beef 'n Noodles hot dish.

She walks away to put in his ticket.  You can hear him mutter under his breath, just as clearly as if he were speaking directly in to your own, "How the hell am I gonna do this?  I can't screw this up again."

You can see he has a paper set in front of him.  It's a class schedule for Thomas Edison.

A glance at the woman as he walks in, and Jack smiles, taking a seat. He immediately glances around for the price on the special, and decides if his math is correct that he can get himself and Sol both one of the specials.  It sometimes felt selfish to eat for the sake of enjoying the taste of food, as he would be, but  he could save up his lunch money in the future.

The sound of the other young man’s voice from the other end of the counter makes his attention catch all the more. The outfit, the build, he doesn’t just look like a college student, he even dresses a bit like one. But the words and the paper make him think that the other guy must be a student.

Picking up his water, he walks down the counter, taking a seat a few seats away, he posits an opening question: “Thomas Edison, too?” leaving the question open ended deliberately, so that, if the guy is friendly, he might fill in the gaps.

When Junita comes over a few moments later to ask him for his order, he answers swiftly, “So, I’d like the special, the philly and soup, and a Coke? How much would what be? I’d like to get another special to go, when I leave, if I can afford it,” he mentions, so that she can help him make an educated decision. Not really giving her much hope for a tip, but he’s a young teenager, and her only customer, something is better than nothing.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 22):

Junita shrugs.  "Special's eight.  Two'd be sixteen.  Coke is a dollar more.  I can put in the order for the second one once I bring you your plate.  That way it'll stay hotter longer."

The big guy seems a bit surprised at first.  Then he looks down at the class schedule.  "You could see this?  You got great vision."

He nods.  "Yeah.  I'm Dan Cabbrizi."  He says that like you'll know who he is.  After a moment he shakes his head.  "You really aren't from around here, huh?  You just starting?  If you got your schedule, I can give you a heads up as to which teacher is gonna be a pain in the ass."  He picks up his drink.  Under his breath you can hear him mutter to himself.  "I've had 'em all enough times."

Jack will have to take English, World History, a foreign language, math of your choosing, and two electives of your choosing.  He doesn't have to take a PE class unless that's one of the electives you pick.  For electives, make one a science and the other your call.  Just something you'd see offered in a public high school.

I'll add the instructors names once I have the class list.  Thanks.

“Skip the Coke then so that I can give you at least a little tip, I have exactly seventeen,” Jack says to the woman so that she can adjust the order and not bill him for the Coke. He feels selfish for asking for it. He doesn’t need it. The food would have been enough flavor to feel like a treat. Looking after the woman for a moment longer, he pulls out the last of his seventeen from the exchange with Emily’s Boutique, and puts it on the counter for the waitress to take at her leisure.

Turning his attention then, fully, to Dan Cabrizi he notices the way the boy says it, and the mention of ‘had them all enough times.’

“I just moved here from Saint Cloud,” he answers, not going into the whole detail about him having been home schooled, that his mother was a genius, that his father was someone he hardly knew, or anything about himself. “Jack Sharpe.”

It doesn’t take him a second to recall the classes, their order, the time of day, the room he is going to, but the idea of knowing their teaching style and attitude might relieve some of the stress of being new. Taking a breath, he recites: “Advanced world history, Chinese, pre-calc, English, advanced physics and uh..” he threw in a bit of a pause there so that he didn’t seem too unnaturally capable of recollection, “Meta studies? Something like that? It was an elective.”

Turning his attention back to Juanita, he watches her for a second and then looks back to Dan.

“What about you?” he asks, looking at the sheet in his hands.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 24):

"You AP?  Sounds like it."  Dan sighs.  "Let's see.  If you got  Advanced World Civ you probably got Mr. Calico.  His tests are pretty straight forward.  Read the book and you're fine.  It's the project with him you have to watch out for.  Year long research paper.  Usually you have to go over to the University to find the sources.  And he grades tough on it.  So you probably wanna start thinking about it now.  It'll be the majority of your grade.

"Chinese?  Okay.  I didn't even know that was offered.  But I bet Mrs. Zhao is teaching that.  Nice lady.  Really smart.  She makes awesome dumplings.  She'll bring 'em in for end of the year party.  Well worth it.  I actually had her for World Civ."  He sighs and takes a drink.  Again a mutter under his breath.  _{"Only reason I passed it."}

He shakes his head.  "Let's see.  Pre-calc.  Pre-calc.  I bet you get Ms...or is it Missus now?..Anyway, I bet you get Ms. Deacon.  She like student taught here a couple of years ago.  But she's a math whiz apparently.  So they kept her on.  She teaches most of the advanced math classes now.  Expect a quiz every Friday.  I mean every Friday.  She's tough but...well.  She does know her stuff."

He scowls.  "I hope you didn't get Mrs. Whitefalls for English."  You did.  Dan makes a moaning sound.  "Bitch on wheels man.  Bitch.  On.  Wheels. Her tests are nuts.  And you have two big writing assignments with her.  One due before the Christmas break and one due after spring break.  And they are both nuts.  The first one is usually an opinion essay.  You have to pick a debate topic and write about one side.  The problem is they're all really political topics.  And if you don't argue the one she supports, she just covers your paper with red ink.

"The spring break paper is even worse.  You have to talk about a particular poet.  And it's not gonna be like Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson.  Oh no.  She's gonna assign you like E E Cummings or Lawrence fuckin' Ferlinghetti.  You ever even heard of him?

"Her final is a nut buster too.  Make sure you save every note you take during the year man.  Best advice I can give ya."

Your food arrives as does his.  Juanita gets you set up with anything you need and sweeps up the money, setting down a glass of coke in it's place.  She winks at you.  "I put in your to go order.  Take your time."

The sandwich is great.  The bread tastes really fresh.  The soup is phenomenal.

Dan has some tomato sauce on his face.  He wipes it off with a napkin.  "Physics huh?  I always took biology.  I bet you got Mr. Spriggins, huh?  Yeah.  He's a nice guy.  But man is he dull.  I mean duller than dishwater dull.  Read the book.  Everyone I heard talk about him says his tests come right outta the book.  Though now that I think about it, he takes his classes to the University once or twice for some kinda field day.  Like I said.  I always took biology.  So I don't know much about it.

"Meta studies?  Oh wait.  I bet that's the new Sociology class.  I heard someone talk about it...well."  He shrugs and tears his dinner roll apart, using it to wipe up the sauce and cheese left in the bowl he's cleared of Beef 'n Noodle hot dish.  "If it is, you'll have Mr. Casey.  He teaches the psych and sociology courses.  Think he also teaches a section of American Civ.  Anyway.  He is actually a meta.  But he's a normie," Dan adds, using the slang for a meta who doesn't use their powers and just tries to live a normal life.  Whatever that is.

"I don't know what to tell you on that one.  Mr. Casey's a decent enough guy I guess.  But I only know him slightly.  He always does the yearly inclusivity assembly.  Cos...you know...he's got ears like a rabbit."  Dan shrugs.  He looks you over.  "You gonna go out for one of the sports teams?"

“Thanks, Juanita.”

Jack had had to take a few tests and was placed accordingly. Aunt Marlene had insisted that he go to school, and not continue home schooling, and he was happy for it. It had just meant a few days of testing. As expected, he didn’t do the best in English and its associated humanities type classes, they were too much about feelings and interpretations. While he can appreciate that sort of thing, he has no knack for it like he does for facts and data. He can consume information and remember it, all of it. Knowing all of the lines to Shakespeare is a neat trick, understanding the metaphors is another.

He could read books and simply adapt other's interpretations--and that might get him past many classes. But his own feelings were not the sort of thing he could simply just draw from the well of his memory at will.

It was actual work.

Listening to Dan talk about each teacher in turn, he nods his head making mental notes. He’d remember it all either way, but it helped to parse things with mental notes. For the most part, the only things he ends up making real mental reminders to himself for are the problem teacher, and how to approach her class. Notably, to try to argue from her point of view, he’d have to be charming to get that angle from her, and the point about the poet.

“No, never heard of him,” he answers with a snort at the explanation, now eating his sandwich and soup alternatingly. Sipping at his Coke from time to time.

“Spriggins, yeah, sounds familiar,” he confirms when he is essentially asked for verification.

The point about Mr. Casey having rabbit ears makes his attention perk up, but he doesn’t say anything. He was apparently interested enough in the topic to have taken it as an elective, so that speaks a bit to his interest, but he’d never met anyone else like him. His mother might technically qualify, and he has no idea about his father. He sort of hopes she doesn't. It'd make her prison stay a different one than it would otherwise.

The question about the sports team earns a slight shake of the head. “Screwed up my knee just enough that if I get hit again from the right angle, I’ll be walking with a limp for a few years, so that rules out all the sports that are fun. I could do track, maybe,” he remarks and seems to be giving it a serious thinking. He isn’t though. Eventually he’d have to have a blood test, and well, he can’t do that.  He's a good actor, and he'd worked with this sort of lie enough in the past that it comes easily to him.

He'd remember the same lie for others at school, if asked.

It would be a common question, given how he is built.

"How about you? You sort of have a wrestler vibe to you,"  he remarks.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:30, Sat 30 Nov 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 26):

Dan's quiet a minute.  "I used to play football.  But I don't anymore."

He lays some cash on the counter and stands, finishing off his drink.  "Well.  It was nice to meet you Jack.  Maybe we'll see each other around."

Juanita takes your plate when you're done and cleans up, taking Dan's money as well.  She shakes her head.  "Hope you an' Dan can get along.  All those things people say about him are just bunk if you ask me.  He's always been a good guy.  Your to go is ready honey.  You need anything else?"

Jack gets the impression that the matter of football is a sore subject, but then he has to wonder why Dan had brought up sports. Perhaps Dan was the sort who just lacked the foresight to know that it was the natural evolution of the conversation. Finishing off his drink and the last of his philly, his soup isn’t quite polished off, but he has enjoyed the taste enough to feel like he doesn’t need to enjoy it any more.

“Yeah, see you around dude,” he throws a parting wave over his shoulder and hopes that Dan is as cordial in school as he is here. Friends are good.

Turning his attention to Juanita, he watches her as she busses the plates, and then with a spared glance to make sure Dan has left, he asks, “I’m not a gossip, but what is it that people say about him that’s wrong?”

With whatever answer she might give, and Sol’s lunch in a bag, he bids Juanita goodbye, and mentions that he plans to drop by from time to time. Complimentary as he can be.

And he starts back along the sidewalk, taking the route back. Perhaps cutting across the park or checking out the area a bit more as he does, to get a feel for the layout of things and any other businesses. But he doesn’t spend too long at it. He has to drop off Sol’s food before he does anything else.

The plan for the rest of the day? Not much. He has school starting in two days, and he isn’t about to get bogged down in research into the Monkey when he only has a few last days of freedom.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 28):

"There's a lot of stories.  And since I don't know what's what about any of them, I won't repeat them.  But I will tell you Dan has had a lot of trouble in school.  He's a smart kid.  Good at sports.  His sophmore year he made first string for the team.  And he really earned it.  Played great.  I heard he always had good grades.  Everyone liked him.  Just kind of an all around good kid.

"Then his junior year things fell apart for him.  He ended up failing some classes and having to take summer school.  Last year was supposed to be his senior year.  But he failed again.  And this time it was so bad, summer school wasn't gonna fix it.  He's having to redo his whole year.

"Starting his junior year, some colleges were already scouting him.  But with failing this last year, all hopes of a scholarship are gone.  It's worse cos his dad is the vice principal at the school.  So...yeah."  Juanita finishes wiping the counter and sighs.

"I don't know what happened.  It's not drugs.  I've known that kid for ages and he's not one to do such.  And...well.  He's not living at home anymore.  Anyway.  If you can, be a friend to him please.  He really needs all the ones he can get."

---

The park seems nice.  There are people around and they seem to be enjoying themselves.  So it seems safe enough.

On the way back, you see a few spots that might be of interest:

Dixon's Coffee House.  It looks like a neighborhood brewery.  The customers appear to be of all ages and backgrounds.  Country music is playing on the speakers.  Not the newer poppy stuff, but the older "I just shot Momma now I gotta go down by the railroad tracks" type stuff.  Johnny Cash.  Hank Williams.  Patsy Cline.

Yellow Kings.  It looks like some kind of used book store.  Maybe a comic book shop, but it seems to have a lot of regular print books as well.

The Swing By Inn.  From the looks of it, this used to be an old style motor lodge like from the 1950s.  But now it looks like low rent housing.  What catches your eye, or in this case your ear, is there seem to be a lot of conversations in what you think might be Russian going on in there.  And it doesn't sound like it's from one room either.  They seem to be coming from several different rooms.

---

"Aw kid.  You didn't have to!"  Sol says that, but he seems quite pleased.  Especially by the soup.  "Ah!  I don't know how they make simple tomato soup taste so good.  You would think it'd be canned.  You wanna Fresca?"

Anything else you want to do this afternoon?  Or are we ready for school?  Thanks. 

Listening to the tale of Dan Cabrizzi as best as Juanita can hedge around the issues, Jack had to wonder what would make someone fall apart academically like that. To him, it sounds like the guy needs to see a therapist and work through some problems, but people are complex machines. He could guess all day at causes and be wrong in all but the one case.

“I see, thanks.”

The various shops and the inn all earn their brief examinations from afar, but he doesn’t really make any plans for any of them but the Yellow Kings. He’s curious what sort of information they can provide to a young meta. That said, he continues on to Sol’s.

“Basil?” he questions when the man wonders at the improved taste. Not really sure himself. He’s certain he can smell differences between the store bought canned tomato soup and Ray J’s. But he can’t identify the individual ingredients, he just isn’t schooled in that sort of thing.

“No thanks, Sol. I just wanted to drop it off, show you my new shoes,” he mentions and twists his ankle from side to side. “By the way, do you know anything about those BE kids?” he asks.

I think we can go to school.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 30):

Sol seems to know instantly who you're talking about.  "Those kids who look like they stepped outta an episode of Leave It To Beaver?  Sorry.  Probably a reference before your time.

"Yeah, I've seen 'em around.  They're...nice.  Maybe a little Stepford Wivish.  Oh.  That's probably a reference you won't get either, huh?  Well.  Your generation has the Google. So you'll figure out what I mean."

---

"So you sure you got everything?" Aunt Marlene smears some more sour cherry preserves on her english muffin and takes a bite.  She bites and chews in a very precise way.

She got you up today at the time she gets up.  Not that you probably weren't awake anyway.  But it seemed to make her feel better.  That, even though it's an hour and a half before you would need to head out the door, she got you up for school.

"Okay.  I'm gonna be late today.  So make yourself a sandwich when you get home.  I stored up on cold cuts.  You got your registration and everything?  Oh jeez.  I gotta get.  Dr. Salmon has an early staff meeting scheduled."  Marlene is an administrator over at the University.  She has something to do with the finance office, but what her exact role is you aren't sure.  After you moved in, you would usually only see her a few hours in the evening when she got home.

You could catch a public bus to Thomas Edison.  But it's within walking distance and, according to Aunt Marlene and Sol, it's quicker to walk than take a bus in Minneapolis.

"If you have to take a bus, like when it gets real cold, plan for it to take at least an hour.  Even if you're just goin' seven blocks one way or the other.  I swear it's a mess," Sol opined.

It will be about a fifteen minute walk if you want to go that way.  IF you want to take the bus, it will probably take twenty minutes despite what Sol and Marlene said.

There is a school bus too.  But the directions on where the stop are were kind of vague.  You can hunt around for it if you want.

That was the second time someone had said that about the BE kids. The Stepford Wives thing. He would have to look it up now. He’d also just have to Google the BE kids themselves, since apparently nobody had the details. Some inner part of him, the part that aspired to becoming a cape, that part of him was constantly looking at events and trying to see the Meta behind it. Was this something Meta? A cult? A bunch of people who were secretly aliens or robots or ninjas? Or all of the above?

“Ah thanks, Sol.”

---

Jack had laid down as soon as he’d heard his aunt start moving for her morning routine, crawling under his covers and feigning that he’d been asleep. He nods his head and blinks languorously, like he’d practiced a hundred times, and rubs at the sleep in his eyes. Yawning forcefully as he sits up, rubbing at the taut muscles in his abdomen. “I can use the alarm on my phone,” he mentions as he climbs to his feet and sets to putting on the clothes he’d laid out the day before.

His bag had been packed and re-packed with everything where he’d want it to be. Weight was obviously not an issue, it was more of an issue of volume and having everything he’d want for his first day.

A pack of pencils, a pack of gel-pens that he would never share, because gel pens are life, a TI-81 calculator for whatever math classes, some extra erasers, a highlighter, a college-ruled five-subject notebook and a handful of folders in a binder. He had also gotten a nice little lock for his locker, that’s where he’d keep the books he didn’t have homework for. The biggest advantage of not sleeping much is the excess time to plan. The biggest drawback of not sleeping much? Excess boredom.

“I packed and double checked it last night before I went to sleep, I have everything,” he replies casually, not looking nearly as stressed as she seems to be feeling. He’s nervous about the social aspects of school, and making the right impression, not about having all of his supplies and registration set up.

Putting on the hoodie he’d gotten from Sol, and his hat and new shoes, he feels that he looks properly weather-resistant.

Walking out the door, he is still debating whether to take the bus as he walks out. Locking the door behind him. Turning a glance in the directions he’d thought the bus stop might be, he tries to spot it through the intervening distance. The only reason he’d ride the bus today? Cute girls.

Barring that, he would hoof it. It’s not like he had to worry about getting tired, and he could give the bus a shot once he had an idea of the others who rode.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 32):

I'm assuming you either know what the Stepford Wives are or can Google it yourself.  Jack can readily find the information.  I agree with him completely about gel pens.

There isn't anything about the BEs online.  A couple of comments on some chat boards, but mostly by people like you or Sol or the Pizza Lady who just find something off about them.  Nothing about who they are or where they come from.

---

As you step out the door, you look carefully.  The public bus stop is up one block north.  Two older women, both who look like middle aged moms, and a heavyset man are waiting for the bus.

Where you think the school bus stop is has two people standing at it.  They are both around your age, maybe a year younger.  Boy and girl.  You would guess they are siblings.  There is a familial resemblance around the eyes and nose.  They are both either light skinned African Americans or possibly Middle Eastern.  She has a cute figure.  A couple of tattoos visible on her lower arm.  Piercing through the side of the nose.  Beautiful eyes.  Their conversation bears out their siblings:  they seem to be arguing over something to do with their mother.

You can see a few clumps of people that are obviously walking to school.  There are two groups nearby.

One is a group of three guys walking up the south side of 5th Street.  They all appear to be the same age group as you.  They're dressed similarly to you in that they wear hoodies.  Though they're hoodies have that 'psycho bunny' logo or a Nike logo on it.  They seem to be talking about some kind of game they've all been playing lately.

There is a girl as well walking by herself, going north on 4th Avenue SE.  She is pale with what appears to be straw colored hair peeking out from under  a knit cap.  A little on the skinny side maybe.  She's clutching the strap on her backpack and muttering "Ma saan seda teha." over and over under her breath.  English doesn't appear to be her first language.  It sounds like the language you heard from the Swing By Inn, which would be in the direction she came from.

There is one other group further out.  If you wait five minutes, they should be walking past your side of the street.  Two girls.  Both with olive skin and lovely green eyes.  Twins?  Maybe.  They are quiet and after a while one says to the other,

"Did Dad say he was gonna be late tonight?"

The other girl nods.

They keep walking in silence.

Jack decides he isn’t going to necessarily bug any of these people by inserting himself into their conversations, since they all seem to be moving and walking and talking together. He will remember the guys as video game players, and that the girl with the knit cap speaks Russian or whatever it is, and seeming a touch crazy. The twins also get a look, but he isn’t about to intrude on that group either. The only one who seems to be alone is the girl talking to herself, and while he wants to see if he can’t help her since she seems to be unraveling, he doesn’t necessarily want to go jogging up to her on his first day.

The location of the bus stop is noted, and he gives it a long thought. Noticing the tattoos on the girl’s arm he’s a bit surprised. She looks fifteen or sixteen and has tattoos? Jack wonders whether her parents must be rather open to ideas, or she’s got a friend who does them?

Having learned a bit about his neighbors and fellow students in the surrounding blocks and neighborhoods, whether for his high school or not, he starts off at a casual, albeit not entirely slow, pace towards Thomas Edison. Looking at his phone while he walks, he reads the morning news and checks his favorite subreddits. In particular those dedicated to metas. Making note of the continued speculation about the various goings on of meta folk and their various crimes and tribulations.

His eyes able to handle the task of walking and reading rather exceptionally.

Coming to a stop at the first real intersection, he gently taps the button for the crosswalk with his elbow and glances up from his phone again, looking around, getting a sense of things before he resumes his journey.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 34):

Your walk if pretty uneventful.  The temperature in Minneapolis is already on that decline towards hardcore winter.  But that's the joys of living in Minnesota.

You arrive at school in plenty of time.  Counselors with armbands are there to meet new students, mostly freshmen, at the door.  You join a line to talk to one.  She tells you how to get to your first period class and gives you a map of the school.  It's the one that was online, which  you've already memorized.  You'll get your student handbook and locker assignment during your first period class.  In your case that's World History with Mr. Calico.

Second floor.  Room 248.  That's at the other end of the school from the main entrance.  Depending on where your locker is, it might be better to enter through the back lot.  From what you can see, this school is pretty crowded.  The hallways are packed as tightly as pictures you've seen of New York subway cars during rush hour.  Navigating them should be interesting.

You join the throng waiting to head up the main stairs.  As you do, you see Dan Cabrizi arriving.  He walks in without looking around him and turns down the main first floor hall.  You notice a lot of people look after him.  A few snicker.  A couple shake their heads.

"He actually showed up.  Must have balls made outta brass."

"I heard he got an attorney and threatened to sue if they didn't let him come back."

"Now we got two Old Man Cabrizi's here.  What a fucktard."

The comments about Dan mostly run along those lines.

Then you hear one voice that says, "Soup's on!"  It's a weird voice.  Maybe someone talking over a cell phone speaker that had a bad connection.  It sounded a little echoey.

It takes six minues...two minutes of which was just getting through the hallway traffic...to get to Room 248.  You walk in.

Whoever Mr. Calico is, he's not here yet.  There's a large desk at the front of the room.  A couple of world maps are hung on large stands on each side of a white board.  On the white board, in big block letters, is written SEE SEATING ASSIGNMENT CHART BELOW.  TAKE A SEAT.  WILL BE BACK SOON

There aren't many other people here yet.  A couple of guys and a girl seated in different areas of the room.  None of them are looking at you.  They mostly seem interested in their phones.

Your seat is fifth one back third row over.  Not quite the back row, but pretty close.  The desk isn't new.  It's been scrubbed clean, but there are various slogans carved into the desk top.  Many of them have spelling mistakes in the etched words.

As you situate yourself, in walks the Maybe-Russian-Girl.  She looks around, reads the board and checks the chart.  She then walks down the fourth row until she stops at the fourth seat.  She sets her backpack on the desktop.

She gives you a small smile and nods, then sits down, taking off her knitted cap.  Her hair is straw colored and hangs down to her shoulders.  You hear her mutter, "Okay..." under her breath as she takes out a notepad and pen from her backpack and then hangs the backpack on the slate of her chair.

She looks around.  The two of you are the only ones in this area. And the only two not on cell phones.  She looks back at you.  Again the small smile.  "Uhm...Hi.  I'm Darja Tamm."

Her English isn't bad.  But she definitely has an accent.

Standing in line to talk with the guidance counselors, Jack looks at the other students. He feels a touch obviously meta. He’s roughly a year older than the Freshmen, one would assume, but his muscular build, the width of his shoulders, the height difference. The clear quality of his skin so smooth and bordering on poreless, and the unnatural color of his eyes. Looking in a mirror, he can’t see anything but the differences between him and normal people. His features having a perfect symmetry.

Jack isn’t beautiful because of some gorgeous nose and high cheek bones and a strong jawline- though he has those things, he’s different in that he has no flaws. He’s what might be called a Platonic Ideal. Nothing is out of place, no freckles, no sun damage, his cuticles are all exactly the way they should be, his hair is all smooth and thick, his teeth are as naturally white as white can be without looking unnaturally bleached.

But it’s his eyes that he knows are the biggest giveaway. He can try to hide them with sunglasses, which he often does, but their coloring is so bright and absolutely blue, that he cannot but think that he’s obvious.

But he isn’t. Nobody pays him too much attention.

He’s just another kid wearing a hoodie as he walks through the hall, his notes received from the counselor, the pieces of paper in hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

Checking his mental notes as he walks through the crowd, Jack pays attention to people around him and does his best not to shove against anyone as he moves his way along. Finding the arteries of traffick that tend to form in these situations and sticking with the crowd as it moves.  The mental notes, previous conversation aside, are a basic set: Mr. Calico, World History: straight forward tests. Read the book. Year long research paper. Do it early. Room 248.

Noticing Dan he might have said hello, but the other guy doesn’t even come close, so he keeps his attention on his destination. The comments about the older student making him wonder a touch, but he’s not really sure what he can do with all of that.

The weirdest of the random things he hears is the comment about soup, so much so that he momentarily considers taking a moment to look for the source of the sound. Just to solve a puzzle.

Looking at the seating chart, he glances over all of the names, putting them into his memory for later. In case he wants to know who someone is, and takes a seat, putting his backpack into the rack under the chair, he pulls out his notebook, a binder, and a pack of pencils. Pencils in hand, he is standing up when Darja looks back at him, and he smiles back at her. “Hey, I’m Jack. Nice to meet you Darja, where is your name from?” he asks.

Putting the pack of unsharpened pencils back in his bag, he pulls out the pack of gel pens and draws one out of the packaging. Neatly opening the hardy plastic with a single motion of his fingernail, not really thinking about it.

The most unnatural thing he might do all day.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 36):

Darja starts a little when you ask the question.  Maybe she wasn't expecting anyone to ask.  "Oh...It's Estonian.  I"m from Estonia."  She chuckles.  "Sorry.  I feel a little nervous. I'm not used to talking in English so much to people outside my family.  So sorry if I make a mistake."

She smiles again and looks around.  "I'm sorry to ask.  But is this school always so crowded?  We...uhm...My family.  We just moved here a few weeks ago.  So I'm not quite used to going to a school this...large."

“Estonia? That’s cool, what brings you here? Don’t worry about it, most people here only speak the one language so they can get over it,” Jack suggests, being positive and finishes peeling open the package of gel pens. Pulling out the three, he tucks the two he isn’t going to be using in the outside pocket of the bag and peels the little nub of sealing plastic off the tip of the point. A few quick words are jotted at the top of the page:

Mr. Calico. World History, room 248.

“I’m new here too, so I don’t know. I don’t know of any recent closures or anything that’d force more people here, but I don’t keep up on news like that. But my guess is that you should get used to it, yeah,” he answers and smiles a bit more.

Darja Tamm. Pale, a touch skinny with straw colored hair. Estonian. Which means the language spoken by the people at the Swing by Inn had been Estonian.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 38):

"Oh.  My family just moved here this summer. My Father retired.  He's American."

She nods at your opinion about the school population.  "Okay.  Thanks."  She follows your lead and starts to set up her desk as well.

A few more students trickle in.  Then, about two minutes before the bell rings, a whole slew comes through the door.  Among them is a short man, probably in his late forties, with a small patch of thin, graying hair atop his almost perfectly shaped, spherical head.  "Let's settle down people.  For those who may not know me, I'm Mr. Calico.  And this is World History.  Advanced Placement.  Now I know most of you only care about your locker assignments.  But first things first.  Let's talk about the class."

He hands out a syllabus.  It's pretty much what Dan told you.  Calico seems to be pretty methodical in his teaching style.  You can tell that right off the bat.  The paper is detailed  in the syllabus, and again Dan's summation is right on the money.  The topic will be assigned by Calico.  Also, you'll be expected to use the University's library to complete the paper.  Apparently the University library offers a class on how to use it's resources for research.  The class is free to the public and offered the first Saturday of each month.  Calico strongly advises you all to plan to attend at least one session.

Calico hands out your text book.  A World In Motion.  Skimming it and the syllabus, it seems like this class will cover actual world history and not just European.

Calico turns to the student handbook.  Most of the class tunes him out.  You and Darja are the only two taking any kind of notes at this point.  Seems like you two may be the only two new students in this class.

A few minutes before the end of class, Calico hands out your locker assignment.  Locker 1022.  From the map, it would probably be on the first floor, right under this class room.  It's also right outside the area your fourth and sixth period classes will be.  In fact, other than your fifth period class, all of your classes are in this end of the building.  They only vary by floor.

As the bell rings, Darja looks back at you and smiles.  "Have a good day."

---

The lockers are pretty narrow.  As you look in to locker 1022, you doubt you could fit much more than your books and maybe a jacket.  School lockers on TV always look so much bigger.

"You're in the way."  The voice is right behind you.  Looking back, you see the girl from the bus stop standing behind you.  She stares back at you and then points to locker 1021.  "I need to get to my locker.  Now. Please."

From the way she stares at you, it's obvious the please is just perfunctory.

Chinese is the next class up.  It's down the hall in room 19.

We'll be jumping through a couple of classes in a bit.  Just wanted to see how Jack handles this bit.  Thanks.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:10, Sat 07 Dec 2019.

Interesting. Jack had to wonder if there were other Estonians or the outburst foreign of language at the Swing by Inn had been other groups from other countries. And if they’d retired, why live at a motel? That was a strange choice. One usually retired when firmly secure financially, and the Swing by Inn did not strike him as the sort of place a person moved when financially secure.

“No problem.”

Looking at everyone as they come in, Jack summons to mind the seating chart and puts names to faces. Since that’s a useful thing to do, and looks at Mr. Calico. The man looks like a teacher, and when he instructs, he sounds like a teacher. Listening to the expectations, he does take a few notes, but to be fair, Jack doesn’t take normal notes.

He doesn’t record facts or data, since those things end up easily recalled when he needs them. He mostly records things he needs to do, like say, ‘Read the full syllabus, student handbook and textbook.’ ‘Visit university library.’ He doesn’t make any mental plans or a note about attending the offered class, not that he’d mind hearing what they had to say, and if he were bored, he might just do that, but he is fairly certain he can figure it out.

That and he’s fairly certain he can just ask a librarian for help if he can’t seem to figure something out.  Right?

Thinking about the project he’ll need to do, he also writes down, ‘Get books on topic as soon as available, in case they’re picked over by the time it comes to write the paper.’

"See ya later."

---

Looking at the locker number, he nods to himself and proceeds to the nearest stairwell. Looking at the locker for a moment, he decides not to throw his book in there, not until he has had a chance to read and by proxy, memorize it. He’ll always crush classes that test for information retention. It’s classes that require creativity that tax him.

In the midst of his thinking about how he’d be attacking classwork in as methodical a way possible that someone speaks to him.

Turning in place, he looks down at her and then moves to the side. He makes a Vanna White gesture towards her locker, and slides away like a matador, moving off in the direction of Chinese, with a parting, "All yours," thrown her way. He of course, is keenly aware it’s the girl from the bus stop, but she’d think he was creepy if he noticed that. That’s something he’d learned early in life. Nobody liked the guy who remembered every face they saw from across a parking lot.

‘Oh hey, I saw you walking out of that office on 3rd street six weeks ago!’ is not a good conversational opener. It makes it seem like one is paying too much attention. Stalker like. Or as his generation likes to say, 'Creeper.'

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 40):

Mrs. Zhao reminds you of a content grandmother, even though she's probably only in her 40s.  And no matter what she is saying or doing, it's like she's smiling happily while she does so.  Even after only twenty minutes in to the class, you can tell she's one of those teachers who loves to teach and is good at it.

Which is a good thing for the rest of your classmates.  Half the class are of oriental lineage.  Though it appears they are either native born Americans here to learn their cultural language or natives from another country who live here now and are familiar enough with Cantonese to figure they'll have an easy A.

There are three people in class who you guess are BEs.  Two guys and a girl.  They sit next to each other.  They are dressed like the group you saw the other day.  And most of the other students are giving them a wide berth.  Which seems to be fine with them.  They smile and nod politely at you and the others.  But they keep to themselves otherwise.

You will be expected to participate in a listening lab once a week.  The sign up sheet for the available hours are on a sheet on her desk.  You can go in during one  of your lunch periods, after school Monday through Wednesday, or for an hour before school any day of the school week.

Mrs. Zhao gets right in to it, going over basic salutations and greetings.  If what you're seeing here is any indication, you shouldn't have a problem with this class.

---

Ms. Deacon turns out to be Mrs. Hollister now.  She got married over the summer.

Her class is even more straight forward than Mrs. Zhao's.  As in the first two classes, with the exception of Darja, no one seems to pay you much attention.

Again, Dan's intel turns out to be pretty spot on.  No nonsense, Mrs. Hollister is very straightforward in her approach.  She even gives out homework the first night. You don't imagine you'll have any difficulties with this class.

---

As you stow away your Chinese and Pre-Calc books, you check your schedule.  Lunch.

The cafeteria is in the center of the school.  You could head there.  It does look like some students are taking sack lunches and eating out in one of the courtyards that dot the exterior of the school.  There are two nearby.  Or you could check out the library.  Or walk around.  It's a free period one way or the other.

While Jack appreciates Mrs. Zhao’s enthusiasm for her job, the amount of smiling that she does reminds him of the stuff he’d read about the Stepford Wives. He’s not a grumpy person by any means, but even he doesn’t smile that much! The Asian-Americans and the foreign born members of the class are all assessed in the same manner. He gives everyone an equal chance. Like a butcher looking at livestock, he finds himself assigning grades. Fruitlessly, perhaps, but when he isn’t paying the strictest attention to the teacher, it helps him to learn a bit about his fellow students.

As one might expect of a teenage boy with an active hormonal system, despite his oddities, he looks for cute girls. Paying attention to their names, looking to see if any of them notice him without staring himself, and of course, also paying attention to what sort of students they were and if they had any notable traits.

Like he had in all of the other classes, he sorts and decides who he would prefer not to associate with, namely those who seemed hateful and bullies. Those receiving a prompt F on his mental rubric. Cute girls are automatically salvaged from total failure, on the off-chance that they might be having a bad day. Those in the middle ground are further evaluated for scholastic aptitude, in case he ever needs a project partner.

Project partners are important.

When he notices the BE students early in the class, and is certain they are who he thought they were, he reminds himself to spend a few minutes browsing and perhaps even considering posting a few subreddit posts anonymously to inquire if anyone knew their “deal.” He briefly considers approaching them directly, but if that went sideways and they were some sort of aggressive cult, he didn’t want to risk the chance that he might be found out. His mom wouldn’t like that.

He adds a few lines to his notebook about the listening lab, and decides that he’ll try to focus on doing it on Mondays. Many students would put it off until later, as procrastination is ever tempting and he could beat them to it by just doing it immediately in the week.

---

Finding that Mrs. Hollister is as proficient and factual as Dan had suggested, Jack is happy, and makes sure to take the same sorts of notes. Mainly focusing on establishing a to-do list when he gets back.

---

Lunch on the schedule. Jack nods to himself and makes his way to the cafeteria. In the coming weeks, it was unlikely he’d continue to make his home in the most populous room in the school. His head would soon ache with all that noise, even now, almost deafening. But for now, he wanted to see what it was like, perhaps see if someone invited him to a spot to sit, find a few friends, etc.

Proceeding to the lunch-line, he scoops up a tray and makes sure to pay attention to any signs that direct him on how to handle the lunch line properly. He also looks for upper classmen, doing as others do.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 42):

The routine of the lunch line seems fairly straight forward.  The offerings are suprisingly extensive.  You notice no one touches the barbecue sandwiches. The cafeteria staff can barely keep up with the demand for the burritos and tater tots.   There are two hotdish offerings..well this is Minnesota.  They seem fairly well liked.

As you wait to pay, you go over the results of your observations thus far.

In terms of cute girls...there were a couple in Calico's class.  Darja would probably come in third or fourth.  Numbers one and two spent a lot of time in class fixing their make up or playing on their cell phones.  There was one other girl worth noting.  Not because she was cute.  Fairly plain actually.  But she seemed to pay very close attention.  Outside of yourself and Darja, she seemed the only one interested in everything Calico had to say.  Abigail Odom if the seating chart was correct.

Zhao's class...there were quite a few nice looking girls in there.  And it was an interesting mix.  Of the three classes you've had thus far, Chinese takes the prize in the good looking girls category.

As far as project partners, three students stood out.  The second cutest girl seemed to be very involved in the class.  You caught her making careful notes.  While Asian, she didn't look Chinese.  Maybe Filipino.

A guy sitting two seats ahead of you is also a likely candidate.  You could listen to him as he pronounced the words Zhao went over.  His first pass was poor.  His second pass was much better.  And his third time saying the word was as accurate as Zhao's was.  A white guy with glasses and red hair that was crew cut.

The last potential partner was a guy who sat in the far back corner.  You couldn't study him much by sight.  Turning around to look behind you during the lesson would have been sort of creepy.  But you could hear his pronunciation and it was spot on.  He may be a native speaker looking for the easy A.  From what little you saw of him, he was Asian with long hair tied carefully in a pony tail.

Hollister's class was mostly preppies.  Everyone seemed fairly competent.  But no one stood out as noteworthy.

You pay for your lunch and walk out into the tables.  A quick scan shows three people you recognize.

Dan is seated by himself at the far end of one of the tables closest to the door.

The Filipino girl is sitting with two friends not far away.

Abigail Odom is seated with a guy halfway between the two.  As you finish scanning, the guy says something to her and walks off.

I haven't forgotten your subreddits on the BEs.  I'll post those results after we're done with the school day. Thanks

Feeling a bit robotic as he goes over his options, Jack realizes that he is mentally being a bit too methodical. His gut isn’t involved, and he needs to also trust his gut here. But the rubric is useful and he can do that sort of thing while splitting his attention, due to how fast his mind works.  Considering things he retroactively decides to refine his girl choices a bit before making any romantic overtures of any sort, and that would require that he rubrics out all of his classes. He’d do that tonight while Aunt Marlene was sleeping.

Stopping at his locker to drop off his hoodie, Jack pre-emptively decides that he might benefit from not covering up his muscles so much. If he was going to get himself a girlfriend and make friends, he should be seen as a prize and his clothes were not going to convey that. He just looks poor if one looks only at his clothes. So, he just lets his arms and chest do the work of distracting from his ugly shoes and hand-me-down clothes.

---

Regarding the lines, Jack pays attention to the opinion of his fellow students. Looking at the barbecue sandwiches he makes his way towards the burritos. It’s not like he needs lunch, but if he’s going to try to be normal, he needs to look normal. Not just sit down with these people without anything on a tray. Though he feels like a bit of a lemming for doing it, since he could just not finish the food if he doesn’t like it. But at least for now, Jack wants to fit in. Be normal.

So, burritos it is. As he stands in line, thinking about his options of both a food and girl variety, he is also keenly aware that regardless of what he might choose, unlike the food choices, he might get rejected and while rejection wouldn’t really bother his ego he’d prefer not to be seen as the guy who gets rejected a lot. So his approach at this point in the year is going to be to more of a fishing expedition than a hunt. He needs to see if there is any interest at all, when he finally gets near any of the girls.

But not yet! He needs to stop trying to think of how to approach them. One or two days to have at least met and seen all of the girls in all of the classes, plus those outside the class, try to figure out basic personalities and interests, and then he’d start going down the list. Preferably he’d find a girl his type with a good nerdy personality and interests, that tended to be the sort he found most attractive. Not that he has a lot of (or any) experience with this sort of thing, he knew himself well enough to know that a well-shaped nerdy girl was his type.

Darja is the only one he’s even somewhat certain he wants to befriend at this point. The rest were just tentative friends for study purposes, like the red-head and the Chinese guy in Zhao’s class. He’d pay attention and figure out if they were his kind of people. Friendship optional, project partner likely. Then he’d sit by them if the option was there to move around.

All of that sorting itself in its head, he finally gets his burrito, some rice and beans, and a carton of chocolate milk and pays with cash.

Now, where to sit. The Fillipino girl (or whatever she might be) is a good option, and so is Abigail. Abigail because she was a good project partner, albeit not of the cutest variety possible. Dan is a poor choice. Jack doesn’t mind befriending the guy down on his luck, but not as an opening move. He’d wait until he’d secured himself at least a bit of credibility as a “cool guy” or whatever people might label him, and then he’d try to see if he couldn’t befriend Dan a bit more.

But in the end, he opts to sit near-ish to the Fillipino girl and her friends. Not because he wants to necessarily pursue her, but because she, like Abigail, Darja, and others, was also likely to be good to go to for notes and projects. It also would make her feel less like he was forcing his presence on her, since she had her friends.

He doesn’t sit so close that they should feel like he has inserted himself into their conversation, more that he has simply chosen to sit somewhere nearby. By himself.

And he starts to eat.

Thanks! I’m trying to channel a teenage boy who can think as fast, orderly and clearly as Jack does, but I’m worried I might be over doing it.  I might try to tone back how much I’m sharing, but I figure a few posts where we see his mentality, like the sort of girls who rate highest (cute top heavy nerdy girls) and what sort of things catch his eye are good to establish and then I’ll pull back on how much I share and just how he approaches.. That being said, I hope anyone who reads understands that I’m just trying to give an honest representation of condensed super-powered teenage boy thinking. :P
This message was last edited by the player at 07:39, Tue 10 Dec 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 44):

I think the narrative is beautiful.  Jack is an interesting mix of awkward, calculating, and exuberant.  I love how he is so methodical about not really knowing what to do.  It's great.

Go at whatever speed you want. We're still in the groundwork stage.  Having said that...

As you eat, you notice the Filipino girl and her two friends casually look your way.  They huddle a little closer after they've all finished their burrito.

"Whaddya think?"

"He's kinda...too big maybe?"

"Oh?  So you already know how he's hung?"

The three of them start laughing.

"Seriously.  I mean yeah he's built.  But doesn't he seem a little..."

"...little?"

"Stiff."

There's a pause and then the two friends start laughing.  The Filipino girl seems to blush.  Her heart is beating rapidly.

"Really?  Now who's the one who's taking peeks inside his BVDs?"

"Shut up," the Filipino girl mutters, glancing your way without trying to be obvious about glancing.  "He'll hear us..."

"He can't hear us from over there."

"That is the guy from my Chinese class.  I think.  He ditched the hoodie."

"Ohhhhh!  Someone works fast!"

"Stop it."  The Filipino looks down at her hands.  "Carl is my man."

There's a moment of silence.

"Carl is your douche."

"She called it."

"Shut up."  With a last furitive glance in your direction, the Filipino girl picks up her tray.  "Bell's gonna ring in fifteen minutes.  I still need to check my locker."

The three get up and take their trays over to the garbage cans.

They are correct. Fourteen minutes now until next period's bell rings.

The burritos are in fact quite tasty.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:58, Wed 11 Dec 2019.

Jack almost chokes, almost. Then he remembers he works differently from anyone else, and forms a seal around his mouth with his hand for a split second and forcibly exhales a lungful of air up towards his mouth, trapping the air there and also dislodging the piece of food that’d gone down the wrong tube. It looks just like he’d covered his mouth, but the process is suitably distract him from the blush that rises on his cheeks as he temporarily looks down and away from the girls, like he’s checking something on his pant’s pockets.

The comment about his posture does register and he realizes what she is talking about. He needs to slouch a little. Normal people can’t maintain a perfect posture 24/7. Note for later, not something to respond to now.

Between the three of them he does manage to learn that the Filipino girl, whose name he still doesn’t know, has a boyfriend that none of them is over-enthusiastic about. He also figures out that apparently taking off his hoody was the right move. He’ll have to remember to do that in the mornings in the future.

Taking off his hat, he reaches up a hand to smooth back his hair and gets up to put away his tray a few minutes after the girls.

Walking through the school, he idly makes his way towards his next period class. Knowing that he has ten minutes to spare, he is checking out other classes as he walks. Generally making his way through the building.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:49, Wed 11 Dec 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 46):

As you head out of the cafeteria, you see that the halls are starting to fill up.  But instead of people moving towards their next class, it's full of small knots and groups talking to each other.  It seems a lot of people eat at their lockers while they talk to their friends.

Their voices reach you of course.  There are so many it can be tough to focus.  But you get little smatterings here and there.

"I am so screwed.  I can't believe I got Whitefalls for English..."

"She's got a nice ass, yeah.  But would you really wanna have to put up with that mouth of hers all the time?"

"So yeah, I'm gonna get a car.  But my Dad said I won't get it until I've saved up to pay for a years worth of insurance.  I mean, I get what he's saying.  I need to be responsible and all that.  But can't I just pay month to month like a normal person? Why do I gotta pay a year upfront?"

"Let's make Sara cry."

"It took me all of June to beat that level.  Stop laughing!  It was hard!"

"You're pregnant?"

You don't hear any of the BEs.  You think you catch Dan saying something about everything having changed.  You didn't quite make it out because some guys were laughing and shouting nearby.

Five minutes until the bell.  Time to meet Mrs. Whitefalls.

---

"It really isn't that difficult.  You're all supposed to be AP.  So now is when you get to prove it."

And with that, Mrs. Whitefalls hands out her syllabus for the year.

She had been in front of the room, waiting, smiling slightly and observing each of you as you came in.  She nodded towards a few people, but mostly said nothing.  There is no assigned seating here.  Apparently that only happens in first period for attendance purposes.

Mrs. Whitefalls is a short woman with greying hair tied up in a tight knot at the back of her head.  She wears glasses, but keeps them perched on top of her head.  Her lips are smeared with a slightly orange shade of lipstick and earrings which are a rather intricate set of interconnected hoops hang from her ears.

As the bell sounds, she walks back towards the door, shuts it, and turns around walking straight back the same she came.  "Good Afternoon.  I'm Mrs. Whitefalls.  Let me start off by saying this:  I expect the best out of each one of you.  If you want to slack off or goof around in other classes, that's your business.  But here, in this class, I expect your full attention.

"On average, between all five classes I teach, I give out two A grades.  I give out some Bs.  Mostly Cs.  Some Ds.  And I am not at all afraid of giving out Fs.  I usually have a few of those too.

"If you don't want to be one of the F students, then pay attention.  I know all this material. I'm not going to go over it for my own benefit.  If I bore you, too bad.  If you think this is a waste of a class, tough luck.  You will either leave here knowing the material with a good grade.  Or you will leave here not knowing the material with a poor grade.  That is your choice.

"It really isn't that difficult.  You're all supposed to be AP.  So now is when you get to prove it."

Her syllabus is twenty one sheets of paper thick.  You hear quite a few people groaning under their breath.

Several pages in the middle are about the opinion essay.  You glance over it.  There are a list of topics.  But there is one line at the bottom:

Topics not mentioned here will be allowed if they have my prior approval.  Please submit a proposal addressing what topic you are interested in no later than the second Friday of the class.

You have two weeks to decide on a topic.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:00, Fri 13 Dec 2019.

Walking through the halls, Jack is still on alert for pretty girls, but he doesn’t linger even when he spots them. In fact, he’s somewhat trying to practice his posture. Slouching ever so slightly and when the teacher opens the class for people to pile in, he makes his way towards the desks closest to the furthest windows and turns so that he can face the majority of the students so that when they come in he can look at them without needing to turn his body.

Taking one of the syllabi, he passes the remainder of the stack back and looks around at the other students when he hears the groan. Looking for those who aren’t groaning so that he can maybe pick a person or two as project partners in the coming year. Someone who feels confident would make for a good partner. Possibly.

Looking through the syllabus, he makes note of the opinion essay portion and the topic. He would use one of the ones listed, unless he could come up with something she apparently strongly agreed with. On Dan’s advice, that.

For that, he’d have to figure out a few seniors, possibly in his calculus class? From there, he could fish around for someone who’d had this class last year and figure out what topics she agreed with. His natural instinct is to write about something so obscure she couldn’t have an opinion, or for which she’d need to do research herself to learn enough to have an opinion.

But his gut instinct is to write about something he has a strong opinion about himself, so that he argues it more clearly. Metahuman rights, maybe?

As to the rest of her speech, he has no problem with “material” so he doesn’t even bat an eye at that. His problem is never material memorization, he remembers everything and reads a textbook in a few minutes when he pushes himself. His problem is translating literal to metaphorical, and metaphorical to literal, about seeing the meaning behind things, and picking up the emotions that an author puts to things, and most of all, it’s about seeing things like a normal person sees them. Pain? Pain is something apparently incredibly unpleasant.

Jack’s only pains are emotional.

He can’t see the world in the limited scope that normal people do, he has to force himself to move at a normal person’s speed, to open things with their strength, to focus intently on the people in his presence and not on the ones adjacent or distant. Every aspect of Jack’s existence is alien to the human experience, and it shows in his writing. The way he thinks. The way he creates mental charts to examine others, because he has so much ample room between thoughts, between the actions of others. Jack’s thoughts walk between the raindrops.

---

When he isn’t thinking about the teacher, the class, the essay, he looks around at his fellow students with a few appraising glances. One of the upsides of being him is that he can take in every person in the class with a single glance, and not seem to be lingering on anyone in particular.

Sorry for the repeated requests for NPC details. Upside of being on an AP track is repeating students, I suppose. In my experience twenty years ago, it was almost entirely the same students in every class.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 48):

No need to apologize at all.  One of my goals is to eventually give you a high school and neighborhood.  So I'm fine with NPC hunting.

There are a number of groaners.  One is the prettiest girl in class. Maybe in all the classes you've had thus far.  She's a red head.  Probably a natural one, as her roots are the same color.  Her skin is the color of cream, or at least the color cream ought to be.  And her eyes are the deepest green you've ever seen.  She wears jeans with holes in one knee and an old pair of boy's sneakers.  Instead of a shirt she wears a thin cotton hoodie which is a little baggy.  Looks like it might be a size too big for her.  She is eyeing the syllabus with a look of unfeigned trepidation.

Only two other people in class seem unconcerned.  One is a heavyset girl with large round glasses.  Her thick brown hair is tied up in a pony tail and she seems to have made an effort to have dressed somewhat nicely today.  She is making a few notes on her syllabus, and from what you can see, she's already making plans on how to tackle the paper.

The other one who seems nonplussed is again in the back row, farthest seat away from the teacher, and in this case closest to the door.  It's the pony tail guy from Zhao's class.  Looks like you both have the same English class as well.

Whitefalls hands out your books.  "Read the poem on page 25.  Be prepared to discuss it tomorrow."  Mrs. Whitefalls announces a second before the buzzer rings.

You glance at the page.  It's a short poem by Emily Dickinson.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you-Nobody-too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise-you know!

How dreary-to be-Somebody!
How public-like a Frog-
To tell one's name-the livelong June-
To an admiring Bog!

---

As you head towards your locker, you notice a group of people standing further up the hall.  It's a large crowd.  You can hear them from here of course.  They're all whispering.

"Wow. That's harsh."
"Shit.  Not this again."
"Are we gonna have to sit through another dumbass assembly!"

As you get closer you can see what's going on.  Across one of the lockers, someone has spray painted PIGS FUCK PIGS.  A girl is standing in front of the locker, clutching a notebook to her chest.  You can't see her face.  She's wearing a rather plain brown skirt and cheap looking blouse.  She isn't making any obvious moves.  But you can hear her heartbeat racing and the way her breathing is uneven.  She seems to be holding back sobs.

Then she takes a deep breath, reaches out a hand, and twists the knob on her lock.  She opens her locker, puts her notebook inside, takes out another one, and shuts the door softly, locking it back up.  She turns slowly.  She's not a raving beauty but she's certainly not plain.  She walks towards the crowd slowly.  <Royalred>"Excuse me..."<Royalred> she mumbles.

The crowd parts and she turns left, heading towards the front of the buidling.

"Poor Sara," someone mumbles as the crowd breaks up.

Jack notices the red head and what appears to be an older brother’s clothes handed down, and decides that she either has an interesting sense of fashion or she’s as poor as he is. Maybe something to bond over. He tries to catch her name, but also tries not to linger on her too long.  He also notices Asian-Ponytail has persisted for two classes. That’s good! He doesn’t know the guy, but it could be really good to know someone in multiple classes. In fact, given the AP track, he’s somewhat amused that there aren’t more people in multiple of the same classes as him.

In the end however, he tries to pick people he should start getting to know, and focuses on class. Making sure nothing is overlooked.

Flipping open the book as he walks from the class, the bag hanging from his arm, he reads the poem in a glance so that he might try to digest it. Tucking it back into his bag as he walks out the door, he looks around at his comrades. Sliding his hands into his jean pockets as soon as his backpack is in place, he makes his way towards physics.

Thinking about people he might try to meet and the poem, he pauses only when he spots the group of people all looking towards a locker.  He doesn’t want to stand there looking at her though, so he keeps walking. Trying to squeeze past the groups of people watching like it’s a spectacle. He feels sorry for the girl, but in a moment like that, he doesn’t imagine anyone wants to be watched by a huge crowd.

And he doesn’t know her in the slightest, so he can’t exactly walk up and offer her a hand with getting out of the crowd. He does pause by one group to turn in a slow circle and quickly looks through the backpacks and nearby lockers of everyone in the area. Looking for the spray paint. He could do one good deed if he could find the person responsible.

In fact, expanding his search a bit further, he tries to quickly look at most of the lockers in this hallway.

In the process, he finds the girl walking right past him and he says, “Sorry,” as he stands aside. Since he’d been lost in his search process.

Regardless of what he might see in the lockers, he continues on to physics a few moments later.

Lots of ground to cover.  So there will be two posts

The girl looks at you as she passes.  You see large, blue eyes that are pretty wet, and an expression that plainly says she will not break down.  And then she has walked past.

---

Dan is five for five.  Spriggins is an older guy.  Sol level old.  The oldest teacher you've had yet.  He seems affable enough.  But he stammers.  And his handwriting is shaky and hard to read on the blackboard.  Right now he's writing down the testing schedule which seems odd since it's in the syllabus he handed out.

The class is radically different from what you've had thus far.  Within moments, most of the people sitting around you had introduced themselves.  There's Kisha Livingstone, Al Daniels, Bill Puxley, Farzenah Ihara, and Cal Stone.

Also, while Mr. Spriggans is writing, everyone in class is talking, but most of them are talking about the class and physics.  You seem to have gotten the science nerd class.

Bill and Farzenah seem to be the most knowledgeable.  But the others aren't slouches.  As far as project partners, your cup runneth over in fifth period.

"What about the University trip?" Kisha asks.

Bill frowns and looks at the syllabus.  There's only one line about the trip there.  So he raises his hand.  "Excuse me. Mr. Spriggans.  What exactly is the field trip about please?"

Mr. Spriggans turns.  "Oh.  Uhm...that's...well.  Each October the...University has a...uhm...symposium.  And we go and listen in."

That actually sparks a discussion. Mr. Spriggans tries to reign it in, but soon he is talking about past trips as well.

It does not appear that Physics will be that structured of a class.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:27, Sat 14 Dec 2019.

"Tere...uhm. I mean hello again." Darja laughs nervously and takes the seat to the right of you.  "I keep...uh...getting nervous.  And slipping back in to Estonian. Ha."

Physics went long.  The discussion about the symposium trip turned in to a discussion of the news that the discovery of a monster black hole was a mistake and how science progresses.  So you had to hustle to get here from there.  Well.  You had to appear to hustle.

You arrived with only two minutes to spare and may have been surprised.  There were only seven other students there already.  Oddly, all except one of them sat on the right hand side of the room.  At the back of the left hand side sat a solitary guy wearing a surgical mask.  Maybe he's sick and no one else wants to catch it.

Darja came in a moment after you sat down.  She visibly brightened when she saw you.  A few others follow her in and as the buzzer rings, there are fifteen of you.  Smallest class you've had thus far.

Mr. Casey walks in a moment later, shutting the door behind him.  Yep.  He has rabbit ears.  Rabbit like at any rate.  They extend up and back, ending just past the back upper corner of his head.  They are covered in a fine, fuzzy kind of hair, which is just as blonde as the hair on his head.  Other than that, he looks like a regular thirty-something guy.

He writes his name on the board and under that META STUDIES AND RIGHTS.

"Hello.  For those who don't know me, I am Mr. Casey.  No, I do not answer to Bugs." He waits, seeming to wonder if he'll get a laugh.  No one does.  He goes on.

"I am obviously a meta.  We have one other meta in class with us.  Colby.  Nice to see you."

In the back of the room, the guy with the surgical mask is writing something down. He doesn't stop writing but he gives Mr. Casey a mock salute with his free hand.

"Do we have any other metas here today?  What?  Really?  Wow.  Three in one class?  You are..."  And Casey points towards you.

At least that's how it seems.  He's actually pointing past you.  At Darja.  She's raised her hand.  Well.  She's got it half raised. Her head is bowed down and her shoulders are caved in.  But she nods.

"Uhm.. Yes.  I'm...I'm Darja Tamm.  And...well.  Uhm.  We came...here...To America...this summer.  And INS...they tested me.  And I'm...meta.  I'm not dangerous," she adds the last quickly, looking around at your classmates.

Mr. Casey nods his head.  "Thanks Darja.  As we go through the class, I'll be talking about my own experiences.  And Colby has already given me permission to talk about some of his.  I hope you'll allow us to talk about your experiences as well Darja.  And I don't mean to put you on the spot.  But.  What just happened right there.  When you did your introduction.  It's a great example of why I wanted to teach this class."

Casey waves a finger in the air and looks around at the rest of you.  "Anyone.  When Darja was introducing herself there, she said something almost every meta says when they are introducing themselves for the first time.  It's a single statement, but you hear it time and again, said in a number of different ways.  What was it that Darja said that seemed to have the most impact for you? It's one sentence.  Anyone?"

Not having spotted the can of spray paint in his glance around, Jack puts it out of mind for the moment. He can scan all of the lockers later, and more importantly, keep an ear out for the sound of it being used in the future instead of filtering it out like he filters out almost everything else.

---

Listening to Mr. Spriggans, Jack reads the syllabus in a glance and sets it aside, looking at the others beside him as they introduce themselves to himself and to others. “Jack Sharpe,” he introduces himself. He doesn’t know that either Farzenah or Bill are especially great options for study partners, but that they are all good options means he doesn’t worry too much about it. In fact, at this point he’s more concerned with not ending up with one of the slouches in the class.

But for now, he can be confident and try to sit by either Bill or Farzenah at the beginning of classes to increase his chances of not getting paired with a potato.

Slouching slightly, he scratches his ankle and goes through some of the motions, his eyes switching from student to student and then finally back up to the teacher when he talks about the trip to the university. Having been home schooled, Jack doesn’t really feel that a field trip is all that great of a treat, but movies and television have taught him otherwise. Apparently, a field trip is like school sponsored vacation.

 

---

“Hey Darja,” Jack says and glances at the clock just once before looking aside at her. “You’re fine, maybe I’ll learn Estonian,” he proposes with a smile and in that brief gap before class starts, he asks her about the classes they don’t share with each other, just to make a bit of idle conversation.

When they start to talk about metas, and Mr. Casey asks whether anyone else is a meta, he has a compulsion to share but only for a moment. He isn’t about to break a life of silence just because a guy with rabbit ears asked him. He’s hear to learn and participate, but not to share things he shouldn’t. That said, he’s a bit surprised that Darja is a meta as well.

He’ll have to ask her more about that later.

In the meantime, he listens and reflects back on what Darja had said, replaying her words in his head he gives a moment of pause to see if anyone else will say anything. When nobody else does, he raises his hand and says, “I don’t know if it had an impact for me, but I’m guessing it’s that she said she’s not dangerous?” It makes sense to him that people in this class would be meta-inclusive, so he would find it surprising that anyone was excessively wary of others.

Then again he’s fairly certain that Colby isn’t dangerous to others either, and they’re acting a bit squeamish about him.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 53):

"Exactly!"  Casey steps towards his desk and pulls out a pack of colored markers.  He starts taking caps off as he talks.

"The one thing every meta says, even without prompting, when they make their admission is to say 'I'm not dangerous'.  It's well documented and studied.  Most people call it the Gray Mare Effect.  We'll talk about that more later.

"But what I want to talk about is how is it determined that a meta is dangerous?  Most world governments, except for the European Union, use the Gransy-Moller Scale, or GMS.  We'll talk about that more later as well.

"What you're all probably familiar with is..."  On the white Board he writes MTI

"The Meta Threat Index.  It's not an officially recognized scale by the way.  No government or insurance company gives it credence.  But the media does.  In fact the MTI was the result of American newspapers and magazines in the 1950s and 60s trying to make sense as the first Superteams began to organize themselves."

He writes BLUE.  "The biggest categories are Blues.  I'm a blue.  Basically it is metas whose powers are minor or are suppressed in a manner authorized or recognized by the Government.  My ears let me hear in certain frequencies most people can't hear in. That's my power.  Big whoop, right?"

Next comes GREEN  "Greens fall into two categories.  First, they are 'advanced people'.  That is people whose intelligence is high enough to be able to build a killer robot.  Or someone so well trained in the martial arts they could conceivably take on a SWAT unit and win.  The second category are what most people call 'Pretenders'.  Metas who have a power that can be used offensively but have decided to not use them. Most pretenders only want to live normal lives.  This whole group is often called the 'Wannabes'.  They either are normies who want to be metas or metas who want to be normies.  That definition by the way came from Obama's Secretary of Meta Affairs back in 2011.  Not me."

ORANGE "Metas who can not control their powers.  It's at this level that insurance companies label a meta as potentially dangerous.  Colby there is an Orange.  Colby, tell everyone what your power is please."

Colby shrugs.  "Whenever I sneeze, someone within earshot turns invisible.  Usually for a day. I can't control who."

"And that is what it takes to be considered a danger to yourself or others.  Thanks Colby."

YELLOW "Here is where things start getting good.  Yellow is for active Capes.  Superheros."

RED  "If Capes are yellow, most villains are red.  This includes any meta who uses their power in a destructive or potentially destructive manner without being authorized by a governmental agency.  It's that last part that separates a Cape from a Cowl.  Good intentions don't mean squat.  If you're not approved, then you are just a vigilante and no better than a Hood."  He writes Cowl=Vigilante, Hood=Villain.

"There is of course one more level.  Black.  Black is reserved for metas who have powers that could threaten large numbers of people in one go.  Doesn't matter what your intentions are.  Doesn't matter if you just want to live a quiet life as an insurance adjuster. If you can control gravity.  If you can set off a nuclear reaction.  If you can turn people you look at to stone.  You are Black level."

He caps the markers and sets them down.  "That's more than I wanted to cover today.  But we'll get in to more details in the days to come."

He chats with everyone and then the buzzer rings.

As you pack your stuff, Colby walks up to Darja.  "You okay?" he asks her.

She seems surprised.  But she nods.  "Jah...I mean yes.  Thank you.  I...I was really nervous."

Colby seems to be waiting for her.  He probably means to talk to her a while.

Not sure Jack wanted to hang around for this.  If not, he can 'listen in' of course.  Let me know.

Outside of a few wrap up items, that is Jack's first day at school.  Any feedback/wish list items? Let me know.  Thanks
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:59, Tue 17 Dec 2019.

You used Colby’s name instead of Casey at the top.

Jack listens and wonders if he’d introduce himself by mentioning that he isn’t dangerous. No, he wouldn’t, or maybe he would? Contextually, maybe? Would it be disingenuous to say he wasn’t dangerous? He isn’t dangerous unless he wants to be, and he never has? Even as he is thinking about it, he listens to Mr. Casey, and thinks about how things might apply to him.

Listening, he doesn’t feel the need to take any notes, since he’ll remember the individual terms, but he does pay more attention to the nuances than he usually does. He’d have to read the textbook later.

Hearing what Colby’s power is, he glances over in consideration and then looks back to Mr. Casey.

When he explains what black on the meta threat index qualifies as, he realizes he’d be labeled that way. He’d have to find out what that means, too, does that mean he’d have a hard time getting insurance? Will the government want to contain him somehow?

Raising his hand, he decides to just ask: “Mr. Casey, let’s say someone is MTI black, able to uh..” he acts like he needs to think of something, pausing for a moment for dramatic effect, “Punch down skyscrapers. What does that mean for that person? Are they on a watch list? Do they quarantine the nuclear man?” he asks.

---

After class, Jack looks over at Darja, he gives her a smile and says, “See you tomorrow, Darja,” and makes his way towards the door and from there to his locker. As he walks, he listens in as much as just to make sure that Darja is okay as out of curiosity.

Getting to his locker, he spins the dial a few times and pulls out all of the books. He’ll read them all tonight. Once he’s sure he has everything, he rests his bag in the locker for a second and pulls on his hoody over his head, and then throws on the backpack over his shoulder. Careful not to clip anyone. Bag on, hat on, he starts to make his way out of the school.

I’m guessing that if nobody was mentioned in a class (like Mr. Casey’s class there at the end of the day, or the first class, with the exception of Darja,) that Jack isn’t thinking that any of the girls are particularly gorgeous/shapely or any of the people are friend worthy/study partner potential? Or will that continue to expand as the days go by?

I think besides him trying to figure out who he might approach and how and for what reasons, everything is looking clear.

Wishlist: An increasingly comprehensive list of terms like MTI, Gray Mare Scale and the MTI-levels, etc. all on one setting post. For my personal use (so maybe just PM) a list of NPCs and what Jack might think of them, I can actually get that started here myself, I'd just have you chip in any additional details.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:13, Mon 16 Dec 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 55):

Casey taps the MTI label on the white board.  "That's a good question.  But remember:  the MTI is really just a convention used by the Media.  Governments and insurers don't look at it.  And as we'll find out, they're the ones who make the rules about who gets labeled what.

"We'll discuss that question in more detail when we get in to Gransy-Moller scaling.  But the short answer is:  Black...or Omega VIII using GMS...level metas are given a short list of choices.  They can either submit to voluntary suppression of their powers, join a sanctioned Cape team or guild who take responsibility for keeping that meta in check, or they spend a lot of time on the run.

"There are only seven known Omega VIIIs in the world.  Two of them are members of Cape teams.  One is incarcerated.  The other five are MIA.  And those five are all four considered Hoods."

---

Darja smiles at you.  "See you tomorrow Jack."

Colby kind of considers you as you walk away.  Then he turns back to Darja and continues once he thinks you're out of earshot.  "Just so you know...everyone in class is gonna tell all their friends about you.  You're gonna be very well known by tomorrow."

Darja hesitates.  She sounds nervous, but resolved though when she says, "Jah.  I mean yes.  I figured.  But...well.  Things were...difficult for me back in Estonia.  That's why we moved to America.  My mother figured they would catch me when they did the screening.  And she was right.  But that's fine.  I...I don't want to pretend to be something I'm not.  Not anymore.  I don't think I'm special or anything.  But ...I can do these things.  And so I want to consider what I can use them for is all.  If I have to do that while hiding them..."

Neither of them says anything for a moment, then Colby asks, "So.  If you don't mind me asking...what can you do?"

Darja's voice is very low.  "Well.  I can fly-"

"Holy Frosty The Snowman!  That's hot!  Do you realize how insanely sexy that power is?!"

Darja must be blushing.  "Well I...uhm...no..."

Colby laughs.  "Oh man.  They are all gonna be spittin' nails out of the envy over you.  Everyone wants to be able to fly."

"I...guess I never really thought about it like that."

"Well you should.  C'mon.  Let's get something to drink and we can talk about it more on the way home."

You head out the back entrance since it's closer, following the crowd as you listen to Colby and Darja.

The crowd ahead has stopped.  There's an altercation going on.

There is a small crowd of people you automatically identify as BEs.  Four guys and five girls.  They are clutched together, the guys in front, the girls bunched up behind them.

Facing the BEs are three guys. The gamer you saw on the way in today.  One of the gamers is pushing one of the BE guys.

"What the hell man?" says the gamer, the largest one of that group, as he grabs the front of one of the BEs shirts in his hand.  "What is with you creepy assholes anyway?  Was I standing there, saying 'gosh I hope some creepy asshole touches me?'.  Huh?"

"Friend," says the BE who is being held by the collar.  "It was an accident.  I am sorry.  We are just on our way home from a long day of education-"

"Who the hell talks like that?  What is wrong with you?"

All three of the Gamers have increased pulse rates.  You can hear their hearts starting to hammer away in their chests.  The BEs seem calm.

Jack listens to Mr. Casey as he explains about the Omega VIIIs and idly writes on his notebook, reminding himself to find out more about the Gransy-Moller scale if it isn’t in the textbook. Though he expects that’s covered by the book as well, it’s a normal sized textbook and they need to fill their pages with something. In fact, in consideration, he thinks this might be a college textbook by design, since meta studies aren’t a normal high school topic one has a full year of study about.

In any case, as he makes his way through the halls, he actually pauses for a second and then grumbles silently to himself about Colby cutting her off. She had clearly said ‘these things’ in what sounded to him like a plural sense and then he’d stopped her after just flying. Like, yeah, that’s pretty neat if you can’t fly, but now he’d have to find out for himself. Not that that was the end of the world, but he didn’t want to ask too much and have her start to wonder why he was so curious. Or is it normal to be curious about people’s powers?

Yeah, maybe it is.

As he walks along with the crowd, a few inches taller than most, he ends up standing on his tippy-toes to get a clean line of sight without needing to look through everyone and shakes his head. Part of him thinks the BE kids can probably handle this themselves, they outnumber the boys being bullies, but screw that.

“You’re the ones being bullies!” he calls out over the top of the crowd, not nearly 1/10th full volume, but loud enough to be heard even opposite the crowd. He wants to be normal, but he isn’t going to do that at the expense of others by letting the weird kids get picked on.

In fact, they are increasingly obviously weird. If he doesn’t find out what their deal is soon, he’s going to have to just see if they’re secretly robots himself, it’d only take a peek and to really pay attention to what he is seeing and he’d have a general sense if their anatomy was wrong, alien, partially mechanical, etc.

But he’d rather not violate their privacy, he’s trying not to do that.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 57):

Almost as one, everyone in the crowd turns to stare at you.  Including the BEs.

The large gamer guy gapes at you.  He shakes his head and, with a somewhat incredulous stare, says, "What the hell?  This ain't a special episode of Lizzie McGuire fuck face.  Who the hell says 'bully' anyway?"

One of the other gamers, the shortest one says, "Jared.  Stop."

Jared turns on his compatriot.  "You gotta be nuts Andy.  What the hell did I do wrong but say what everyone is thinking?"

"Jared."  Andy's voice is soft.  You wouldn't be able to hear it without your abilities.  "Enough.  Let.  It.  Go."

Andy is the shortest of the three.  He wears a black knit cap, and his unruly strawblonde hair pokes out from under it in odd places.  He doesn't look very intimidating.  Jared probably has a good fifty pounds on him and is at least eight inches taller.  But Jared stops, and giving you and the BEs a quick backwards look, storms away.

The crowd disburses.  Many of them give you odd looks.  A couple give you admiring looks.  And then, one of the BE girls is standing in front of you.

She's smiling, but it looks odd.  Like her mouth is just used to doing that.  Her eyes are open wide.  But there's not a lot of light in them.  She does an odd little curtsey.  "Thank you. But we'll BE all right.  I'm Annalee.  If you ever get lonesome, come down to the Friendly's Ice Cream shop on 3rd.  We're always there! SPECIAL KISSES!!!"

And saying that, she steps forward, stands on her tip toes, and tries to give you a kiss.

Homeschooling! Jack didn’t realize that bullying wasn’t still the phrase for it. He’d need to talk to some others and figure out what the new word was. ‘Being assholes’ doesn’t really explain as well as bullying. Bullying is self-contained explanation and description. He doesn’t really think anything of the power dynamic between friends. Maybe Andy is the level headed one and Jared relies on him to know when he’s being hot-headed, size is rather irrelevant. They are irrelevant, and he can promptly put them on the rubric as ‘not worth knowing.’

He waits for the crowd to part and finds himself now looking down at a girl, Annalee. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine,” he answers and when she starts to step forward toward him, his eyes narrow slightly and then seeing her intention, he steps backwards smoothly, holding out his hands to ward her off. “That’s quite unnecessary, have a nice day.”

And he starts to walk off, taking the long way if necessary, to avoid running in to the BE people again. He doesn’t care for bullying, but he also doesn’t want to be seen as some sort of BE-adjacent kid. That’d be social suicide as far as he can tell.

Making his way the roundabout way, he starts to make his way home again.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 59):

Speaking of the BEs, you use your phone to check the Reddit thread you had started.

There are a few responses.  Most are from people outside the area who think you're either talking about a fat girl in a bumblebee costume from a 90s music video or Bea Arthur, late star of the Golden Girls.

But you do get a few more solid hits.

Ugh.  Those guys.  They're nice but weird nice.  My hubby manages a shoe store and they'll sometimes gather outside and stare in at the displays for like an hour. Creepy.

I know one of them.  We grew up together and Kim was always a bright girl.  Lots of fun.  Then we went to different schools in sixth grade.  Next time I saw her, she was one of them.  Tried talking to her but she just laughed and ran away.  Her folks sold their house and moved them in to that apartment building they all live at.  I wish I could have stopped whatever it was that happened.

I lived across from that apartment building for my last year at UM.  They were really odd.  They'd do things like pick up trash or shovel the sidewalk.  But if you tried to help or thank them they would just stare at you.  And it wasn't just one of them.  They'd circle around you and stare at you until you went away.  Glad I moved.

A reply to the last.  Which apartments was that?

A different user responds.  It used to be St Anthony Village over on SE7th.  Someone told me they bought it and renamed it.  Blue Eaves or something.  If you know where the Friendly's is on 3rd and 7th, it's a block away on 7.

"Blue Eaves." A location too, Jack decides that unless he can come up with something by the end of the week, he'll be using his powers of perception on the ice-cream shop, the apartment building and a few BEs. That should put their odd behavior into a new light. But for right now, he'll sniff around a bit more. If at the end of next week he hasn't found anything unusual in either places or on them, and no other clues turn up? He'll make a trip to Friendly's and see what happens.

He'll trust in his abilities to keep him from becoming Stepford'd.

Though maybe before he does that, he should entrust someone like the Minneapolis Monkey with the plan. He'd approach as 'Mr. X' or something, and not reveal who he is beneath the mask? Then be like, "Hey dude," or.. no, "Monkey." All full of vigor! Deep voice.

"I am MR. X! I intend to infiltrate the BE guys! Er.. BE complex! Base! BE Base! And discover what they have been doing to people.."

Thinking it over, he shrugs to himself as he walks through the piles of leaves fallen on the sidewalk. His mind on the tasks he has ahead.

To-do for the week:

• Make headway on the BE problem issue assuming they aren't just weird people in a cult, potentially speak to mom, the Monkey if I can find him.
• Find the Monkey (maybe)
• Normal weekly: One hour of listening lab for Chinese, go early tomorrow, also begin self-training. Should have Fluency fairly quickly, I'd think?
• Identify research topic for history, check out books and write initial draft--tentative topic: Metahumans in the World Wars, could then share that paper with Mr. Casey for extra brownie points? Just need to ask Mr. Calico if we can pick a topic if it's a good one? I suspect he wants to assign topics so people don't pick easy topics? Maybe he can at least give us a topic in that direction?
• Math: Do regular homework.
• Read all textbooks and assigned reading, two readings. Should take about twenty minutes if at full speed.. do at lower speed to maximize content absorb and comprehension -- maybe get some additional books on content that isn't immediately obvious, like a book that discusses the metaphors and content of various poet's works. Regurgitate famous author's opinions on other's works? Harder to catch verbal plagiarism on command? Mom might not approve.
• Continue to refine mental charts to identify most likely compatible girlfriend, friends and study partners.
• Spread required sleep every night, one hour per night, in case we want to stay up on weekend night unexpectedly.

And then his only personal to-do for the week that isn't school related:

• Run up to Saint Cloud to see mom. Sober for the first time in years.

Checking his list, he looks it over and nods a bit to himself. He could check off several parts in a single evening, he just needs to make sure he does the stuff that can only be done during the day without sneaking out, is done during the day. He isn't sure he wants to start wandering out of the house late at night.

He probably will, but if he can manage his time appropriately he can save homework for the hours after midnight and focus on his adventures in town during the day. Like a trip to the various libraries to pick up extra books, his examination of the various BE properties, etc.

With a self-satisfied nod, he pauses at a cross-walk and spend a long moment looking around the neighborhood. Looking not just at any other students walking home, but at the people in the area, the businesses.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:15, Thu 19 Dec 2019.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 61):

Can you give me five perception checks please?  Just B flat checks.  I'll add the modifiers that may apply from your character sheet.  Just want to have some on hand as I go though the next bits.

You 'observe' from the apartment that night.

The Friendly's seems to do a decent business, but as you watch it's almost entirely BEs.  They compromise about 85% of the customer base.  The few who aren't get their ice cream or burgers and leave quickly.  When a non-BE is in the place, all the other customers go completely quiet.

Except for one visitor.  It's a young man, college age apparently.  He seems to know one of the BEs and as soon as he arrives, a small crowd of them gather around him, chatting with him, hugging him.  They seem happy to see him.  They spend about an hour speaking with him at one of the booths.  At one point, one of them asks him,

"So were you still thinking about it?"

The young man is quiet for a moment and then says, "I...I think I'd like to.  But I need to settle things with my Dad."

"We all have to settle things," the BE says cheerfully.  "But remember:  it's easier to settle once you leave it all behind."

The others start singing a song.  You have to research the song online, but it's Dolly Parton's Jolene.

Everyone in Blue Eaves is...well.  Quiet.  The BEs seem to be grouped in to apartments by family.  At least that seems to be dominant theme.  The families gather at the dining room table and eat bowls of Cheez Its and drink cold milk.  They then take turns telling each other about their day.  A lot of the men seem to work at the power plant.  A lot of the women seem to work for temp services. Most of the kids go to your school or the local grade school.  Only a few people are college age, but of those that are, they seem to attend UM.

After' dinner, the families play a board game.  Most play Parcheisi.  Then they break in to smaller units and do chores: both inside their apartments and cleaning the halls. ]

There are three areas you can't access.  There's no sound and the walls have been lined with something you can't peer through.  Apartment 208.  The janitor's closet on the back left corner of the first floor.  And the basement.

You scan the city for signs of the Monkey.  You don't see anything. Tonight at least.

Of course, it’s going to be the basement Jack thinks as he idly glances out the apartment window, his hands idly moving as he flips from page to page of the book he’d been reading when he’d decided to jump the timeline and start snooping. It was something he’d have to break himself of, eventually, the urge to use his powers when a bit of plain detective work might work instead. Thinking of the basement, he attempts to ascertain its size and looks for signs of excessive bandwidth or plumbing going into the basement. Anything out of the ordinary.

Looking back at the textbook, he resumes reading, flipping through the pages at a speed that might appear to simply be riffling the pages to an outsider observer. His eyes rapidly reading the content of each page, doing his best to actually absorb the content and not just memorize it.

Math isn’t meant to be absorbed at this speed, he needs to practice the formulas as well.

With that in mind, he pulls out a piece of paper and flips to the work table and precisely writes out the formulas, and then the answers. Each checked mentally against his mental calculator, he idly begins to do the workpages from the following chapters. Taking the time to try to absorb the content in the hours of spare time that his lack of sleep and endless endurance provide him. Not a single bit of sleep forming in his eye, no buildup of fatigue in his muscles, he simply works effortlessly.

As it approaches midnight, he listens to the sounds of Aunt Marlene sleeping in the adjacent room to make sure she isn’t going to come in and say something, and then tucks in an earphone and starts to watch Netflix with one eye, even as he works through all of the workbooks.

Some of the concepts take several read-throughs to really start to see how they click, and when around chapter five he runs in to something a bit more troubling, he looks up a Youtube tutorial and listens to the instructor playing at double speed.

Once he finishes the first half of the book, he pushes it aside and starts to go through the next textbook. Absorbing. Doing his best to not just read the content, but really chew down to the gristle with it, and make sure that he can understand its particulars. History is mostly about memorization, and about getting a general gist of who did what to who, and when. It clicks more easily.

By two in the morning he starts with the Meta textbook, and chews through it in a similar manner. Reading it for the fourth time, he takes the time to make some flash cards out of the glossary and then quizzes himself with them. Rubber-bands them together, and tucks them into his bag.  Maybe it’s his enthusiasm and pre-existing knowledge of the subject, but he feels like he has the subject matter in hand well enough to pass the course on discussion topics alone. He’ll need to write some stuff for it after.

Finally, around three in the morning, he cracks open the book for English and reads the content. Looking at the poem he was tasked with reading, he also locates a study guide online and memorizes the talking points. Trying to really understand what the author is saying.

Something like: https://www.coursehero.com/lit...who-are-you-summary/

With that in hand, he pushes the last of it aside. He’d need to find similar study guides for all of the poems and creative works Mrs. Whitefall assigns, so that he can perhaps pick up the knack of understanding how to read poetry and creative works. It must be something a person can learn to do. He can solve half the workbooks in a calculus textbook in an hour! He can certainly learn to read artistic pieces and decipher their codes.

In the final hour of the late night, he crawls in to bed and sets an alarm for an hour later, and then like a machine, simply shuts down and lets his body begin to recuperate. Almost like he's meditating, he lets himself fall asleep, going from full-wakefulness to sleep in moments.

17:26, Today: Jack Sharpe rolled 10 using 3d6.
17:26, Today: Jack Sharpe rolled 12 using 3d6.
17:26, Today: Jack Sharpe rolled 16 using 3d6.
17:26, Today: Jack Sharpe rolled 6 using 3d6.
17:26, Today: Jack Sharpe rolled 13 using 3d6.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:55, Mon 23 Dec 2019.

Another exciting day in the life of your average guy.

Thanks for your patience while we rolled through Day 1.  I'll start on the 'Who's Who in Minneapolis' thread we discussed over the next couple of days.  Give me this week to add in all the NPCs please.  Then, if you want to add your own notes to each entry, please do.  Just add a reply to the entry and I can edit the post to add your comments.

Also, I'm going to add a 'To Do List' as the first entry of the Who's Who thread.  I'll add in notes related to class projects.  Again, you may edit that as you see fit.

Going forward, I'm not going to be running through each school day period by period.  Instead I'll be focusing on chunks of the day.  If you wish to run through any other period I don't cover, just let me know.

And again, if you have any questions or concerns, please let me know.

Thanks again.  I'll have your next story thread post up in a little while.

In reply to Editor-in-Chief (msg # 64):

"Olen suur vapper koer...olen suur vapper koer...".  Darja is muttering in Estonian under her breath.  You can hear as you come down the hall to room 248 for your second day of school.

She must have come in very early.  You didn't 'see' her on your own way to school.  She's seated in her chair, studying her textbook.  She's at the halfway point in the book for some reason.  Maybe she's like you and likes to get a head start.

<Periwinkle>"Good morning," she says with a smile as you take your seat.  You can see her eyes glance past you towards the door.

A couple of your classmates come in.  They look at Darja, notice she's looking back, look away, and then say something between them.  "That's her?  She doesn't look..."

"Well how's she supposed to look?  Maybe she's got like a third nipple or somethin'."  Probably a good thing Darja can't hear what they're whispering to each other.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

Darja sighs and look back at you, smiling weakly.  "Word travels fast.  If you want, I can switch seats."

Coming in to school, Jack had briefly debated whether he wanted to try to take the bus or look for Darja. Those were his options. The first might let him meet the girl who had the locker next to him, but he figured he’d be watchful for her in the meantime and see if she was as obnoxious as she’d been at the locker in other situations.  He’d also studied a bit too late to stick to his hour-a-day plan of rest, and still make it in for the listening lab.

Checking his mental checklist of projects and plans for the week, he focuses on his plans for the day, and then, hearing Darja again, he wonders if he might try to memorize the language.

Taking a seat next to Darja, he smiles over at her and then says, “Good morning.”

“If you want, I’ll switch, but I’m okay?” he mentions, showing her that it’s no problem for him either way, though he’d switch if she felt like it’d make things easier for her.

As he waits for class to get started, he pulls out his book and notebook. Realizing that he finally has a moment with the pencil sharpener, he gets up and goes over to it with a handful of unsharpened pencils. Putting each into the sharpener in turn, he spins the handle and quickly gets a handful of sharpened pencils.

Returning to his desk a few moments later, he drops most of the pencils into his bag and finally looks at Darja again.

“So, what’s up?” he asks.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 66):

Darja exhales, smiling as she does so.  "Sorry.  Thanks.  I was just...well.  Word seems to have already gotten around about me admitting I'm meta.  Lots of people staring at me.  Or saying somethings.  Mostly it's stupid.  Like if I had a third nipple or an extra big toe."

She laughs, but it has a nervous sound to it.

"Anyway. I guess it's got me spooked.  I didn't know if being seated next to the newest meta in school might make you nervous.  I'm...I'm glad it doesn't seem to matter to you.  Thank you Jack.  That really means something to me."

You pretty sure she couldn't have heard the remark about the third nipple from where she was seated.  Unless acute hearing was another of her powers.

Darja wipes her hands on her jeans.  "A year and a half ago...back in Estonia...my powers came out.  It...things didn't go well.  When the Soviets still controlled our country, they used meta forces to...well.  Metas are not very popular in the Baltic states. It's really why we moved to America.  So...I have been scared about coming forward.  But I wanted to do it.  I didn't want anyone to say I was trying to hide who I am. Sorry.  I sound like a preacher. Anyway.  It really means a lot that you do not seem to mind.  Thanks again Jack."

Curiouser and curiouser.

He smiles slightly when she laughs, but doesn't laugh with her, he squashes even the slight humor in it and instead makes a conscious decision to show a smile instead. Something that shows empathy for her situation without appearing to take any humor from the comments of others. She can laugh it off, but he won't.

Or is that the wrong approach?

"I'm guessing your meta-power isn't extra body parts, I actually assume that people who have fun colored eyes and unusual hair colors generally don't announce the fact that they're meta, since this is the response. Better for everyone to just assume it's contacts or hair dye," he reasons in the way that he does.

While some small part of him had been curious if she was somehow his mirror in powers, with the apparent possible hearing, flight and speed reading all being potential powers-- but the fact that she'd left the Baltic States out of fear is something telling, he doesn't think that a cornered feeling Darja would have been allowed to leave, and if she had been forced to fight her way out, the news would have shown the damage she could inflict.

In any case, he had might as well ask, "So, what can you do?" all sotto voce, he leans in so that she can speak her answer privately between the two of them.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 68):

She sort of grimaces, her shoulders hunching forward and her hands disappearing between her knees.  Her eyes cut around the room and then she answers in the same tone.

"Honestly?  I'm not sure.  See, when I was growing up I thought everything I did was normal.  Like I can hear everything going on around me.  And...well.  I'm tough.  Nothing seems to cut me.  I was hit by a car when I was seven.  It was going pretty fast.  Knocked me back about ten feet.  But I was fine.  It felt like a hug honestly.

"It was when I started flying I found out I wasn't like other people.  Yeah. The flying was new.  It just happened one day.  To be honest, it scared me.  I didn't know what was going on.  But a lot of people saw me.  It was...well...

"Anyway.  Sorry if it sounds like I'm bragging.  I just...don't know how to explain it.  The stuff I can do...it's like blinking.  Or breathing.  It's just always been like this."

“That’s cool, do you have designs to join some sort of team or something, eventually?” Jack asks. He’d never heard of any sort of school for Gifted Youngsters or anything of that sort, but he had to imagine there was something out there for people like them. Capes willing to take young Capes under their wing? Apprenticeships? The only thing that held him back from looking into it was the warnings of his mother and father.

“Anything else?” Jack asks, he had always figured he was unique, but perhaps his uniqueness wasn’t in the breadth of his abilities but in the overwhelming depth of them. He’d never heard of anyone quite like him, and the similarity is striking. Kismet. He has to wonder how indestructible she is, how fast, and if she has any of his energy or strength. In the end however, he just smiles at her and seems pleased.

Hearing that she grew up with it as well, he starts to consider telling her his secret.

He’d have to clear it with his mom first, and really “friend” Darja, to see what sort of person she is. To test how much she can be trusted, and to see what is up with her talking to herself so much. If her powers are making her unstable, he’d avoid it. Not for his safety, but for his secret identity.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 70):

Darja seems surprised by your question about becoming a cape.  "Ma pole sellele kunagi...er...Sorry.  I keep forgetting to speak English.  Uhm.  Well I...never really thought about it.  It's not an option back home you see."

She opens her mouth to say something else, but Calico comes in.  She smiles and shrugs and the two of you flip on your student switches.  The first real class, Calico runs through some material on Stone Age cultures.  He really gets in to it because he keeps talking for a few minutes after the bell goes off.

Darja crams her notebook in to her backpack.  "Sitt!" she mutters.  "My second period is all the way at the other end of the school.  See in sixth period!"

And she hurries out the door.

---

Zhao runs you through forms of address today.  The class mostly mouths along.

Everyone has to introduce themselves.  So you do get some names to put to faces though.

The Filipino girl is Rosamie Lea.

The redheaded guy, who seems to catch on very quickly to the language, is Ronald Harbors.

The ponytail guy from your English class turns out to be a Korean.  He gives his name as Jae Bim.  Though from what you know about Korean, both those are part of his surname.  Jae-Bim.  He's not giving his family name.

The BEs give their names as well.  Alex, Rhoda, and Jim...something.  You realize you didn't catch their last names.

Zhao reminds everyone to sign up for a language lab before the end of the week.

---

Ms. Friendly is at her locker when you walk up.  She glances at you, makes a face like your creamed Alpo, and shuts her locker door loud enough to make a point.  She walks away, heading in the opposite direction.

As you turn you see Sara from the other day walking down the hall.  She has a notebook clutched to her chest, like it was a shield.  A few people stare after her.  But the comments being made are mostly sympathetic.

"Ugh.  I can't believe someone's pulling that on her again.  Poor Sara."

"I don't care if it's true.  She's hot.  I'll break someone's legs if they screw with her again."

"The things you see when you don't have a gun.  Bitch."

'Mostly' being the important word there.

The voice commenting about the gun sounds familiar.  It was the same voice that said Soup's on yesterday.

Jack is about to talk about what he knows about such things from reading the book and his research prior to that, and even recommend that she might take a trip and visit with some known Capes, or maybe there is some sort of registration protocol or something to find a tutor or team? In a way, he feels like he might learn a bit about his own situation and his future by helping her with hers, and not be breaking with any promises his made to his mother in the process.

Looking up at Calico, he quickly recaps the chapter the teacher is now speaking about in his head. Bringing to the forefront his understanding of the evolution of agriculture, cave paintings, cuneiform, and a hundred other tidbits that the book had offered. He felt more than competent in the subject, and even as the teacher talks, he listens. His eyes shifting over those present, but inevitably drawn back to Darja.

Such a coincidence.

"See you later."

---

Jack’s memorization of language seems to work rather well, especially when he is called upon to answer questions and speak to specific words. It’s conversational fluency that will throw him off, as he needs to actually consult his mental-compendium of language to really get a grasp on every phrase. Though to an outside observer he might appear to be nearly fluent, since the pauses are microseconds in length, he isn’t truly fluent.

He’s a guy who can read a dictionary for a language in an hour, and regurgitate words on command. The language book he’d been given was full of short phrases like:

“Where is the bathroom?”

And his accent is still atrocious, but as he calls up the phrases in his mind, he might seem like a bit of a wunderkind.

Introducing himself, he looks around at his fellow students as he talks, making eye contact, and trying to look a bit less stiff. Not that he is thinking Rosamie is the best option of those he’d met so far, but it didn’t hurt to be seen as more normal. Normal is good.

"Nǐ hǎo! Wǒ jiào Jack Sharpe," he introduces himself.

---

Ms. Locker-girl is removed from any potential running for inclusion in his life, and struck from the rolls. All looks, no personality. He'd be cordial, but that was as far as anything would go. Even if her home life was awful, she was far from pleasant.

Hearing the voice talking about having a gun, Jack lets his eyes swiftly roam over the crowd. Taking in every face, trying to match things up. The gun thing is troubling, not for him, but perhaps he could report said student to the principal. “I heard him talking about bringing a gun to school..” might be highly effective, if this person was dangerous to others.

Even as his eyes roam, his hands open the locker and he switches out a few books. Acting on memorized positions and textures without looking.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:08, Wed 01 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 72):

There's a number of guys in the hallway.  Even flipping between their conversations, you don't hear a voice like the one you just heard.  It was deeper.  Almost adult sounding.  But with kind of a gravelly lower end.  Like the speaker smoked quite a bit.

The oldest guy you see within regular sight range is Dan.  He's talking to Mrs. Hollister.  Their conversation is fairly banal.

"I hope you'll be serious this time Dan,"

"That's the plan. Thanks though," Dan shuts his locker door.  "Oh.  I heard you got married.  Congrats."

"Thank you.  It was a bit sudden.  But I'm really happy." She smiles somewhat.

They chat a moment longer and then part.  You follow her to room 28B.

Her class is pretty much what you thought it would be.  She's straight forward and gets down to business.  The bell starts ringing before you know it.

---

Lunch starts out like it did yesterday.  Instead of burritos, everyone's going for the bacon mac an' cheese.  It smells good.

You come out of the line and start examining your choices for places to sit when the fire alarm goes off.  The whole cafeteria collectively groans.  Almost everyone had just started eatting.  A voice comes on the loudspeaker.

"This is not a drill people."

"Fuckin' Cabrazzi..." someone mutters.  You recall Dan's father is supposed to be the vice principal.

Everyone starts heading for the exits.  No one's panicking.  Everyone seems to think this is a badly timed fire drill.

You can't detect any fire or smoke.  Everyone seems to be reacting normally...

No.  Wait.  There's a bunch up at the main entrance to the cafeteria.  Everyone over there is muttering.

"Oh shit..."

"Really?  Really?"

"I can't believe they would do this..."

"Oh man.  Poor Sara.  Maybe we can get it down before she sees it..."

"Too late dude.  Look..."

You can see over the crowd.  Across the hall from the main entrance to the cafeteria, someone has strung a banner up over the lockers.

SARA:  THE OTHER WHITE MEAT.  MAKE SURE YOU HAVE A BIG HELPING.  EVERYONE ELSE HAS

Sara is in the middle of the crowd.  People draw away from her like she has a highly contagious disease.  No one says anything.  Most of everyone looks away.

Sara pushes through the crowd, turns, and starts running down the hall.

Jack reminds himself to figure out what Dan's deal is. So far, nobody had openly discussed the situation, which either meant it was immensely embarrassing or was so rumored and nebulous that nobody wanted to just out and talk about it. A few deductions are clear however: Dan isn't the best student, so maybe whatever it was just lead to him being held back a year. Though that takes an extra level of stupid on top of missing summer courses, to his understanding.

He hadn't seen any signs of abuse, and Dan seemed relatively well adjusted.

In any case, he only throws a glance before he lets his eyes wander over the area again, trying to solve the puzzle of the weird voice as well.

---

Eating his bacon mac n' cheese off the tray with his fork as he walks towards the exit, Jack gets enough off the plate to enjoy the taste and then drops it in with the others on the way out. He would miss the social opportunities, but food was still just a bit of hedonistic enjoyment for him. He could function entirely without it, fed by the ambient radiation of the universe.

Walking along with the others toward the exit, he spots the banner and shakes his head, once again turning his head slightly to study people.

If he found them, he'd make the person responsible stop. Possibly by flying them up into the upper atmosphere and threatening them. Or as was more likely, he'd send an anonymous note to the administration with a name listed as being responsible.

With that in mind, he decides that no matter what happens tomorrow, he will spend the whole day with intermittent glances towards this locker-area every five seconds or so.

Looking around at those near him, he looks for someone who doesn't look too surprised, but at the same time, doesn't look approving, and asks, "Do you know what this is about?" hoping for, for lack of a better definition, gossip. It might help him figure it out without having to N-Ray the walls all day.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 74):

The nearest person is a girl who must be about fifteen.  She glances at you when you ask and for a second you think she's going to blow off your inquiry.  But she shrugs.  "Same old crap as last year.  You don't know about it?  You new or somethin'?

"Well.  I'm sure you would hear about it anyway.  That was Sara Alburn.  She's a junior.  Last year, some seniors started posting shit about her online.  You know.  'Cyberbullying'."  The girl puts down her hands after making air quotes.  "It got weird.  Someone pasted a photo of her face on some porn picture of a woman doing it with a pig.  I mean a real pig.  It was disgusting.

"Anyway, her parents found out about it and it became a really big deal.  I heard Sara was trying to keep it quiet.  But the school went nuts.  We had like three assemblies about it. And there were all these workshops everyone had to attend.  The seniors who were doing it got suspended.  I think a couple of them didn't get in to college over it.

"I know Sara.  Kinda.  We're not great friends or anything.  But she's not a bad person.  She didn't deserve it first time around.  And she was trying to handle it the right way.  Not paying attention.  Ya know.  Just trying to rise above.  But once the school got on board, it got hard for her.  Everyone started looking at her.  We'd be in those assemblies and everyone would just look at her when they talked about the victims.  I felt bad for her."  She sighs, looks at the banner, and shakes her head.  "Guess we're gonna have more assemblies."

“Yeah, new here,” he answers her first question and listens to the tale of Sara. His eyes narrowing slightly as he grows more angry on her behalf.

Seniors, who would then be gone. Though some might still be around, like Dan? He doesn’t think Dan is the type, but then again, maybe he’d been roped in with some other knuckleheads and it wasn’t his best moment. That being said, he doesn’t think the Dan he has met would be the sort to do that sort of thing. And that voice, the voice of the gravelly older man talking about guns and soup, that voice was the one he was starting to suspect more than any other.

In fact, some small part of him suspects that the deep voice that had managed to repeatedly pull off these elaborate ‘pranks’ was a meta. He’d confirm by watching the hallway until he knew otherwise. The fact that he couldn’t find a source for the voice, that was the most telling factor.

Then again, maybe he suspects metas because he himself is a meta. It’s like owning a new car, suddenly seeing that car everywhere.

“I see. That's messed up, thanks for telling me, what a bunch of assholes. I wonder why whoever it is, is still doing it, if it was seniors last year,” he wonders with the girl conspiratorially.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 76):

I hit Edit instead of Reply on your post and started happily typing away.  I think it is back to where it was, but if something is missing, sorry about that.

She bends her head slightly and seems to consider what you just said.  It appears she hadn't considered it before.

"Huh.  That is weird.  Now that I think about it...I'm not sure I know who it was exactly.  It was just...huh."

A couple of teachers come by and start yelling for everyone to go outside.  They seem as surprised by the banner as everyone else.  "Crap.  This again," one mumbles under his breath.

It takes about fifteen minutes before someone comes outside and tells everyone to go back in.  By the time you've made it through the door, the next period bell is ringing.  No one seems to hurry, but everyone makes their way to their lockers.  A man comes on over the loudspeaker.  Same guy who announced the fire.  "Ladies and Gentlemen.  Thank you for being orderly with the alarm.  But you need to get to class.  You have five minutes."

Several people around you groan. "Fuckin' Cabrazzi..."  It seems to be a popular refrain.

---

Mrs. Whitefalls isn't in a great mood.

She's been scowling at everyone since you all filed in.  Like she's not thrilled you're all late, fire alarm or no.  "Okay people.  We've lost ten minutes.  Let's get right in to it.  The poem I asked you all to read yesterday.  Let's hear what you think.  We'll start with..."  She checks her grade book.  "...Allison Ericks."

The red head is wearing a guy's sweatshirt and has her hair done up in a loose bun.  She twitches her lips when her name is called and then takes a moment to open her book.

"What are you doing?" Mrs. Whitefalls asks.

"Oh. I'm just opening my book to the poem-"

"Did you not read it yet?"

Allison seems confused.  "I did.  I just thought you wanted me to read it out loud."

"I asked what you thought about it.  But okay.  Go ahead and read it aloud."

Allison has a lovely voice.  She reads it carefully and her voice is pitched just loud enough that everyone can hear her without it sounding like she's bellowing.

"Okay.  So.  What do you think of it?"

"Well.  I think it's kind of lonely."

"Lonely."

"Well.  Yeah."  Allison chews on her lips a second.  "It's that first sentence that struck me.  She calls herself Nobody. That made me think she was lonely prior to meeting this other lonely person."

"So. You understand that the narrator...'Nobody'...is speaking to another person who they identify with.  And you think two people joining together is 'lonely'."

Allison chews her lip a second and then nods her head.  "Yeah.  I think you can be lonely even with another person around."

Whitefalls looks Allison over and then looks down at her gradebook. "Let's try someone else.  Jack Sharpe.  What do you think about the poem?"

Getting situated in Whitefall’s classroom, Jack runs his hand through his hair in thought and looks around at the other students. If he were going only on looks, he would definitely try to approach Allison, but her attitude and style of dress are unique enough that he wants to understand her a bit better before he does anything but start up a conversation with her. Listening to her analysis of the poem, he thinks maybe she might be on to something, but apparently it isn’t what Whitefalls wanted to hear.

So instead, he taps into his memory of the analysis he read online and regurgitates the reformatted answer: “I think,” he pauses, as he was taught by his mother, so that he wouldn’t seem too polished or able to just talk endlessly. His stream of consciousness far faster than human speech, he can think on the whole of the article he read between every word, if he focuses, though it makes him sound a bit odd, “I think that she might have been lonely, like Allison said, but it was a self imposed loneliness.” He connects those dots, or tries to anyway.

Trying to sound insightful still, he continues after a breath.

“I think her poem is basically about being introverted. She didn’t want to be famous or to associate with those who sought fame,” he rephrases the lines from the website he’d read, mentioning the introverted thing when he’d decided the definition fit the description of the work. Though he wasn’t strictly sure that was true, he didn’t want to be caught plagiarizing, so he rephrases everything.

That said, he stops talking and looks around, sparing a glance for the interesting people. Allison, ponytail, etc.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 78):

Whitefalls gives you a dead look for a moment.  The short, pudgy girl with glasses raises her hand.  Whitefalls rolls her eyes that way.  She sighs but says, "Yes...  She checks her gradebook.  "Alexa.  Alexa Goodfriar."

Glasses Girl...er...Alexa puts her hand down and takes a deep breath, as if gathering her courage.  "Uhm.  I think the poem is about being happy at finding someone like minded. Like she's a nobody and she finds someone else who's a nobody.  Like when you find a friend..."

"How would you know what that's like?" someone whispers somewhere off to your left.  You only heard it because you're you.

"...or when you meet a lover."

That brings a chuckle from whoever whispered.

"Third times the charm..." Whitefalls says, loud enough for you to get the point.  She turns to the chalkboard and starts writing.  "Now.  Let's talk about her use of the word 'nobody'..."

The class continues in the same vein.

---

Whitefalls begins passing out some papers five minutes before the bell rings.  "Now.  Next time we're going to talk about the papers you'll have due.  Each of these is a poet and one of their poems.  Your homework is to go online...you all know how to do that...and find a second poem from this poet.  Yes, some of them aren't American.  You can find translations for all of them. You're AP.  Deal with it."

You take a sheet off the top and look at it.

Cesar Vallejo.

The poem is titled Masses

The battle was over,
And the fighter was dead, a man came towards him
And said to him: "Do not die; I love you so!"
But the corpse, how sad! went on dying.

And two came near, and repeated it.
"Do not leave us!  Courage! Return to life!"
But the corpse, how sad! went on dying.

Twenty arrived, a hundred, a thousand, five hundred thousand,
Shouting: "So much love, and it can do nothing against death!"
But the corpse, how sad! went on dying.

Millions of persons stood around him,
All with the same request: "Stay here, brother!"
But the corpse, how sad! went on dying.

Then all the men on the earth
Stood around him; the corpse looked at them sadly, deeply moved;
He sat up slowly,
Put his arms around the first man, started to walk...

So a note about the poetry project.

I'm not going to expect you to do poetry analysis obviously.  I'll be sprinkling in some poetry for flavor and various other objectives.  If Jack wants to give analysis a shot, go for it.  Otherwise, we can assume he fumbles his way through...except for one time.  Then I'll need you to tell us what Jack thinks about a poem.  But I'll let you know when we get there.

Here's a link to some of other Vallejo poems- https://www.poetryfoundation.o...ar-vallejo#tab-poems in case.  But again, the amount of game time we spend on the poetry analysis is up to you.  Feel free to regard it as wallpaper and ignore it if it's not your thing.

Moving along...

---

The Physics class turns in to another free for all.  This time they spend all the time talking about gravity.  It's interesting but not what's on the syllabus.

You scuttle to Meta Issues.  Darja and Colby are standing in the hallway, talking.  Darja sees you and waves, smiling.  Colby, still wearing his surgical mask, looks your way.  He cocks an eyebrow as you walk up.  "You Jack?"  He considers you.  "I gotta admit.  You don't feel like a Normie.  You don't have any issues walking right up, do you?"

Jack clearly doesn’t know what he is talking about, but maybe he got it right? No? He thought he’d paraphrased things well enough, but maybe he needed to be a bit less off-topic and trying to sound like they were original thoughts. He’d have to refine the process until he could get past her defenses. He can sort of begin to appreciate things when he thinks about it from Alexa’s point of view, but he isn’t sure that he’s “wrong.” Despite how Mrs. Whitefall reacted. Isn’t that what poetry is about? Individual interpretations?

It's like an art appreciation teacher saying that one's view of abstract art is wrong. There isn't necessarily one right way, or isn't that true? He'd need to check the book to know for sure.

Needless to say he’s a little disappointed Allison hadn’t looked his way after he’d given her the support, but he doesn’t dwell on it for more than a second and instead just goes back to taking an idle note occasionally. He'd figure her out eventually. Listening to others for now, he looks over at Alexa. Ignoring the comments in the background. If she can't hear it, it isn't bullying, and he doesn't care.

Taking the paper from Mrs. Whitefalls, he reads the poem and shakes his head to himself.

This is not immediately even remotely obvious. Some sort of religious thing about being reborn? Maybe the power of people uniting? He has no idea, he’ll research it later and add it to the other stuff he has memorized. In fact, in hindsight, he might memorize a page of analysis for every poem in the book, and work at being able to plagiarize content a bit more accurately to the analyst’s opinion.

It’d be something to refine. In case he decides to go to college.

Sounds good

---

Physics is starting to feel like a class, like math, that he’ll coast through. He has already memorized the textbook, so he can chip in on definitions of things from the textbook, when people mention things incorrectly. But they seldom do, and he doesn’t want his memorization to be too obvious, so he just tries to be friendly and not too stiff.

---

Walking up to Darja and Colby, Jack waves back at Darja and looks to Colby, nodding his head at the smaller boy. “I am, and you’re Colby?” Jack replies in a bit of that same attitude that he feels like Colby is giving him. Hearing the question, he thinks on it for a second, letting logic play out the answer, “But yeah, I’m not worried about being turned invisible, in fact, it sounds kind of awesome, and Darja is a friend,” he declares.

Giving the strap of his bag a light tug, he looks to Darja, giving her a smile.

Part of him, in hindsight wonders if some metas can sense other metas. In fact, that’s question he has and plans to bring up with the teacher once the class is underway.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:01, Tue 07 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 80):

I think I've updated all your classes on the Who's Who thread.  Leaving Sara and the BEs out for now.  Let me know if there are questions.  Feel free to add as you like.  Thanks

You can see Mr. Casey coming down the hall.  With his ears, he's hard to miss.

Colby chuckles.  "It's kind of a blast actually.  Going invisible.  I have to keep telling guys 'no, I can't just make you invisible'.  So they try to get me to sneeze.  Power is hell."

The three of you wander in to the class.  You notice Colby takes a seat near you and Darja.

Mr. Casey walks in just as the bell rings.  "Alright.  A quick roll call. We've lost two people.  Oh well."

He turns and writes REASONS FOR CONCERN on the white board.

"Now.  We talked a little yesterday about the various rating scales for metas.  I want to start talking today about the theories that guide those scales.

"For instance, let's come up with our own scale.  We're going to rate some metas ourselves.  We're not going to use MTI or GMS.  We're gonna come up with our own scale.  So.  What do criteria do you think we should use to rate our metas?  Their good looks?  How much money they have on them?"

Along the same lines in the English class, do you want to indulge in a meta-issues lecture now and again?  If not, we can just handle the personal interactions and I'll impart any information I may need you to have as we go.  Thanks.

“I’m actually surprised there wasn’t some sort of handout for being in class with you, warning girls about strong perfumes, or are you pretty good at not sneezing on accident?” Jack asks, he’d wondered the day before. It seemed like a casual mention would be all that was necessary to prevent the easy causes of sneezing, in particular, perfumes. “And does that mean that if you’re alone, you turn yourself invisible?” he asks.

As they take a seat, he smiles again at Darja, and nods at Colby.

He lifts his gaze then to Mr. Casey and listens thoughtfully, thinking about the scales as he lets his mind go back over the scales from the previous day. MTI, and the “Granny’s Molar” scale, as he wanted to call it sarcastically.

Lifting his hand, he waits to be called on, and says, “Well, both of the existing scales seem to be related to damage and legal ramifications, but the truest measurement would probably be their ability to change their environment or how much they differ from non-metas?” he proposes and sort of shrugs a little, trying to be normal. His posture relaxing a little, his hands folding around his textbook as he looks around the room.

---

After a bit more discussion, he comes around to a question he’d had, “Mr. Casey, what sort of process is used to detect that a person is a meta, when it isn’t obvious, I mean? The textbook is a bit vague.” And by vague, he means that the textbook hadn’t said how it was detected. He expects it’s either too technical to be included in the textbook, or is deliberately a vagueness dictated by the state.

His mom had never mentioned it, just that he should avoid ‘testing’ and act normal.

Indulged this as much as you’d enjoy. I enjoy it, it’s world building. I’d actually also still enjoy that little world-building tracker, so I can keep track of all the terms you come up with. 
This message was last edited by the player at 02:21, Wed 08 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 82):

I completely forgot to add the terminology and scales to your Who's Who.  Added some stuff there.  Will update as I go.  Thanks

"Nah man.  They worry that will make me self conscious.  Like I'm not already wearin' a frickin' surgical mask all the time."  Colby laughs at your last question.  "Ya know...you're the first person who's ever asked me that.  Nah. I seem to be immune. Lucky me."

---

Casey nods at your first answer.  "Interesting.  A scale was proposed back in the 60s by the University of Taiwan based on something similar. They wanted to rate based on the variance a meta was from an average human being. The problem they ran in to is: what's normal? If someone is born an albino, does that make them a meta?  On their scale it would.

"The environmental change is more promising.  There's been a lot of work done on that.  A lot.  But again, the academics and social rights groups started clashing about what constitutes 'change'.  And should ratings be based on intent or effect.

"Think about it like this.  Say there are two metas.  They both have the power to modify the temperature in a one mile radius.

"Meta A can really crank up the juice.  He can raise or lower the temperature upwards or downwards of 60 degrees.  But he works as an insurance adjustor and refuses to use his power.

"Meta B can only vary the temperature by about 10 degrees.  That may not sound like much.
But let's say he goes in to tanning salons and raises the temperature on people who are in tanning beds.  Or he blackmail farmers saying he'll mess with the temperature of their fields unless they pay him thousands of dollars.  Depending on the crop or time of year or amount of rainfall, that can be a huge deal.

"Based on purely environmental criteria, Meta A would be rated as more powerful.

"But why does that matter?  Who cares how someone is rated.  Right?"

"The Government cares..." Colby mumbles.

"Exactly.  Spoken like a true Orange.  The higher your meta rating, the more attention you receive.  And remember: attention isn't always a good thing.

"Now then.  Based on our example, who should receive more attention:  Meta A or Meta B?"

---

Casey considers your question.  "We'll get in to that later, but usually detection occurs in three ways:

"The meta loses control of their powers, even for a moment.  Colby there for example.

"There are some genetic tests.  I imagine that's how they found you Darja."

She makes a sort of noncommital nod.

Casey either misses it or ignores it.  "There are of course 'headhunters'."

"Aren't those people urban legends?" a girl in the back asks.

"Yes and no.  There are metas whose powers can help them find other metas.  For example-"

The bell rings.

"I think the existing scales are already fairly okay for keeping track of who needs more attention, Mr. Casey, if we're looking to refine the MTI, I'd propose combining the Granny Molar and the MTI--a measurement of threat combined with a measurement of intent--as is, the only measurement of threat in the MTI is at the top and bottom. You asked for an alternative scale, in which case I'd still propose that either change or difference is a good indication, so yes, an albino would be defined as a small scale meta, but that isn't a bad thing, it's a small scale genetic expression," Jack replies to the question without raising his hand. Finding the topic fascinating, he really seems to be paying attention and nods his head slightly as he thinks about it.

He undoubtedly has many opinions on the matter, the more he researches and the more he experiences things first and second hand.

To him, this is all intensely personal. He's the most profoundly different meta that he knows of. Excepting the physical appearance differences, if his eyes don't count, he is "different" in every meaningful way a person can be. From head to toe, every cell of his being differs from a normal person's.

---

Getting to his feet when the bell rings, Jack looks aside to Darja and asks sotto voce, "Want to walk with me? I just need to ask Mr. Casey to elaborate first," he mentions and giving her a moment to reply, then walks up to the teacher.

Luckily, the number of people in class is minor, so he doesn't need to wait for some press of students to talk to the teacher. Most kids are in a hurry to get out and go home. They'd probably been watching the clock like hawks.

"Mr. Casey, you were saying about metas who could find other metas?" he asks.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:15, Thu 09 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 84):

Darja smiles and nods.  "Sure.  You mind if I listen in?  You ask some interesting things."

Colby nods to you both and heads out.  He catches a bus.

Casey smiles as you walk up.  He cocks an eyebrow when you ask your question, but shrugs.  "You mean headhunters?  You've never heard the term?

"Well.  When you talk about meta detection, remember there's not really one test that sorts out everyone. Depending on someone's power, genetic make up, all sorts of factors...no one test is capable of finding or proving someone's meta.  We'll talk about some of the court cases that have come up about that in a few weeks.  But the whole idea of meta testing is very controversial.

"Anyway.  I'm getting off track.  Headhunters are metas who work to identify other metas.  Usually they act as recruiters.  Which isn't always a good thing.  For example The People's Offensive has a number of headhunters who try to recruit young metas to join their cause.  And there's metaphile rings that try to find young metas for...well.  The things they do.

"Different headhunters use different techniques.  Lemme think...Well.  Doctor James Wallham.  He founded Halfhome Institute.  He has a pretty high success rate in determining if someone's a meta.  But his approach is more clinical.  Usually his clients are parents who suspect their kid may be meta and bring them in for testing.

"Another one is Radiant.  She's a member of The Iron League.  She's a psi.  And that's pretty much how she operates.  She'll scan someone's memories and thoughts to look for evidence that indicates they may be meta.  A lot of headhunters are psi's who work along the same lines.  She just has a knack for it.

"And there's the 'mystics'."  He actually makes air quotes around the word.  "There are supposedly ways to tell if you know what you're doing...and if the whole magic thing is real.  But there are supposed to be ways to note it in someone's aura.  Or at least that's what they say."

He gives you a steady look.  "What brought that up by the way?"

“Of course,” Jack replies, standing so that Darja can be part of the conversation.

Listening to the answer, Jack thinks about the testing, and how he could be detected in the future. Genetic testing would likely never come in to play unless there was a compulsory examination, but barring something like the CDC getting involved because of an outbreak, maybe? He can’t imagine any scenario where he couldn’t claim religious exemption for some of it, and get Aunt Marlene to get waivers for others. Even in the case of the CDC, he’d just look for a gap in the situation, and slip out faster than they could see, or go through a wall or something.

Maybe.

Knowing that there is no equivalent of x-ray machines to detect Meta quality is good.

He doesn’t suspect he’ll lose control of himself in the sense that Colby might, but he could possibly, in the remote extremes of power, run up against someone who could control him. He isn’t sure how his powers will react to that. His gut tells him that his powerful mind, the speed of his thoughts, his lack of sleep, anonymity and general resistance to most stuff would work in his favor. He hasn’t ever even met a psychic, so that’s mostly just speculation, but a lifetime of invulnerability has made him a touch confident. Admittedly.

The last case, the case of Headhunters. That was the ace he couldn’t reliably predict.

“What is Halfhome Insitute?” he inquires. He feels like he should know some of these things, but his mother had kept him from some of it, the rest he just had never thought to look up.

The others mentioned. The Psi. He sort of suspects she might know he’s a meta not from what she’d sensed in his memories, but from how well he’d resist her. He’d need to look up a picture of her, so that he’d see her coming before she saw him. It would be his strongest defense against her detection if he simply avoided her completely until he was ready to be known.

And then ‘mystics.’

If such people exist, he half expects they might know who he is already, or he simply can’t be detected. His powers might protect him from that as well, he can’t really know.

“I was reading the book last night and thought about Darja’s story from yesterday, and it occurred to me that I didn’t know how they knew about her,” he answers.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:19, Fri 10 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 86):

"Halfhome is a meta think tank.  Basically it's devoted to study of metas.  Not all meta think tank have metas best intentions at heart.  But Halfhome has a pretty solid reputation."

He listens to your answer and seems to study you a moment.  Then shrugs. "Curiosity is always a good thing. Darja?  Thins goin' okay?"

Darja smiles and nods.  Casey gives her the same kind of measured look.  "Well.  I'll see you guys tomorrow.  Be safe."

---

"Why'd you take the Meta Studies class?"  Darja looks over at you, a smile on her face.  She seems to have been smiling a lot since 6th period.

"I took it for the obvious reasons.  But...I'm really glad I get to meet you and Colby.  Thanks Jack.  I was scared to death coming to America and starting school."

The two of you are walking down 5th Street, headed towards the corners you'll each turn to head home.  Walking traffic from the school has thinned out.  You both live on the edges of what's considered 'walkable'.

Ahead, about a block away is Holmes Park.  You haven't stopped by it yet.  It's just a little patch of greenery with a walking path and a playground.

You spy Sara ahead.  She's turning into the park.

Jack had nodded in understanding, yet more pieces of the puzzle of his existence as a meta all being filed away. He doesn’t necessarily need to know any of these things, but they might help him make informed decisions at some point in the future. Hands going into his pockets as they walk out of the school, he makes perhaps a little idle conversation about classes and assignments, but doesn’t necessarily have any purpose in mind. Just the conversation of teenagers.

“A few reasons, but I think the most pertinent is that I enjoy learning things. I’m a curious person, and meta studies is probably one of the most interesting and most dynamic topics of study in academia. It’s infinite possibilities, like a puzzle with a million moving parts, and the parts are always changing and we can’t make assumptions about any of it because whatever we think is true probably isn’t,” he explains as they walk. He pauses then, realizing that Darja might notice he was being too fluid in thought and interjects an, “Uh, yeah,” at the end.

Ignoring the most obvious answer. Darja might be someone he might reveal something to, in the future, but he only met her a few days ago, and he needs to talk to his mom before he reveals anything to anyone.

“No thanks are necessary, you’re cool,” he mentions.

As they walk, he actually makes a point of pointing out that they ‘apparently’ live in the same direction. “I was planning to just walk until we went separate ways,” he adds. “Do you walk to school in the morning?” he asks, already knowing the answer, but not wanting to seem to be creepy. More or less just intending to set it up so that he might walk with her in the mornings some times. The precedent established.

As he spots Sara, his mind begins to turn over possibilities, and while he doesn't expect anything unusual is happening. Perhaps a short conversation, or a word of encouragement and friendship might do something to make her life less miserable until he can find the culprit responsible for the banner and spray painting.

As they approach the park, he points at it and asks, “Want to see the park?”

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 88):

"Jah...I mean 'yes'.  I can't break the habit of saying 'jah' instead of 'yes'."  Darja grins and shakes her head.  "We're in a motel right now.  But Ema...Momma.  Momma is looking for an apartment for us.  My Uncle just got work so we're hoping we'll be able to get something with two bedrooms.  And around here.  Em-Momma wants to make sure I don't have to go far to  get to school."

You notice her speech tends to slip in to Estonian the faster she speaks.  Or perhaps the less self conscious she is while she speaks.  She glances towards the park and nods.  "I haven't been there yet.  I've been to the river but not here. Oh."

Her steps halt for a second.  She's looking at where Sara is.  She shouldn't be able to see her from here.  "Yes.  I think it's a good idea.  Let's go."  She chews her lip a moment.  "Did you hear about what happened during that fire drill at lunch?"

Jack continues to be filled with curiosity about Darja. It’s just simply impossible she has the same powers that he has, but she continued to display a remarkably similar collection. As they walk, he asks, “So what can you do, besides what you told me?” curious if she’d admit to being able to see through things. He wasn’t sure he’d admit to it, since he would probably automatically think they’d question if he’d look at them in a private manner.

“I don’t think there are any openings in my aunt’s building, but I can check,” he mentions, and realizes he hadn’t even glanced at the other adjacent apartments—and nothing they’d done audibly, if anything, had caught his notice to the point that he’d focused on it. No screaming bloody murders, no horror movies that’d drawn his attention, not even an action movie at the right time to get his attention.

Note to self: figure out if there are other neighbors in the building.

“Just stay away from the BE’s place, I still don’t know if they’re just a cult, but there is something weird going on with them,” he mentions, protective.

“You mean with the banner? Yeah, I saw it,” he confirms.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 90):

Darja smiles sideways and looks at the ground, listening to what you have to say.  She pushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

"My powers.  It's kind of embarrassing.  Not very lady like.  Honestly, I don't know exactly.  I mean I can fly.  And I've got good eyesight.  Like I can see that girl who was being shamed before.  Well.  I think it's her.  She's crying.  I can hear her crying."

Darja shakes her head.  "Remember how I told you my powers came out a year and a half ago?  It was...promise not to tell anyone?"  She looks at you with a pleading look.  She then looks back at the sidewalk and takes a deep breath.  "I was crossing the street.  And this truck ran the red light and lost control.  It was coming right at me.  I...I panicked."  She laughs nervously.  "I...I kicked at it.  I don't know why.  I just did.  And...I kicked the truck off the road.  It...it went from here," She points at the ground beside her.  "To there."  It's hard to guess where exactly she's pointing.  But you would guess it's across the other side of the street and maybe inside the building she's pointing at.

"Things got complicated after that."  She shakes her head.  "A lot of people think something like that.  Or learning you can fly.  Or hearing everything that goes on around you would be exciting.  But it's not.  It's..."

She puts her hand on her face and groans.  "Oh crap.  I sound...mis on sona?..emo.  I sound 'emo'.  Don't I? Sorry."  She takes her hands off her face.  "And I'm sorry to burden you like this.  It's just...I haven't been able to talk to anyone about this stuff.  My Mother doesn't want to talk about it.  My Uncle doesn't want to talk about it.  I think they blame me for having to leave home.  My Father...well.  He walked out on us years ago.  But meeting you and Colby...I don't feel so alone.  Again with the 'emo' huh?  But really."

She takes another deep breath, squares her shoulders, and smiles.  "I told myself I was going to be myself going forward.  No more hiding.  No more feeling ashamed. Or different.  No more fear.  Sorry.  I am talking too much."  She laughs.  But this time it has a more natural sound to it.  "Sorry.  And thanks.  Come on.  I want to talk to that girl who got shamed.  Do you mind?"

There are a few kids running around the park.  A few Moms sit on benches, gabbing about their husbands as they watch their kids play.  A couple of college guys are jogging on the walking path.

"Do you see her?"  Darja is looking around.  She can't see through objects apparently.  Because Sara is on the other side of a large oak, hidden from everyone.  She's pulling what looks like a nylon clothes line out of a shopping bag and tying a noose in it.

“I promise, and sure,” Jack mentions.

Many things were revealed in Darja’s explanation about her powers, and in the subsequent moments. It told him all that he needed to know, the one thing that made his suspiciously aware of her in more than just a genuine curiosity: if she’d been his equal, he could never relax around her fully. It was too impossible of a coincidence, but by her own explanation, which has the ring of truth to him, she was lacking in some of his perceptive abilities, probably his speed and almost certainly his degree of strength. The last was the most pertinent. If he panic-kicked pretty much anything not made by a meta-human level engineer, the sheering stress on the metal would rip it apart like tissue paper and likely send it blocks if not miles. He can’t really be sure at the distance, as he had only some mild testing with his mother and her explanations of things.

So, he breathes an artificial sigh of relief that he realizes is completely unnecessary since she can’t read his thoughts, and doesn’t need to seem normal at the moment. His eyes on her, he watches her and her slightly wild gesticulations, and smiles a little at her explanation, clearly finding her charming.

“That’s pretty cool, and I don’t know about whether it’s ladylike. I think there are some books about old meta-humans, and a few of them may have mentioned a few actual Ladies of the various European courts who had powers, though we attributed it to other things back then, I think. Like Joan of Arc, she was a meta, right?” he mumbles a little, since what he knows from reading the book is firmly etched, but he doesn’t want what he knows to be too obvious, so he does his best to obscure his knowledge slightly.

“You aren’t talking too much, it’s fine. Like I said back in class, I’m curious what sort of options .. you have,” he pauses, and realizes in hindsight he’d almost said we. It was a rare near slip, but at least he hadn’t even begun to say it, just a hitch in his train of thought.

Okay, perhaps don’t relax too much until you’re ready. Talk to mom first.

“No, I don’t mind, I think I saw her head over behind that tree over there,” he answers as they are walking, and though it makes no sense that he’d seen her walking there, he immediately starts to walk in that direction. Perhaps moving a touch faster than he had been a moment earlier. He doesn’t run or sprint (even by human standards) since the time it’ll take her to do what she seems intending to do will take longer than it’ll take them to get there.

As they approach, he calls out, “Hey Sara?” in what might be described as a gentle tone.


A little speculation on historical metas here, let me know if I need to revise.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 92):

It was a nice touch.  And this is your world as well. So feel free to add as much flavor as you like. Thanks

Sara stiffens as you call out.  You can see her, on the other side of the oak, stuffing the nylon cord back into her backpack.  She's shaking her head and muttering under her breath.  Darja stops in her tracks and puts a hand to her lips.

"Oh," is all Darja says.  She may have better hearing than you.

Sara looks up at the sky and sighs, then steps out from behind the tree.  She looks at the two of you.  "Can I help you?"

Darja smiles, awkwardly, and says, "Uhm...we just saw you come in to the park.  And we...we wanted to let you know we're really sorry about what happened. And-"

"Why are you sorry?  Are you the ones that did it?"

"What?  Uhm...no..."

"Then why do you feel like you need to apologize?"  Sara's color is getting more and more red.  "I'm sorry.  But I've had it up to here with gawkers.  With people telling me 'oh I'm sorry that happened' or 'hang in there'.  Everybody just stares at me like I'm some kind of fucking parade float on fire.  I told everyone last time to leave me alone."

Darja seems surprised by Sara's reaction but she manages to say, "Uhm...This has happened before?"

Sara just gapes at her.  And then at you.  She shakes her head and takes a deep breath.  "Are you two new this year?"  Darja nods for both of you.  "Shit.  I'm sorry.  Okay?  This is just...Yes.  It's happened to me before.  Last year.  I don't wanna talk about-"  She stops and blinks, looking at Darja more closely.  "Wait.  Are you that meta everyone's talking about?  The one who just...what the hell do you call it?  Came out?"

Darja seems to huddle back into herself, almost but not quite hiding behind your arm.  But she nods her head.

"Look.  You want to help me?  Tell me who did it this time.  Because the ones who did it last time are all long gone.  You got some...'power'...that can give me a name?  I just.  Wanna know.  Who did this.  I wanna tell them to stop.  I'll tell them myself.  I think I should get the chance to stand up to this asshole myself and be able to tell them.  But I can't!  Because I don't.  Know.  Who.  They. Are."

For the first time, Sara seems on the verge of crying.  She wipes her eyes with the palm of her hand.  "So.  If you have some hoodoo that can tell me who they are, great.  Please tell me.  If not.  Thanks but please.  Leave me alone."

And with that Sara starts to turn away.

Jack doesn't say anything, he just stands there. Trying to empathize with her problems. It was empathy that had put him on the path of trying to catch sight of her bully and had prompted him to make a mental commitment to watching the offending hallway intermittently tomorrow. Sparing it a touch of focus among the other tasks of the day. As she presses on and talks to Darja he doesn't really feel a chance or opportunity presents itself for him to ask questions or offer a word in. It'd be rude of him to interrupt her and explain their presence. But he couldn't fully empathize with her here.

He can't imagine how he would respond to such targeted bullying. He isn't sure he'd have taken it as well as she had.

It'd be inconsiderate of him to try to override her feelings and get her to look at things from a logical point of view.

So instead, he listens and nods a little, and when she asks her question, he says, "We'll find the person responsible but it might take a bit, and when we collectively get them expelled, you can give them your what-for. Have they done anything besides the two things they did at school? The spray paint and the banner?" he asks. Curious if there was any other evidence he should be considering.

At the same time, he makes it clear that he doesn't intend to just turn the information over to her, to leave her to her own devices and how she might get revenge. She'd get to yell at them, as they are escorted off school property and expelled forever.

That would have to suffice.

Considering the evidence, he was already turning over the idea of how to use the banner to find them. There couldn't be that many shops in the metro that sell banners that size. From there, he could look for the one that had sold the one to a student, and perhaps narrow it further.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:37, Fri 17 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 94):

Sara turns and stares at you.  Her hand twitches, but she shuts her eyes and swallows.  Got it.  Understood.  No.  Nothing else has happened this year.  All the stuff last year...Well.  It was a quiet summer.  Didn't get out much.  And didn't hear from anyone.

She tries to smile and just ends up nodding.  She turns and walks away, heading back towards the street.

Darja watches then looks at you.  You did good.  So what do we do now?

Jack gives the girl a nod, not giving her extra need to wallow in the pity and sympathy of others. It wouldn’t do her any good at this point, they needed to find the person responsible. That was the way to help her. Though when he looks after the parting girl, he has to wonder how she’d already been feeling that a noose was the option. Two days this year, and a full year the year prior? Something like that. Usually previous exposure to a problem makes a person less susceptible to it.

You’d think she’d be an old hand at not being perturbed by bullies..

Turning his attention to Darja, he smiles at her and says, “So did you. I assume you mean in regards to helping her? We keep our eyes and in your case your ears, open to that hallway that they’ve been targeting. If I had money, I’d buy some small cameras and put them up to help keep watch. I’m also going to see if I can’t track down the place that sold the banner. I mean, how many banners in that color were sold recently? How many to high school aged kids? Maybe someone will remember,” he suggests.

To do that, he’ll need to take a trip back to the high school, but he isn’t about to make Darja walk back to the high school so he can try to track it down. It probably ended up in either an office, or a dumpster, in either case he’d be looking through things to find it.

“We’ll also, of course, be hopeful that the school takes some actions to be watchful as well, maybe have someone walk the corridors between classes so that Sara can be spared. I mean, my mom might be a mess and a drunk, but she’d have told the principal that she’d sue unless they started taking extra actions to prevent such easy to prevent bullying. It’d be trivial to have had someone patrolling that area in particular between classes, and to have pulled down the banner before she came around,” he mentions as they walk.

Leading the way back across the street, headed in the direction of the road again.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 96):

Darja glances up when you say what you say about your Mom.  But she doesn't press.  She walks in silence a moment.

"You know...I have heard a couple of things.  On the first day of school, I thought I heard someone say 'Let's make Sara cry' or something like that.  I remember because I thought it was on a radio or something.  The sound. ..it was on the wrong...uhm...what's the word..."

She huts for it.  "Damn...sagedus...sagedus......what do you call the different levels of a radio again?"

Walking along, Jack idly taps at fallen leaves with the tip of his toe. The great deluge of leaves having covered many yards and overflowing in the park and adjacent sidewalks, the steps crunching under every step.

“You know, I’ve heard a few things once or twice,” Jack confirms though he isn’t overly specific. “Something on the first day about ‘Soup’s on,’ and then something earlier today about a gun--which was a bit disconcerting,” he mentions as they walk and continues to give serious thought to whether he wants to share with her.

In fact, he ends up reminding himself that he is going to talk to his mom first.

“Stations? The electromagnetic spectrum?” he questions, and pulls up the relevant page of the physics textbook in his mind.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 98):

"Stations is close.  Like...wavelenghths...sitt.  Every time I get cocky about my English, I come across a word I can't recall.  Anyway, I'll look it up tonight."<Periwinkle>

She considers what you said.  <Periwinkle>"I did hear the bit about the gun. 'Soup's on'? Don't recall that one.  But I'm still trying to get used to so many voices.  The United States is much noisier than Estonia.  That's for sure."

She stops and looks behind her.  "You know...if they did throw the banner away, it will be gone by the morning.  Trash comes tomorrow I think."

She looks back at you. Without batting an eye, she says, "I think I'll go back to the school and look through the dumpster after it gets dark.  If it wasn't thrown away, I'll have to break in to the building.  You want to come along?"

"Hmm, do you mean frequency?" Jack offers after a suitable pause, as always, attempting to make his stellar memory look slightly less so. It works better if he can't instantly pull information from his memory and has to sort through definitions.

Her confirmation about the gun thing is good, it means it wasn't just in his head, though he suspects that he has revealed a bit about his hearing if nobody else has heard it.  That being said, it'd be difficult to confirm, since only a few people would have been around to hear it, so he feels confident that his secret remains a secret.

"Maybe try to focus on a single thing when all the noise gets to be too much?" he suggests. It works for him. He still hears things, but focus on a single person or a voice, or their heartbeat, is enough to steady him when the crowds and their problems become too much.

Hearing her idea, he thinks on it.

"Okay," he decides. "I'll show you where I live and you can come by tonight, just text me when you are outside and I'll sneak out."

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 100):

Darja says she'll text you once she's outside.  But she should be by about eight o'clock.

At 7:15 PM, Aunt Marlene comes home.  She tosses her purse on the small side table she puts her stuff on each evening and stretches her arms above her head.

"Ahhhh.  That feels good.  's always good to pretend for a few hours that you don't have to go to work in the morning.  How was school?"

---

Gave Marlene some screen time in case Jack wants to say anything to her.  I was afraid she was turning in to Charlie Brown's Mom with as little as she's shown up thus far.

Having said that, let's proceed with the Scooby portion of our storyline.

Marlene is running a hot bath when Darja texts.  Out front.  Across street.

Marlene will soak for forty five minutes.  But she's not opposed to you going out.  As long as you're back by ten and don't cause any trouble.

Well.  Maybe you'll be back by ten.

Darja is wearing some sweats and a dark blue flannel shirt.  A black knit cap is pulled over the top of her head, the blonde hair sticking out the sides.

"All set?"

She glances around.  "I have to be back by eleven.  My uncle gets off his shift at midnight.  You want to walk?  If not..."  She gulps and looks at the ground nervously.  "I...I can fly us there. If time is an issue."

Returning home, knowing that at least a few hours of his day will be out of whack, he spends thirty minutes doing his daily reading of his textbooks and then puts them aside. Pulling up an article on his new poetry assignment he opens up tabs containing analyst's write-ups on every poem the guy has written, and a Wikipedia page on his biography. He then absorbs it all in a few minutes of scrolling and clicking between tabs as fast as the computer can handle it.  That, and as fast as his mouse can handle the clicking.

Which is to say, the bottleneck in his high speed learning is mostly at the local internet and his aunt's computer's ability to process.

While he waits to hear from Darja, he pulls up a show on the television and watches it while he listens to lessons on Chinese absently. Absorbing it like he absorbs everything else.

When he hears Aunt Marlene coming up the stairs, he turns off the lesson and looks at the television for a second until she has a chance to see him. Looking normal. "Hey Marlene," Jack says when she comes inside.

He asks her a few mild questions about her day, but only one thing that actually intrigues him beyond hearing about her co-workers, budget issues and the business of the day. Which he listens to with attentive ears. He also lets her know that he and a friend are going to hang out for a bit, and he'd be back by curfew, or he'd text if he might be a little late.

"Say, that Monkey guy has been seen around campus, isn't that what I'd heard?" he asks.

---

When Darja texts, Jack nods to himself and texts back: Out in a minute.

He then slips out the door.

He's wearing a ski-mask rolled up so that it looks like any ordinary winter hat, a plain dark blue sweatshirt, his standard running shoes, and jeans. His shoes might give him away if Sherlock Holmes' ghost or the equivalent meta gets involved in figuring out the caper of 'who looked in the dumpster' but he doesn't think it'll go that far.

Hearing her getting nervous about it, he reaches out and puts an arm over her shoulder, and then in traditional Scooby Doo styling, leaps up so that she has to catch him in her arms. "Let's see what you got."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:56, Wed 22 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 102):

"That Monkey guy?  Jeez.  They sent everyone a memo on that don'tcha know.  I think it's a fraternity prank myself.  But they say we're to direct all questions to the University's Communication department."

She shrugs.  "Didja eat yet?  I can whip up some tuna noodles after I get outta the bath."

---

Darja is so surprised she almost drops you.  But she reacts quickly at the last moment.  So fast you didn't really see her arms come up.  She may be a touch faster than you.  Maybe.

She looks around to make sure no one can see, grins broadly, and then you can feel her squat and push off.

Below you, Minneapolis spreads out.  You can see the river and the University before she changes path and heads towards the school.

She seems to have more control over this than you do.  Maybe she has more practice.  You're pretty sure, in the air, you're faster than she is.

She starts to angle downwards.  The school is ahead.  She makes a pass to insure there are no prying eyes, and then lands besides the physical plant at the back of the school.  The dumpster seems to be there.

A quick scan tells you it's not there.  But the two of you do impressions of the homeless and dive through the refuse anyway.  There's a lot of people who don't like the school's green beans apparently.  There's enough in there to feed a small nation.

Darja shakes her head.  "I don't see it.  I guess..."  She glances towards teh school.  "I would think it'd be in the office.  Maybe Mr. Cabrazzi's office."

She points towards the entry doors.  There are of course cameras trained on them.  "If we go in the main doors, someone will see us.  I can hear people inside.  They sound like they're security guards."  You can hear them as well.  Sounds like a couple of guys arguing about who has to make this set of rounds.

She points at the second floor.  "We can see if any of the windows are unlocked.  I doubt we'd get that lucky.  But if not...maybe we could try the roof?"

She doesn't sound like she's sure what to do next.

For the rest of this bit, I am not going to assume you use any of your augmented senses unless you specify you do.  If you do want to use any of them, let me know which and make a perception check with that sense please.  If you just want to leave a particular sense running, you can tell me that and give me one roll for it.  I'll use that result for the rest of this section.

Hope that made sense.  Let me know if there are questions please.  Thanks.

Jack once again is questioning everything he had ever heard about metas. He'd always been under the impression that he was unique in a sense, it wasn't that there wasn't anyone else as fast or that could fly,  it was that there wasn't to his knowledge, anyone else who had quite such a suite of powers that he had in both depth and breadth. It almost makes him wonder if she isn't some figment of his imagination or a power-leech that is somehow using his powers by proximity.

Pushing the confusion that keeps surfacing aside, he realizes he hasn't flown here before, and of course, seldom has, so it's fun to actually see things like he might if he were more casual with his powers.

As they descend toward the school, he nods at her and joins her in going through the dumpster. "I'm going to need to wash all of this stuff like five times, after this," he mentions and hopes that his shoes aren't ruined.

Hearing her mention of the problems regarding security, and having seen and heard some of it himself, he nods a little in thought. Running through scenarios in his mind, he purses his lips for a second and then nods again. This time to himself when he settles on a plan of action.

"Let's snake around the outside to his office, and check to see if we can spot it any of those admin offices from outside, it'd save us a lot of investigation if they've left it near the window and we can see a label or something. Oh, and keep an eye out for windows left open," he mentions as he starts to walk around the outside of the school. As they walk, he adds, "In fact, you check second-story windows."

As he walks, he keeps his senses open for security walking in their direction.

"If we need to go past any cameras, I have a ski-mask," he mentions.

I mean, his perception is sort of always-on I think? But in this case, he'll be using his hearing to make sure they aren't snuck up on by a guard or other person.

07:25, Today: Jack Sharpe rolled 12 using 3d6.

His perception roll is 34-.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:29, Fri 24 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 104):

I had assumed he was 'always on' perception wise.  But then I thought I better make sure.  Hence the question.  Thanks.

Darja gives a determined nod.  Like a little girl who's been told she can carry the grocery bag inside all by herself.  She starts to earnestly scan the building.

You already know the answers to the questions as you ask them.  There are three security guards in the school. Two of them are arguing about who has to do the rounds upstairs, because they think it's creepy as hell up there at night.  The third guard is sitting in front of a security console, scrolling through websites on his cell phone and occasionally looking at the monitors that surround him.  It will be easy to avoid the cameras, as long as you don't go through the entry doors.

Those are the easy answers.   There are some harder ones.

For one, there is an open window on the second floor.  It's wide open as a matter of fact.  There's also someone prowling around the second floor.  He's about two halls over from Mr. Callico's classroom.  What's interesting about him is that he's moving on all fours and has a long tail growing from region above his butt.  He has a vest on which contains what looks to be lots of techno gizmos.

And yes.  He's wearing a mask.  It's...interesting.  Like if someone tried to make a Muppet using the contents of the lint trap from their dryer.

Yeah.  That is one really awful looking mask.

Hearing that the security guards think that the upstairs is creepy in a modern building like the high school is curious to Jack. He doesn’t really find things “creepy” in the same way that other people do, since he doesn’t experience darkness and silence in the same ways that others do. Altered perceptions, altered reality. Making note of the guards and their positions, he keeps track of them, and in the process ends up spotting the man he now assumes is the Minneapolis Monkey.

He’s so surprised by the sighting that he actually says, “Holy—” and then stops talking, looks around and mentions, “I thought I stepped in something, sorry,” his voice a whisper up toward Darja.

Throwing a few more glances in the direction of the person he thinks might be the Monkey, he tries to pick up on the shape of their face. Unfortunately, being able to see through things doesn’t mean he can make objects like masks transparent. As in, he can’t just negate their properties and see a face beneath. He has to pick a distance at which his sight negates objects. Otherwise he tends to see internal structures like bones and cartilage rather than a shape like a face.

That said, he gives the man a cursory examination from afar.

When Darja finds the second floor window entrance, he plots out a trip down through the school to the principal’s office in his mind and scans along that route. Trying to see if they’ll run into anyone.

“Let’s try the windows by his office first, maybe we can skip the trip through the school,” he suggests, being cautious and paranoid as always. In fact, in this case, he feels like part of him just wants to protect Darja. She’d probably get in more trouble, because she’s a known registered meta. She’d be labeled as a cowl or hood, depending on how they figured her actions were intended, and that would result in a serious re-classification. Probably.

And he continues onward toward the offices from the outside.

Still heavily curious about the Monkey, probably more than anything. Not just who he is, but what he is doing at Edison, and what he intends to do while here.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:45, Sat 25 Jan 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 106):

No such luck on the windows by the office.  In fact, those are plate glass:  they don't have a mechanism to open.

The two security guards have agreed to patrol as a unit.  They'll be heading upstairs.  It's difficult to judge the route they'll take.  You'll just have to listen for them.

The Monkey...

First, there's no doubt he is a he.  As you examine him more closely, it turns out he's wearing gym shorts.  They are pretty tight fitting and leave little to the imagination.  There is a University of Minnesota emblem stitched on to one side.

He's also not wearing a shirt.  Just that vest.  His skin is mostly covered in fur.  Not hair.  Fur.  That doesn't seem to be the case for his head.  His hair is actually chestnut brown hair.  He must wear the mask because his head and face are...well.  'Normal'.

The tail seems to be authentic.  It's pretty thick and covered in the same fur as his back.  It stretches a good eight feet.

He seems to be holding a cell phone and checking his progress against it.  Maybe he's got a map of the school?

Hard to tell.

Darja frowns.  "I could swear I hear four people.  But one of them....maybe it's a dog?  It sounds like there are nails clicking on the floor."

She's right.  Monkey has some claws.

Darja sighs and points at the second floor window. "I think that's our chance.  Ready?"

From it's position relative to Monkey, it must be how he entered the building.  He's moving away from it.  If you enter that way, you'll be trailing him.  At least, as long as he continues in the same manner.

Before I act: Don't suppose I can see the banner in the offices?

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 108):

Oh.  Good question.

You see something in one of the offices which might be the banner.  It's a large folded up piece of fabric with one end hanging off the desk.  There's letting on it which looks pretty close to what you saw this afternoon.

When he spots the banner inside Jack hastily mentions, "I think I sorta see it in there, on the corner of the desk," and points at the window trying to draw her line of sight to the right spot.  Taking a breath he spends a second looking at the full length of the banner, adjusting the depth of his gaze to try and discern any sort of brand logos or other details that might help him find the store that sold it. In case they get chased off without having a chance to look things over, he now feels that he has gotten what he'd come for.

With that information packed away, he feels confident that he can move forward regardless of their adventure and what may follow.

When she mentions the sound of claws, he dons a pensive look and suggests, "Maybe it's a lost pet? Or a rat? How well can you tell exact location?" and then manages not to look concerned.

Hearing her mention the window again, he nods his head and follows her, debating whether to pull down his ski-mask or not. Knowing that the Monkey is in there, he feels less confident about it. He'd definitely be seen as a potential hood that way.

"So, before we go up there: don't talk while we're in there unless you whisper, if you hear someone coming unavoidably just tap me on the shoulder and take off running for this window--I'll know what that means. Last tip: don't fly. Don't fly. Don't fly. You don't want to be labeled as a hood or cowl, and there aren't a lot of pretty blonde girls who can fly in Minneapolis," he mentions, making sure she understands that using her powers is liable to draw attention.

Seeing as how they'll likely be moving in Monkey's general direction, he's thankful for the guy opening the window, but still intensely curious at his presence.

As she lifts him up to the window, he falls silent and takes a moment to really plot out their course--doing his best to avoid both security guards and the Monkey. Even if it means just taking things slowly.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 110):

There's nothing noticeable in what you can see from here that might help you ID the source of the banner.  You'll have to inspect it closer.

Darja nods and the two of you enter the school...

The window leads on to what looks like a French classroom.  Posters of beret wearing men with handlebar mustaches chasing each other with baguettes line the walls.

From what you can recall of the school map, you have three possible avenues.

All three start by going down this hall to the main hallway.

Option 1 consists of turning right, going halfway down the main hall, and down the large stairwell at the center of the building.  Then continuing right on the hall on the first floor.  Of course, that's the main path, and you're pretty sure the security guards will be coming up the stairs.  But you might find someplace to duck into and let them pass.  It is the most direct route.

Option 2 also involves turning right on to the main hall.  But in this case, you're going to follow the second floor hallway all the way to the end.  You'll go downstaris at the far end of the hall, and then go back in this direction until you come to the office.  Monkey seems to be headed that way.  And if the security guards come upstairs and down the main hall behind you, there's a real possibility you'll get sandwiched between guards and Monkey.  But then again, it might let you see what Monkey's up to first hand.  Instead of having to keep him on your periphery.

Option 3 is more roundabout.  At the end of this hall, you'll turn left and not right.  That will take you to the end of the school farthest away from the office.  But then you can go up some side halls, occasionally hitting the first floor main hall, until you come to the office.  The first floor has a lot more side passages.  So you feel pretty confident you can duck around any security guard patrols.  The downsides here are that the route takes the longest to complete and you will have to pass outside the open door of the security console.  So the guard there could spot you.  But he seems pretty engrossed in what's on his phone.

Let me know if there are any questions.  Thanks

Since Darja seems to be leaving it to him to pick their direction, even though he shouldn't be able to hear where the security guards are--he decides that the only plausible excuse is to ask very quietly, "What direction are you hearing people from?" and then spends a moment appearing to digest that information and comparing it to his mental map of the area.

In reality, he's just playing the 'act normal' game. It takes a lot of weird thinking to pull it off all the time, and occasionally he realizes that he hadn't been.

Like when Rosmarie and her friends had said he looked stiff. That was likely very accurate. It's not abnormal to have great posture, but Jack's posture is always perfect unless he deliberately forces it to be a bit less rigid. The same applies to situations like this where he shouldn't know where to go, he has to remember that he shouldn't know.

Once she relays the information in a whisper, he nods to her and proceeds.

Taking option number two, he reasons that Monkey will avoid them like he avoids the security guards.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 112):

Darja gives you the information you expected.  The two of you set out.

The guards stop to use the rest room before coming upstairs.  So you manage to pull a little ahead.  Wonder of wonders, they elect to go the other way to start their rounds.  You have a little bit of space from them.

Monkey on the other hand seems to be going the same way you are.  He's stopping every so often, checking his phone.

You realize that he's moving so slow, you're going to come within sight of him in just a moment.  Darja slows and pulls on your sleeve.  "The dog or whatever it is?  It's just up ahead. Around the corner.  I can hear it near the top of the stairs going down..." she whispers to you.  Her face scrunches up.  "It sounds like a really big dog too."

Turning his head slightly, Jack nods his head at Darja and continues to act like he is following her lead. Though he does slow down ever so slightly when he realizes that they'll be coming up behind the Monkey. He doesn't necessarily want to have a conflict, if such a thing would happen, with the man. Though his gut tells him that Darja could throw him around like a sack of potatoes without Jack needing to lift a finger.

In fact, the more he dwells on it, the less he slows down.

Looking over at Darja, however, he realizes that he needs to also think about the security guards and reasonable thinking. A dog would bark loudly if they surprised it, which would attract guards.

Okay, he'll explain that, and slow down a little: "We shouldn't sneak up on it then, it might bark and alert the guards," he reasons in a returned whisper, his lips practically brushing her ear, and then leaning back, he says, "I can whisper from here, huh?" as if it'd just occurred to him that whispering to her could be done from afar.

Acting skill in full force! Mother would be so proud.

Turning his attention to their path ahead, he tries to attenuate the penetrative power of his vision to see through the Monkey without messing up the visuals on the phone. Trying to see what the guy is looking at.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 114):

Darja nods in agreement to your 'revelation'.  But you're focused on other things at the exact moment.

Monkey's phone shows a layout of the school.  From what you can tell, he's interested in getting to the office.  Just like you.

Seeing that Monkey was looking for the office isn't exactly a surprise, in fact, it had been his assumption. He'd made some guesses already, scenarios filling his mind as he considered what might bring a Cowl to investigate a high school. Assuming the guy is looking for details there are probably a few ongoing small crimes that could be investigated like drug dealers selling weed and ecstasy, the bullying of Sara was personally his own lure and he couldn't ignore that. There was also the possibility that Monkey had come looking for details on the school's existing meta population.

Darja's details would be worthwhile to have on hand for any local cowl or cape who might want to know who she was, or even who Colby was. Colby's powers could make a "regular cape" into a truly superb cape. Turning an ordinary badass into an invisible badass.

In any case, it's not surprising. But he does make a decision in that moment to continue along and try to actually catch a reasonable glance of the Monkey.

If he can get a glance, he can make a proposal to Darja, and they can change their plan accordingly-- so he in fact starts to move a bit faster once again.

Contradicting himself slightly, but he might almost appear to be acting a bit like a spy in a movie. Sneaking towards the corner and leaning around it a few times like he might spy the full length in a glance.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 116):

I'm assuming Jack's just getting an up close look at Monkey.  If he's looking for something more, let me know please.  Thanks

The Monkey more or less resembles up close what you saw before.  A genetic mash up between a man and a monkey.  The tail seems real.  It moves around like a skittish cat behind Monkey as he consults his phone.  The vest he's wearing is an old fisherman's vest.  It has lots of little loops and such for holding lures or other equipment.  Monkey however has what appears to be small devices of various intent.  You recognize some as equipment designed to thwart security systems.  Everything from lockpicks to a portable code breaker.  He also has a gun stuck into a holster on the front left side.  And a hunting knife attached via a band around his right bicep.

Why he needs the knife you aren't sure.  His fingernails are long and thick.  Wait.  Do monkeys have claws?

You notice his feet have the splayed toes of a monkey.

Whoever Monkey is, he's athletic.  Or maybe whatever does this to him buffs him out.  Because he has the physique of a wrestler.  A real wrestler.  Not one of those guys on the TV Aunt Marlene is always going on about.

That mask.  It really is a homemade affair.  It does not look professional at all.  You can't tell if they were shooting for a monkey look and went south because of a lack of sewing talent, or if the mask is intentionally bad.  Maybe to distract from the rest of the body somehow.

Monkey does have an earpiece.  It's a blue tooth probably running off his phone.  It's silent at the moment.

The only other thing of interest, other than the eight foot long tail and the body fur, is you think he's got a scar running across his abdomen.  It's hard to tell due to the fur, but it looks like an old surgical scar.

"What the-"  Darja remembers to whisper at least.  But she's peeked around from behind your shoulder.  And she's gaping.

She looks up at you, obviously lost for what to say.

Seeing the Monkey more clearly, if only a hair more clearly, isn't really his motivation for navigating and getting Darja this close. It's getting her this close so that he can properly explain why he is torn between the various options they might pursue. Though now that he makes more notes on the man's gear, he does have a few ideas, and a few concerns.

He isn't concerned for their safety with either the Monkey or the guards, even if Darja didn't have powers, he was fairly certain he could protect her at this range from anything short of very powerful explosives. So his concerns are almost entirely issues of their anonymity.

He continues to listen to the man's bluetooth, curious what might come out of it, and then looks over at Darja. "We should see what he is going to do," he whispers, without actually leaning in to speak into her ear. Relying on her enhanced hearing to let her receive his words.

And as he watches, he also begins to wonder if this isn't the real Monkey at all.

Instead, he could be a villain, and this is just him covering up for earlier? No, that's outlandish. A villain would have just smashed the window to the office, grabbed the banner, and made off in seconds. Jack had almost considered having Darja do it, himself. They could replace the window, and the cops/school would assume it was the culprit.

In any case, he hangs back with Darja, keeping track of those who might catch them, and using his available senses to keep them unnoticed.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 118):

Monkey moves to the stairs and down them. Sure as you thought, he's heading for the office.

You and Darja creep down the stairs, stopping at the landing, bending behind the railing so you can see him.  The office is just a few yards from the foot of the stairs.

The Monkey puts away his cell into a pocket on the vest and studies the walls before stepping off the stairs.  You can see the camera trained on the office door.  He does too.

He pulls something from his vest and then leaps lightly, jumping across the hall without touching the floor and landing on top of a row of lockers.  He scurries down the lockers, monkey like, until he's just outside what is probably the peripheral range of the camera.

His tail snakes forward, drawing close to his hand.  Whatever he had pulled out gets passed from hand to tail and the tail slides forward until it's just under the camera.  Carefully, the tail rises and...the camera seems to go dead.

Quickly, Monkey leaps off the lockers and stops at the office door, pulling things from his vest.  He starts to work on the lock.

Darja tugs on your sleeve, but you hear them just as well as she does.  Whatever Monkey did to the camera has tipped off the guard at the security console.  He's radioing the two doing the upstairs sweep.

Darja leans in and whispers, "They're coming," just as Monkey gets the door open.  He glances backwards, like maybe he heard her, then ducks inside the office.

You don't know how physically fit these security guards are.  But the one at the security console will probably be here in less than a minute.  The two upstairs...maybe the same. Maybe a little longer.

There is a door to the outside just down the hall from the office.  But it will have a camera trained on it.  And you would guess Monkey hasn't deactivated that one yet.

You could try to run around the guards and make it back to the upstairs window.  You know where they're coming from.  And you have the map of the school memorized.

But then you wouldn't know what the Monkey was up to.

Those last bits are just some options.  Do what you want to do.  Thanks.

As they watch the Monkey make his way in to the office, Jack's eyes narrow in thought and he continues to try to come up with the best resolution. His mind dancing between not only the goals of the Monkey, but his concern for Darja's secrecy. He then glances past her along the corridor and makes the appropriate measurements of pace and direction.

Out of curiosity, he walks over to try the handle on the two classrooms nearest to the staircase, just so that he can know what other options they might have.

"I .. think I know what we should do," he decides and if one of those doors had opened, he uses that as an exit so that they can keep an eye on the Monkey.

If not, they circle back, quickly--maybe even having Darja fly--to the window, and then outside the office so that the two of them can keep track of the Monkey. He'll cheat of course,  and just watch the guy through the walls, but he would prefer that it be easily explained to Darja.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 120):

The doors are locked. But there is a large, open arch leading to a large, open area that's been divided up with partitions to make several, makeshift classrooms.  There are a row of windows at the far end of this space.  When the guards show up, you'd need to move quickly to get through them and out.  But that's not exactly a problem for the two of you.

Monkey moves like a man...er...monkey-man on a mission.  He heads straight for the office door marked Eric Cabrazzi and pushes inside, breaking the lock as he does so.

The banner is there.  And Monkey...walks right by it.  He instead pulls open the drawers on the Vice Principal's desk, rifling through them.

The guards arrive, ignoring anything else as they start to move in on the office.  One of them is radioing for the police while the other two have pulled flashlights and are advancing slowly on the office.

Monkey has found something.  Somethings.  There are several folders, all appearing to have red edges on them.  He grabs them and glances towards the door.  Then he picks something from his vest and tosses it...

There's a bang sound and smoke starts to fill up the area.  It's pouring out at a furious rate.

Jack isn't exactly breaking the sound barrier, but he definitely hustles a little bit so that Darja isn't at risk. Sliding out of the window and hanging onto the edge for a moment before he drops down to the ground, he calls out towards her quietly, "Can you hear what he is doing now?" and moves a bit away from the building. Hustling over and away from the school just far enough that approaching police might not see them.

As the two of them make their way away from the school a small distance, he chews his lips like he is thinking, though he doubts she notices this sort of thing is ingrained through practice.

"I'm thinking maybe we can spot the Monkey when he leaves, he'll have no problem leaving, and then we can ask him what he was looking for, maybe he'll have the banner with him, maybe not," he says and scratches at the back of his head, like he's uncertain what to do.

Having suggested that, he looks between her and the school, waiting for feedback. All the while, he keeps track of the Monkey.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 122):

You both hear the guards coughing as the hallway fills with smoke.  By the time you're both outside and standing by the corner of the building, the fire alarm is going off.

Darja screws up her eyes, as if she's straining to hear.  "I think he's playing with something mechanical.."  There are several notching sounds, like he's adjusting some kind of ratchet or something.

Darja opens her mouth to respond to you when there is a loud bang and shattering of glass.  Monkey has apparently blown the window open to exit the building.  He's wearing a gas mask, and is indeed carrying the banner.

As he leaps nimbly out the window, Darja suddenly freezes.  "The guards!  I can't hear the guards coughing anymore!"

She suddenly turns and dives towards the window you came out of.

Unfortunately, she raised her voice.  Monkey turns his head and looks in your direction.

"Shit...Not now..." he mutters under his breath. He starts to back away.

On a side note, Darja botched her stealth.  When you are working with her, would you rather make her rolls?  Or are you okay with me doing them?

"A gadget, probably," Jack says quickly when she mentions something 'mechanical.' Looking in the direction of Monkey more clearly, he watches as the man blows out the window, and notices for himself that this has provided him with an opportunity to examine the banner.

As Darja's makes her sudden proclamation about the guards not coughing, time seems to slow from Jack's perspective, and somehow Darja finds the ski-mask Jack had curled up on top of his head in her palm as she goes leaping past him towards the window. She might notice the strange adept aim and speed with which it has transitioned from his head to her hand, or maybe she won't.

"Cover your face, get them out of the smoke and catch up, I'll follow the Monkey. Remember, don't fly where they can see, they'll know it was you," he says after her. Not speaking up in the slightest, relying on her ability to hear him.

That done, he looks towards the Monkey.

Sprinting at Usain Bolt level speeds,  he goes pelting along the side of the school. Not nearly tapping his abilities, just exerting a touch of strength to move towards the cowl, and the window where his investigative quarry lays.

Getting to the window he pulls on his crappy old leather winter gloves and as he puts them on, he makes sure he has an accurate assessment on the Monkey still--following him through buildings anything else between them, and then spends a few seconds to examine every inch of the banner before tossing it behind the desk.

With the break-in, he doesn't worry about the orderly nature of the evidence.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 124):

You find the banner easily enough.  The make?  Jones-Wick Office Model BZ014.  You memorize the serial number.  You should be able to look up what stores in the area would carry this model.

You 'bolt' out the open window, orienting yourself on the sounds of Monkey fleeing.  He's on your 11.  As you begin to chase after, you can hear that he's started using that earpiece.

"C'mon...Come on..." Monkey mutters as the phone rings.

"Good news I hope?"

Maybe you were expecting it.  Maybe you weren't.  But it's that voice.  The Soup's On voice.  The Let's make Sara cry voice.

"Yeah.  Well.  Good an' bad."  You can see Monkey.  He's gone to the roof tops.  Scrambling the eaves of an old duplex and leaping towards the roof of it's neighbor.  "I got 'em.  But I got saw."

"So?"

"Well it was by...uh...one a' them..."

"SONUVAFURRYSUCKIN'BITCH!  Which one?!  Get out of there!"

The line goes dead.

There's a pause as Monkey leaves a rooftop and into some trees.  He's heading for the river.  "...'thanks for getting those files for me'...Oh.  No.  You're welcome.  Asshole." Monkey mutters under his breath.

Before I take off too far, how is Darja's OPERATION: SAVE THE GUARDS going?

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 126):

You can hear Darja.  She seems to have dragged the guards out and...a quick glance back confirms she's airborne.  Looks like she's trying to play catch up.  But without your vision, she's having to do it by ear i.e. 'follow that wheeze'.

Having ascertained that Darja is trying to catch up, Jack makes an effort to try to actually breathe a bit more human-like, and to jog at a more human pace. Though definitely in the upper range of human performance, he moves along somehow unerringly following the man on the roof-tops.

He'd heard everything and had already begun to think of other things he might do in this situation, but he'll save that for when he actually catches the Monkey. There are certainly a lot of unanswered questions now.

Ducking down an alley, he turns in place as he gets the impression that Darja is closing the distance with him and calls out, "Down here," at normal speaking volume, and moves a touch towards a nearby street lamp so that she can spot him.

Pausing there in the street, he waits for her to come up to him.

"I hope you weren't spotted flying, I saw him over the roof-tops that way," he mentions, pointing, again, unerringly in the direction that the Monkey has headed. Though Darja won't realize as much. "Did you save the guards? Were they really hurt, or was it just some sort of cowl knock out gas?" he asks and moves like he intends her to lift him up.

"That way," he repeats and points.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:12, Sun 09 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 128):

Darja lands rather neatly beside you.  She nods when you ask about the guards.  "There were some onlookers coming in.  And I could hear sirens getting closer.  I left them far enough away from the smoke.  Their heartbeats were regular."

She bites her lower lip.  "I think I heard Monkey talking to someone.  And I think it's that voice we both heard."

The two of you continue to follow.  Darja sometimes points, even though you already knew to go that way.

Monkey is making his way towards an office building.  Or more accurately the parking garage for the building.  He scuttles across the open lawn and leaps upwards, grabbing the lip of the second floor and pulling himself up.

"Shit.  Where did I park again?" He mutters to himself.

Jack manages his best 'perking' expression and as they move along, he looks at her a few times, talking as they cover the distance as quickly as they can without risking discovery, "The voice? You mean the creepy voice that sounds like it's talking on a radio? What did it say?" he ends up asking.

Reaching out after a bit, he plucks the ski-mask he'd borrowed her off of her head. In case he needs it. Pulling it down over his ears, he spends a moment to check the area, wary of surveillance.

As they follow, Jack points towards the distant parking garage and mentions, "I swear I just saw him enter that parking garage," because of course, he continues with the lucky spotting. He'll have to play blind about something in the near future, to keep her from suspecting his abilities.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 130):

Darja repeats what you heard, almost verbatim.

You can see Monkey.  He's running up to the third floor of the lot, fishing out car keys as he does so.  His phone rings.

"Yeah?"

"Did you lose them?"

"I think.  I dunno.  What can they do?"

"Don't worry about that.  Just make the drop.  I'll wire the funds once I have the material."

Monkey comes up to a light blue Toyota Tacoma.  2016 model if your memory of Kelly Blue Book is accurate.  And it probably is.

"You better.  I don't like this.  I just want a normal life."

"Cry me a river.  Get me the stuff.  You're getting paid."

The caller hangs up.

Darja tugs on your sleeve.  "That voice called again.  It's weird.  I think I heard something in the background. Like a music box."  You heard it too. "It's some classical piece.  I've heard it before. But I don't know what it was."  It was the second movement of Mozart's Eine Kliene Nachtmusik

Monkey is opening the truck.  His is the only car around.  He throws his vest in the back as well as the files.  He fishes out a t shirt.  For a moment, he stands completely still.  Then the tail and body hair just sort of draw in to him.  After a moment, he's just a guy, well built but fairly non-descript otherwise.  He has sandy colored hair and blue eyes.

The un-Monkey pulls the shirt on and gets in the truck.  He's about to leave the parking garage.

Listening as they move towards the parking garage, Jack glances around and then nods at Darja's explanation about the conversation. He then has her repeat as much of it as she can, so that he can help come up with a plan since she doesn't seem to have much of a mind for planning how to handle things. It's good in a way, it gives her an excuse to come to him in the future, maybe.

"It sounds like Monkey is making a drop, so unless one of us is going to be able to stay out all night watching the drop, maybe we should intercept him now. We talk to him about the voice and the files, see what he is handing over, and then maybe have him make the drop?" he proposes.

He might sneak out again after Darja drops him off for his curfew. He'd risk the wrath of Aunt Marlene for golden clues, it was just harder to explain his sleepless long range vigilance with Darja.

"Let's stop him before he goes anywhere then, carry me up to him, we'll go up to his car," he proposes and indicates the side of the parking garage and for her to carry him. "I think he knows you're a Meta from what you said, so he will probably want to avoid a scuffle," he mentions.

As he walks, he scoops up a couple of pebbles and scans visually for signs of cameras, prepared to disable them, but suspects that Monkey's willing change in the area indicates there aren't any.

Once they get to the third floor of the parking garage, he moves to stand and block the exit ramp, advancing toward the car. Hopefully with Darja at his side so his reckless disregard for personal safety isn't totally inexplicable.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 132):

By the time you've reached position, Monkey has already backed out of the space.  But he stops, staring at you.

Darja holds up a hand, shading her eyes.  Monkey's turned on his high beams.

Monkey starts to back up.  He then throws it in reverse and quick backs into an empty space, spinning the wheel, throwing it back in drive and heading further up.

Darja shakes her head, not quite sure what to do when he hits reverse.  The screech of his tires as he heads upwards brings her back to attention. "Oh sitt!  I should stop him! Wait here!"

She jumps up, taking to the air, and heading outside the parking garage, apparently in the belief she can beat him to the top.

You can still call out to her.

"Damn it Darja, wait for me," Jack half-grumbles, but doesn't try to get her to come back for him, instead he takes off for the nearest stairwell, moving up the stairs three at a time as he runs along at a strong pace. Hoping that moving vertically rather than along the long slopes of the garage he might be able to make a reasonable shot at getting into place again with the Monkey.

As he moves he shares his thoughts for Darja, knowing that she is listening.

"We want to talk to him, so don't damage his vehicle permanently. We have leverage, and if we let him go, he can still make his delivery and get paid, but we can also get him to keep your secret. We just need him to stop and talk," he mentions.

Pulling the ski-mask down over his face, he reckons that the Monkey probably hasn't had a good long gander at his mug yet, so he can try to remain somewhat anonymous.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 134):

Even without your hearing, you can tell something is off.

There's another long moment of squealing tires.  A 'glance' confirms it.  Monkey tricked you.  He's done another U turn and is heading down now instead of up.  He must have seen Darja fly out and figured he could drive around you.  Or over you.  Or maybe that you were gone.

Darja has already reached the roof.  Monkey is heading from the fourth to the third now.

Intercepting him isn't a problem, you being you.  And Darja seems fairly agile with her flight.  But you aren't really sure how fast she is.  And you are making a lot of noise.  Well.  Monkey is.

The stairwell lets out near the ramp that connects each floor.  You can intercept on the third, second, or first floor.  Darja can probably make it to the second in time.  For sure she can make it to the first.  You'd probably have to slow him down if you want her to stop him at the third floor though.

"O sitt..." Darja mutters as she figures out what's going on and starts to head downwards...

Just need to know:

What floor do you want to stop him on?  And if it's the third, you'll need to find some way to slow him down.  Will need to know what that is please.  Thanks.

Dropping back down the steps quickly, but not too quickly, Jack heads for the second floor. Stepping out of the heavy duty reinforced doors one often finds in a parking garage, he hastily runs out into the parking garage proper, blocking the lane.  Wearing those cross trainers he'd bought at Emily's Boutique, he manages to look only a touch absurd.

Standing in the middle of the poured concrete, he is wearing blue jeans, those knock-off shoes with the letters removed, a dark green long sleeve shirt, black ski-mask with holes for his eyes, and a pair of tight fitting leather gloves. Basically leaving only the skin around his eyes exposed.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his cellphone and a swipe later, has the camera function pointed at the approaching vehicle.

Extending the phone out toward the encroaching Tacoma, he calls out, "Monkey, we're going to talk, can we stop playing the reindeer games?" loudly enough that he hopes it can be overheard over the sounds of his engine. Perhaps even a touch too loud for a normal person. Turning the light on on the camera, he makes sure it's clear that he's recording this.

Jack has never confronted another meta before, and his patience is wearing thin. He still isn't sure he wants to play any cards here, but he's quickly getting to the point where he cares less about Monkey and his things, and more about getting his answers.

But for now, he tries to stop the truck with words and a cell phone recording- with this information, he could certainly find the Monkey again. Now the Monkey has to know that they can find out who he is.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 136):

If you weren't you, you might have to worry.  Monkey doesn't look like he's slowing down.  It could be he intends to run you down and pick up the cell from the bloody pulp...if you weren't you.

But he slams on the brakes.  He turns on the highbeams, perhaps intending to blind you.  But it must be to cover his transformation, because when he steps out of the car, he's Monkey furry and not Monkey plain.

He stalks towards you.  "You really picked a bad time to play Tell-The-World man."

Darja flies through the opening and lands besides you.  "Uhm...I'm here too."

Monkey looks at her.  Then back at you.  "Shit."

For a brief moment, Jack is actually frightened. He's aware in some part of his mind that he's essentially impossible to hurt, let alone kill, that this is no more of a threat to him than anything else-- but some primitive part of his brain that hasn't actually experienced being hit by a car, or fought by a hairy meta-brute is aware that these are threats.

It's an exhilarating feeling for the 2.1 nanoseconds it lasts.

Turning off the light on the camera, he moves it closer to his chest and as Monkey gets out of the car, the teenage boy starts to circle to put the car between them. This also reduces the direct effect of the headlamps on the aperture. He takes a moment to make sure he captures the license plate.

"My intention isn't to 'Tell the World,' we want to talk, we want to know about the person who hired you, the man on the phone, and the files. In the spirit of openness, the man on the phone is responsible for some terrible stuff at Edison," he explains.

"Second point of openness, assuming those files aren't about anyone we object to, I'm inclined to let you make your delivery, though why a guy who models himself after the Monkey is working for a villain, I have no idea."

He pauses here, rather than continue to make points, curious to see what the man will do.

To outward appearances, Jack is using the position of the truck and Darja as his protection. Though he isn't moving fast enough at present that he'd seem to be capable of escaping an angry meta.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:44, Sun 16 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 138):

Monkey glances at Darja.

She licks her lips nervously, but squares up her shoulders.  "You heard the man."

She looks so much like a little kid trying to be grown up, he can't help but laugh.  It is sort of funny.

Monkey rubs his eyes.  "Oh shit.  This is what I get," he mumbles to himself.

He looks back at Darja then at you.  "It's not my truck.  So take as many pictures as you want."  He gestures towards the passenger side door.  "Go ahead and look at the files if you want.  But you aren't takin' them with you."

One of his eyebrows raises slightly and he crosses his arms.  "I'm guessing one of you has good ears.  Probably her.  But it doesn't matter.  As to who I'm doing a favor for...not any of your business.  Just someone who helped me outta a' jam.  So now I owe 'em one.  And I don't like being in debt.

"As for what's goin' on at Edison, that no longer concerns me.  I'm done with that place."

He shakes his head.  "And as far as...'villains'.  Or Capes.  Or Cowls.  Or Hoods. That's all bullshit, Kid."  He looks right at you, half frowning, with almost a pitying look in his eyes.  "Everybody's on somebody's payroll. This isn't a world for the lily white innocent types."

He nods again at the passenger seat.  "Go ahead.  Aren't you gonna look at those folders?"

Jack, who has put his phone away, shrugs at the revelation that it isn't the Monkey's truck. He wouldn't have assumed it was his anyway, and out of curiosity, he does check to see if the truck has been hotwired. His eyes penetrating the aluminum and plastic of the car to look through the dashboard. Walking to the passenger side door, he opens it and reaches out for the files.

Taking to time to read them over as he listens to Monkey justify himself.

"So you went to Edison? Same as the Voice, I assume. Did you graduate together? Get expelled together?" he remarks with a self-amused smirk, not feeling like it's a coincidence at all. In fact, it gives him a bit of a harebrained idea: that this guy knows the Voice because they are both part of the group that'd been responsible for hazing Sara the year prior.  He throws out some wild accusations to see what sort of response he gets.

Is Sara a meta?

Listening to Monkey talk a bit more, he continues to read the folders, his eyes flicking over the pages so that he has memorized the contents of the folders with a glance at each page- but then he has to slow down and uses the time to talk to make it look like he's reading at a normal pace while talking.

"We're not on someone's payroll, and I don't imagine anyone has anything they could use to leverage my moral compass to the point that I'd sanction driving teenage girls to suicide," he remarks with emphasis, staring Monkey in the eyes with those surreal blue eyes of his. "So while you may want to paint the world with your ethical ambiguity, the world is gray, 'I'm just trying to survive,' 'no debts' mentality, don't. Don't try to paint the rest of us, you're morally corrupt and you're projecting your failures in order to salve your guilt over what I can only imagine is a laundry list of bad decisions."

As to whether he intends to let Monkey make the delivery of the files-- that depends on their contents.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 140):

The truck isn't hotwired.  It seems to be on because the right key is in the ignition.  The key is on a key chain with a U of M Wresting Team decal on it.  It's the same emblem that's on Monkey's shorts.  He might be lying about it not being his truck.

The four folders have labels marked

Allgood, Odelia      Class:  Junior   ID 01722   Rating: 2XU

Harbor, Ronald       Class:  Junior   ID 01224   Rating: 4QU

Tam, Darja           Class:  Junior   ID 01912   Rating: 6CU

Wallace, Mia         Class:  Sophmore ID 12227   Rating: 7QO

There's only one page inside each folder, and they seem to be just the student registration forms.  Each student is new to the school this year.  Each one looks like they just moved to the Minneapolis area.

The forms are affixed to the file at the top by two prongs sticking through holes punched in the tops of the forms.  There are small pieces of papers in two of the folders, indicating an additional page was there and it was ripped out.

Monkey flinches slightly when you mention the suicide.  A momentary look of surprise crosses his face.  Though since his face isn't entirely human at the moment, it's a little hard to tell.

"What are you talking about with the suicide shit?"

On a side note, Jack is a junior right?  I think that's what we agreed on.  If that is not correct and he is a senior, please bump everyone up a grade.  I'll edit my post post accordingly.

Added info on the GMS ratings in your almanac.  Let me know if there's questions please.  Thanks

The way he had spoken makes him really consider for a moment: Where did that come from?

July 8th, 2010 – Jack, age 6
   Sitting in the kitchen of the cabin in the woods, Jack listens to his parents arguing down the road as they return from town with groceries. They are arguing again. The snow only drowns out their voices slightly, muffling the way that sound travels across the distance, the snow in the air similarly contorts the way that sound travels. Jack can tell the difference in quality between seasons, remember similar trips. The Bronco still sounds slightly off, they didn’t get replacement parts though even a young Jack is aware that this is probably some deliberate detail his mother intends to fix herself, giving the vehicle an upgrade.
   His father will attempt to keep her from going overboard, but by mid-September the Bronco will have an engine driven entirely by the magnetosphere and quantum entanglement or something of that nature.
   Their conversation in the car seems to be a heated discussion about activities overseas, a recent attack by a “league” of villains called The Conclave that rather than being deliberately bad had obscured their activities by masking every act with Robin Hood-like “give to the poor” acts and vigilante justice against unsuccessfully prosecuted criminals.
   They are arguing about the morality of the issue. His mother is speaking, and she’d said nearly those exact words. He’d changed them slightly in the spur of the moment, but it was a sentiment he’d learned ten years ago, that’s where the thought had come from.

“Where are the missing pages?” Jack asks, lifting the most obvious file with the small shreds of paper on the prongs. He holds it open and shows it to Monkey across the top of the truck. Even as he asks, his eyes scan the area for the pages. He hadn’t seen them on Monkey in previous glances, so he checks the interior of the truck, and he uses the opportunity to open the glove compartment. Pulling out the registration or any other identifying paperwork, he openly reads it, letting the Monkey know that he might be aware of his identity before tossing it back into the compartment.

Having read the files, he realizes there are two unknowns, and tries to place the names on the handful of people he’d met so far. ‘Wallace Mia’ which makes him think of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, is apparently mentally not all there in some way and quite powerful in whatever way her power works and Odelia Allgood, not powerful, is a shapeshifter—Jack reckons that with her power level she might just be able to change her appearance? Maybe?

As to the question from the Monkey, Jack steps back from the truck for a moment to answer: “The Voice has been working with at least one person at Edison to antagonize a girl, and I know for a fact that had we,” he gestures to Darja, “Not found her in the park earlier today, she’d have killed herself.” He doesn’t bother to explain that’s why they were there, he just focuses on giving a concise answer.

Junior is accurate. I'm assuming I don't know who Mia and Odelia are and posted accordingly, but what is the power Q subset?
This message was last edited by the player at 17:10, Fri 21 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 142):

There's nothing in the glove box other than a flashlight, a battered copy of the owner's manual, and a can of Fix-A-Flat.

You do 'see' a name on a paper inside the backpack.  Looks like a quiz for a college level algebra class.  The name is Kevin Hostingale.  He got a B on the quiz.

Monkey/Kevin narrows his eyes, studying both you and Darja.  He glances at Darja, who seems to have to think a moment before nodding.  She seems pretty nervous.

"I'll take care of it." He says at last.  "I didn't know about that.  But I'll take care of it.  So don't worry about it.

"And if something's missing from the files...well one, that's not really any of your damn business and two.  I don't know.  I just had to fetch.  Quality control ain't my gig.

"Now are we done here Encyclopedia Brown?  Put the files back and I'll be on my way."

He looks back at Darja.  "You really should think about transferring schools ya know."

She blinks.  "What?"

"Nothin'.  Forget I said anything."

Q is 'mental'.  But it's one of the more ill defined power subsets.  Ask Casey.

Add Kevin/Monkey to your almanac

Making note of the name on the papers in the bag, Jack stows that bit of information away for later. His eyes drifting back around the truck, looking for sign of the missing pages a touch longer—though he suspects that the man was being honest when he’d said that he didn’t know where they were. “I sort of doubt you will, but if it stops before we get to it, all the better,” he mentions.

Having dropped the files in the truck, he circles around toward Darja. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he looks at Darja in thought and then that last bit has him thinking.

“Why should she transfer schools? You know something,” he tries to get the man from moving on with whatever this is, this conversation. “We’ll go and let you make your delivery, I just want to hear what that last thing was. You know something,” he repeats.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 144):

The papers aren't there.  You're 86% sure of it.

Kevin/Monkey walks back to his truck.  "Edison isn't all that friendly to our kind.  I mean hers and mine."  He gets in, shutting the driver's side door.  "I went there for my sophomore and junior years.  I transferred out at the end of it and never looked back.  But that was four years ago.  So I'm sure a lot has changed."

He starts his truck.  "Take it easy."  He starts to pull away.

Darja looks at you.  "You think he means it?"  She blinks.  "I mean the part about stopping the..." She struggles for the word.  "...ahistimine...harassment."

Watching Kevin pull away, Jack waits for the car to be out of range and then looks at Darja. “Let’s follow,” he suggests. “By the way, if you’re worried about what he said about the school, you’re way tougher than him, so if he could handle it, so can you.” Though the fact that all of those students had transferred or started there this year is, in hindsight, rather too big of a coincidence.

Something he might have to try to understand.

He had certainly not been navigated there by anyone- his aunt lived in that part of Minneapolis for years and his mom would have noticed anyone messing with her circumstances, her mind too brilliant to trick. In fact in hindsight, he has to wonder how odd it is that his mother had hit someone with her car. She was notoriously difficult to surprise given her mental capacity. Drinking might explain it, of course. In either case,  Darja’s family probably wouldn’t have been too difficult to manipulate, and he expected the parents and families of the other students were of similar skillsets. So to speak, easy to trick by a powerful mastermind.

In his estimation, Jack doesn’t think he has deliberately been steered to Edison, so the collection of metas isn’t about him. It might be about someone else though. Darja or the powerful mental-powered type person he can’t really know the powers of, Mia Wallace. They could be the force that was being worked at.

“I think he might be able to talk to the Voice, but whether the Voice listens and stops whoever they are working with in the school is another thing altogether. We’re still going to work it from the banner angle and maybe see if we can’t follow the Monkey to the Voice. I’d like to have a face to go with the Voice,” he mentions.

Gesturing her to follow him over to the open air outside the parking garage, he makes a gesture for her to lift him up and follow Monkey’s truck from afar.

Pulling out his phone, he sends a text to aunt Marlene, indicating that he might be a bit late but not to worry.

To Darja then, he relates the names and GMS ratings for the other previously unknown students, as well as the fact that her file was among those in the car. “So, four files, missing secondary pages. I don’t know Mia or Odelia, but I have Ronald in two classes, he has a knack for languages, I imagine that’s part of his power,” he explains. “Do you know either of those two? Mia might have diminished capacity because of her GMS identifier, or she might be a bit loopy,” he adds, in case that helps.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 146):

"I know Odelia." Darja says, adjusting her flight pattern to avoid a section well lit by street lamps.  "She's in my math class.  Not very friendly.  Acts like everyone is inconveniencing her.  No idea about this Mia.  But we can look for her tomorrow."

Monkey heads north, leaving Marcy Holmes and heading towards the Arts district.

Darja has to fly higher, as the buildings have begun to have more stories and a lot of windows have lights on.  So when you see Monkey pull off the road and into the parking lot of an abandoned convenience store, Darja is still about a half mile back.

Monkey shuts off his truck and, human again, walks towards the store with the folders.  The front door is open, but the lights are off inside.

Monkey walks in.  The shelves are bare and other than Monkey, the only thing moving inside is a rat scavenging through an old bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos that may be two years old.

"He's talking..." Darja says.  But you can of course hear that yourself.

"Hey." Monkey looks around and sighs.  "C'mon man.  Cut the shit.  I got your damn folders."

There's a moment longer and then there's a squawking sound.

"Ugh.  There's a squawking kind of sound," Darja helpfully adds to her narrative.

"And were you followed?"  The voice sounds tinny and static-y. Monkey looks around and finds an army walkie talkie sitting on one of the shelves.

"Really?" Monkey mutters.  He snatches up the walkie talkie and jabs at the send button.  "Hairy Guy to Asshole.  Hairy Guy to Asshole.  Come in.  Do you read me?"

The Voice chuckles.  "You didn't really think I'd show up did you?"

"Yeah.  Well I was hoping.  Kind of curious to see what you look like these days."

"Someone's bitter."

"Yeah.  Well. I've had an interesting time of it.  Are you going after that girl again?"  Monkey frowns at the long silence.  "Roger.  So help me.  If you're pullin' this shit again-"

"I need something to do while I kill the time.  Why not her?"  The Voice sounds a bit miffed.  Like he's tired of listening to his Dad complain about the length of his hair.  "What does it matter to you anyway?  You're beyond it all...am I right?"

Monkey rubs his forehead with his free hand then jabs the button again.  "No.  You don't have the right to fuck up someone else's life just cos of what happened to you. Cut the shit Roger.  You want your precious files, you. Cut. The. Shit."

"You're not really in a position to tell me what to do Kevin.  As for those files, didn't you take a looksie through them?  No.  Of course you didn't.  Because you don't want anything to do with this.  EVEN THOUGH THEY FUCKED US OVER!!!"  When the voice screamed out the obscenity, the walkie talkie screeches like two cars sideswiping each other at fifty miles an hour.

Monkey looks stunned for a moment.  "What have you done Roger..."  He looks around, thumbing the send button again.  "Roger-"

"I already have what I need from those files Kevin.  I just needed someone else to snatch them.  So the theft can't be traced back to me."  On The Voice's end you can hear what sounds like sirens.  "You really made a mess of things at the school man.  There's all kinds of fire trucks.  And police men.  And ambulances over here..."

"Shit..." Kevin/Monkey stares at the walkie talkie in complete surprise.

You can see the gas station from where you are normal vision wise.  Darja is relaying everything to you.

"You're the only one who knows what happened to me Kevin...So..."

Kevin is turning in to Monkey even as he leaps backwards, summersaults, and jumps for the door.

"I hear a click..." Darja says.

There's a clicking sound...

I imagine you and Jack can guess what's about to happen.  Jack being Jack, before it does, I wanted to see if you wanted to do anything.  Also, if Jack wanted Darja to move in closer, etc. just add that to your narration please.  She will comply.

Let me know if there's questions.  Thanks.

“What does she look like?” Jack asks about Odelia, in case there is anything noteworthy about her that will help him spot her from the crowd. He can also go through his mental slideshow of random faces he’d seen in the school and try to narrow it down to the right unidentified faces. The description of her personality sounds like Locker Girl, but he knows from experience that entitled annoying teenage girls are in every class.

As they coast over buildings, and she informs him that they are talking, he points for her to get a little closer.

“In case we can see something that you can’t hear,” he suggests. Coaxing her a touch closer than half a mile away, his mindset at this point is that if he spots something, he might be able to justifiably point it out to her now. Now that they’re closer to a block or two away.

As the conversation is relayed by Darja, Jack nods at her slightly here and there, but for the most part seems to be trying to make sure he gets her to clarify the important parts.

“His name is Roger,” a pause, “Wait, he said, ‘Ambulances over here.’ As in, he’s near the school? And ‘what happened to me’ ..” Jack is clarifying the parts of speech that seem odd to him, that might not seem weird to a non-native speaker who isn’t accustomed to the specificity of certain turns of phrase.

Then the click happens and Darja’s mouth begins to relay that fact—

But Jack’s adrenaline has already spiked when Monkey starts running and the conversation starts going the way it does. The panicked running had been the first indication of the bomb. The click is just nail in the lid.  Sorting through his thoughts on the matter, he decides in that single heartbeat’s time that even if he were in a position to give away his secret to Darja and not feel hesitant, he probably won’t make a difference.

So he just watches.

Full of uncertainty.

"A click?"
This message was last edited by the player at 20:17, Wed 26 Feb 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 148):

Odelia?  Kind of light skinned black girl.  Maybe Iranian though.  She's got a nose piercing and a couple of tattoos on her forearm.  A heart and I think a cat with a pitchfork.  I...really haven't gotten close enough to see it clearly."

From Darja's description there is no doubt...Odelia is Locker Queen.

---

The -ck in your Click is drowned out by the boom.

The station goes up like a marshmallow soaked in gasoline over a campfire.  Bits of debris fly up into the air and hurl against the sides of nearby buildings.

You can see Monkey come flying out of the building, propelled by the blast.  He ends up bouncing against the parking lot asphalt twice and landing against an old, rusty dumpster.

His heart is silent for a second.  Then it starts again.  "...shit...

Monkey stands, wobbly on his legs and tail.  He grabs his head.  "Damnit."

A large burning chunk came crashing through the windshield of his car.  The interior is on fire.

"Damnit..."

You can see he has injuries.  Including a shoulder bone sticking out through the skin.  He seems to be ignoring it.  As you watch, his cuts start to knit together, and the bone starts to slide back in to where it should be.

"Damnit..."  he mutters while coughing.

A police car, with sirens flashing, takes a corner and starts down the road, not far from the station.  Kevin/Monkey glances towards it.

"Damn you to hell Roger.  Damn you to hell."

Without another word, he leaps the fence and bounds off in to the night.

"I think he's running.  Do you want to chase him?  Or try the school?  Maybe we can still see this Voice person?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:37, Thu 27 Feb 2020.

Watching Monkey expelled from the building, Jack’s heart feels like it stops with the man’s. He holds his breath, and then as the Cowl’s heart starts again, the boy breathes in deep. Like it’s the first breath he has ever taken. As if it were the most precious breath he had ever felt. “I think he’s moving!” he releases his words in an explosive nearly single syllable, playing it up slightly and gesturing towards the tailed figure illuminated by the now billowing flames of the burst building.

The relief in his heart increasing as he watches the man’s wounds knit together and he goes from “probably going to make it” to “stable” to “perfectly fine” in a hasty expression of regenerative ability.

“You go try to see if you can hear Roger, put me down over there,” he pointed a bit ahead of where Monkey was heading, “I’ll follow Monkey, he’s on foot now and a bit injured. Trust me, I’ll be okay, if I lose him now it isn’t the end of the world.”

---

Assuming she follows his plan, he nods to her and says, “If you think you find him, don’t get close. We don’t know what powers he has. Text me. Also, I’ll text you if I need help. Also, be wary of drones and satellites, the prevalence of meta activity at the school makes me think that the government might be keeping watch there. If they are, they might notice you hovering above, so be wary. We don’t want them labeling you and sending you off somewhere.”

Making sure his ski-mask is prepared to be pulled down, he starts parkouring his way after the Monkey. Doing his best to use none of his powers, he tails the man from a distance that makes sense only if he has powers, but at least he isn’t displaying anything outlandish.

Aunt Marlene didn’t respond to his text, so he figures she must have gone to sleep- this gives him hope that he can stay out as late as he needs to. In pursuit of justice.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 150):

Darja hesitates.  I don't... But then she shakes her head, as if clearing away her own doubts and nods.  I'll come find you once I've looked over the school. Be careful...

She looks back but then flies off.

Monkey moves in along the shadows, trying to put as much distance between himself and the gas station as possible.  At a deserted corner, he breaks from the shadows and starts moving up the side of a five story office building.

You going to follow?

A person doesn’t scale the side of a five story building as a part of their traversal of a city, this is a destination. Jack takes a long moment to stare at the building from bottom to top. Trying to get a feel for everything contained inside, and on the roof itself. This might be Roger’s place, or it could the Monkey’s base of operations, it could also just be a random spot that the Monkey had chosen to lay low while he figures out what to do next.

Giving the building a good long searching look, he considers his options and continues to close the distance on foot to the side of the building. Drawing his ski mask over his face as he walks, he can at least rely on a certain touch of anonymity.

Particularly, he also starts to scan the area for signs of cameras, drones in the sky and would be watchers. If he’s going to follow the Monkey, he will be showing a few cards.

What are you up to, Kevin?

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 152):

The building has a few security cameras.  But Kevin moves around them with a practiced ease.

He stops on the fourth floor, pulling himself on to a particular balcony.

Inside, a young woman, probably about Kevin's age, is microwaving herself a Hot Pocket.  She takes it out of the oven, making "...yowch..." noises as she moves it to a plate barehanded.  She steps back in to the living room and stops, staring at the man-monkey pulling itself on to her patio.

She makes a face, takes the ten steps over to the sliding glass door, makes sure it's locked, and then pulls the curtain closed.  She marches back over to the sofa, and starts to eat.

Kevin sighs and curls up by the door.  "I jus' need a place to crash tonight?  Okay?"

She doesn't answer.  He sighs again and curls up on the patio.

Seeing as Kevin has settled down and there are no signs of Roger or other villainy about to happen, Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell. The time is given a quick glance before he opens the text string with Darja.

Jack: You find anything? He was listening to classical music that one time, you said, that might help.

With the text sent, he puts his phone back in his pocket and after another glance around to be certain he isn’t being watched, he moves upward. He knows his mask will go far in maintaining some anonymity, but he seldom uses his powers for a reason. Even the hint that someone with his powers is in the area is a bad thing.

He prefers some sense of mystery.

So he tries to pretend that he’s “climbing” the face of the building. That being said, the way that he moves up the side of the building is far from natural, and far from possible for an ordinary person. When he gets to the fourth floor, he glances up to make sure that Kevin hasn’t detected him and takes the last section in one burst.

Landing in a way that leaves him crouching on the railing of that fifth floor balcony.

“So, about the guy who just tried to blow you up, sure you still don’t want to share?” he asks.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:55, Mon 02 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 154):

Kevin is staring at the space you land on.  He has a sort of disinterested yet irritated look about him.  "The boyfriend huh?"

He clicks his tongue and stands, walking over towards the railing.  "Mind if we take this to the roof?  You shouldn't have any problem getting there.  AmIright?"

He leaps upwards, grabbing the upper lip of the patio, transforming as he goes.  He swings himself until he's almost standing backwards on the side of the building, facing the street.  But his tail leaps forward and grabs the edge of the roof, hauling him up.

He walks away from the lip towards an air conditioning hood.  "Here's a tip from someone who's been around the block.  Hide little care packages for yourself around town.  It gives you at least some basic supplies when things go south."

He reaches under the hood and pulls out an old duffel.  It looks like something he might have picked up at Emily's.

"But I can't argue that tonight hasn't been my finest hour."  He unzips the duffel and takes out some clothes.  An old pair of jeans.  Some underwear and socks.  A t-shirt with a picture of a hedgehog.  The logo below the hedgehog has long faded away.

"Roger Dupree.  At least that's what he told me his name was back in the day.  I doubt it's actually his name. The guy who tried to blow me up.  You saw that.  Right?"

He pulls off his gym shorts, not seeming to care if you're there.  He transforms back as he does, sliding on his Fruit of the Loom boxers and picking up his jeans.  "You're a meta too, huh? But you aren't Ronald.  I've seen a picture of him.  Wrong height and build."

He zips up his jeans and digs in the duffel.  "Where's the damn belt?"  He finds it and starts sliding it through the loops on the jeans.  "So...that begs the question.  What.  Are you doing here?"

He slides the t shirt over his head.  "How come Roger didn't know about you? Are you from the Program?"

Following after Kevin, Jack scales the remaining distance to the roof, standing from his position balanced on the railing of the balcony, he hops up and grabs the roof and pulls himself over smoothly in one motion. Practically throwing himself over, he does his best to make it look smooth. It doesn’t look exceedingly natural like Kevin’s movement does, but he has to hope that the monkey-man isn’t overly attentive.

“Go bags? I’ll keep that in mind, I guess it makes sense. Usually you see that sort of thing in spy movies, but I suppose it applies to us too, huh?” he reasons and finds that he actually suddenly can apply a lot of ‘spy movie’ tradecraft to super-people tradecraft. Go bags, learning how to follow someone unnoticed (for those who aren’t him,) how to pick a lock, how to defuse a bomb maybe?

Watching the man as he goes over to look through the bag, he gives the guy some privacy by checking his phone briefly to see if Darja has replied.

“We did see it happen, yes, Roger Dupree,” he confirms. Looking down at himself when he’s asked if he’s a meta, he debates whether to try to play it off as normal human activity. Instead, he decides that a smaller lie might be more believable. He isn’t going to get a firm name then, but he could possibly get a physical description. In fact, after a split second of consideration he simply doesn’t confirm or deny whether he’s a meta.

It isn’t exactly overly forthcoming, but until he hears back from Darja, he can’t be certain whether she’s quietly hovering somewhere out of line of sight- and unless he wants to scan every street, alley and rooftop for miles, he trusts she could possibly hear him.

“First off, I don't go to Edison. I'm just watching out for Darja, and does he have an ability to locate metas? And what is the Program?” he asks.

A pause.

"As to what I'm doing here? Until I'm certain that the school is being left alone, I'm looking for 'Roger.'"

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 156):

"I never said you went to Edison."  Kevin smiles at you and drags the duffel so he can sit on the ledge rimming the roof.  He starts pulling the socks on.  "But whatever.

"I don't know you'll take this.  But..."  He shrugs and moves to slip the other sock on. "You won't recognize Roger from any description.  He's meta as well.  But he's kinda on a different level.  See.  He doesn't have a body.  Roger ain't human."

Kevin looks at you.  "They tried to explain him to me once.  He's a...how'd they put it?"  He looks at the night sky now, considering.  "...A...'sentient idea'."  He waves a hand and bends over to dig in the duffel bag again.

"It had somethin' to do with memes of all damn things.  Honestly it was above my pay grade.  Roger would just get in someone's head and nest there.  He'd take them over.  So.  I can't really tell you what Roger looks like.  Cos currently?  I have no fuckin' idea."

He pulls out an old pair of sneakers.  They're more beat up then the jeans.  "The Program.  The high an' mighty Program.  Molding tomorrow's Capes by screwing around with the kids of today."

He shoves his right foot into a sneaker.  Then he just sits there, holding the left one.  "My powers were obvious from the get go.  I didn't learn to control my transformations until I was thirteen.  My parents...well. They didn't really like that about me.  The neighbors talked.

"When I was a sophomore in high school, the Program approached me.  They sent Red Tiger to talk to me.  The Red Tiger.  That makes an impression on some stupid little kid."

"The Paladins were sponsoring The Program.  Wanted me to move here.  To Minneapolis.  And go to Edison.  At nights and on the weekends, we'd be trained in the use of our powers. My parents were so ready to get rid of me, they had my bag packed before the front door could hit Red Tiger's ass on the way out. I was so excited.  And relieved.  What a dumbass."

I'll get some details on the Paladins posted in your Who's Who in a bit.

He shrugs and makes a vague gesture with the left shoe.  "There were six of us that year. Billy was support.  Kana, Oletha, and Marty were the combat team.  And me an' Roger were the stealth unit."  He looks at you and grins.  "It was a fuckin' blast man.  It was everything I had hoped it could be.  Red Tiger trained us.  Link trained us.  They even brought in the Scarlet Mist from India to train us.  The first semester was awesome on a stick."

He stops and looks at his foot. Then he raises it so he can finally get the shoe on.  "Care to take a guess what happened?"

Jack had assumed the question about him not being recognized by Roger had been contingent on the premise that Jack attended Edison. He doesn’t pursue the subject, or even look startled, his eyes just continue to follow Kevin around as he talks. Explaining the various ins-and-outs of Roger, followed by the program as it was called, and then the mentions of the Paladins.

"It does sound like an interesting alternative to regular schooling," he decides and shares, in the hopes that it will keep Kevin talking.

As they are mentioned, Jack’s mind’s eye calls them to the surface and he recalls the details he remembers.

It fits with his memory of some newspaper articles from several years ago, and a few snippets on Minnesota Public Radio- mom’s radio station of choice, home of Garrison Keillor. He was seldom exposed to too much media, as in those early days his senses were still out of control, much more than they are even now, he would often hear too much, see too much, notice too much. He couldn’t really enjoy media in any state that wasn’t paper form, but even that was somewhat oddly approached.

In hindsight, his mother had controlled many variables in the hopes of keeping Jack from feeling too much wanderlust, perhaps? To keep him from wondering why he shouldn’t fly off at every disaster and put his hand on the wheels.

Or maybe she was just a control freak in her way.

“In the words of Roger: I believe he said that they fucked you guys? I’m guessing the program either shut down or someone got hurt and funding was pulled? I don’t recall any specific articles on the matter,” he notes.

“In any case, so you seemed confident in the garage that you could stop Roger, but stopping an idea seems difficult. Short of just obliterating whoever he is controlling, is there some trick to it?” he questions.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 158):

Kevin is quiet for a bit after you ask about how he thought he could stop Roger.  "Honestly?  I was plannin' on talking to him.  You see.  Up until an hour ago.  When he tried to blow me up.  I thought we were friends."

Down on the street, a car revs at the stop sign and then peels off, screeching tires.  Kevin looks down at it.  "Olathe was the first one.  They would send us on 'missions'. He makes air quotes with his fingers.  "Little simulations.  Break in to this building.  Follow this person around.  Etc, etc.

"Oletha went out on a solo.  Then they called us all together and told us.  She had tried to stop a mugging.  And got shot."

He shrugs.  "You seem the goody two shoes type. And I imagine you'll end up in The Life.  The Cape Life I mean.  So I'll tell you.  It's not real until someone you know goes down.  That's when the shit gets real.  You can say you know that.  But you just know it.  Feeling it really is somethin' different."

He purses his lips. "Billy came to me an' Roger after that.  He said he didn't buy their story about her.  He said he had talked to Olathe right before she went out.  Her location wasn't anywhere near where they said she got shot.  It was way outta the way.  He didn't buy it.  He thought something else had gone down.  And they were hiding the facts from us."

Kevin stretches his legs.  "Me an' Roger.  We just...kinda tried to talk him down.  See, Billy had had a thing for Olathe.  She was a sweet kid. Nice lookin'.  So we thought it was...ya know.  Grief."  He shakes his head.  "Man. Has there ever been a point in my life where I wasn't a dumb shit..."

He stands.  "Next was Billy.  A training accident.  He had been in a super skirmish demo in the Arena and things had gotten out of hand.  Thing was, Billy was support.  His powers weren't combat oriented.  Most combat training he was supposed to have was guns and jujitsu.  Roger got suspicious.  I...couldn't argue."

He zips the duffel back up. "So.  Here's where the shit gets really weird.  Me an' Roger start snooping around.  And we find out a few things.  Olathe's last progress report before she died rated her as 'unacceptable'.  Her file was marked 'egress'.  But that could be coincidence.  Right?"

Still typing.  Got a ways to go
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:22, Wed 04 Mar 2020.

"Then we found this sheet with these weird codes.  It had all our names listed in rows.  And there were cross columns.  And there were odd equation lookin' things in each row.  Like mine went, left to right, 1/1.  1/2.  1/5.  1/8.  We all had numbers on that sheet.  Only Kana and Rogers numbers were different.  They were like 2/1.  2/1.  3/1.  See the difference?  It's important for later on in the story. So remember it."

Kevin has gotten a bit worked up at the memory.  His shaking a little bit now. He seems to realize it because he stops and rubs his forehead.

"There were other things we found.  But let me skip ahead.  We tried talkin' to Kana an' Marty.  Marty kinda started buying it.  Kana was always 'uh uh'.  'Shut up'. 'These people been good to us'."

He chuckles.  "By the way.  Around that time?  Her numbers were staying 2/1.  Consistently.  Rogers were starting to look like ours.

"It came to a head one night.  Link caught me an' Roger snooping around.  See. Red Tiger an' Skates had put in appearances.  But Link an' her little boyfried, that Bronze prick, were runnin' the Program.  And...as time went on, Link an' ol' Bronzy went from bein' okay people to kinda dicks.  Well.  Not 'kinda'.

"Anyway.  They caught us snooping.  You figured we'd be written up.  Or expelled.  Or whatever.  Right?  No.  Bronzy beats the snot outta us.  Until we blacked out.  Even with my healing ability, I pissed blood for a few days after.  Really.  It was great."

He frowns and rubs his mouth with one hand.  "We wake up and we're in the Arena.  All tied up.  Roger's got this...I dunno. Doohickey.  On his forehead.  Well.  The forehead of the guy he was in.  To keep him from leaping around.  Kana and Marty are standing there.  Marty looks spooked.  Kana's got this holier than thou look on her face.  Kinda the way you sound when you talk.  But like an expression."

He grabs up the duffel.  "And Link an' Bronzy are in the control room.  An' Link gives the word.  'Kill 'em.'  I heard her say it.  'Kill 'em'.  You ever been so surprised by somethin' that you shoulda seen comin' all along?

"Marty just about jumped outta his skin.  Kana?  Didn't even hesitate. Only two things saved our ass.

"First, she went at Roger first.  She hated his guts.  Honestly, Roger's an easy guy to get to annoyed with.  Well.  You've seen.

"So they...I guess Link or Kana, cos Bronzy was dumber than a hooker workin' a purity ring convention...thought that if they killed the body Roger was in when he was trapped inside, they could kill him.  So you know:  no.  That doesn't work.

"She smashes that guy's face right in.  I mean I saw her fist go through the skull. I...sometimes.  Sometimes...I...when I'm asleep...I...uhm...I..." He's back to shaking.  He lifts a hand and waves the fingers in front of his face.  "...I can still feel it. The...blood...and...brains.  Splattering all over my face...I..."

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.  "Sorry.  So...uhm..where was I...Oh.  The second thing that saved our ass.  Or mine I guess.  Marty's balls dropped.

"Seein' her go all Raging Bull made him snap.  He jumped her from behind.  It gave me enough time to move.  I managed to get over to this...harpoon gun like thing.  I used it to cut enough slack in the ropes so I could squeeze out.  Then of course, that's when the real fun started.

"See.  We were underground.  About half a mile of tunnels underground.  The elevators were locked down.  The security guys were all armed.  And of course there was Link. An' Bronzy.  An' Kana.  Marty didn't stand a chance. Yeah.  Gettin' out of there was some great training.  Lemme tell ya.  A real great war game that one was."

He walks back to the edge, slinging the duffel over his shoulder.  "Course Roger was free.  An' jumping around from guard to guard. So I had that goin' for me.  And I'm pretty good at the stealth.  But it..."

He looks back at you.  "I saw Bronzy literally pick up one guy Roger was in and twist him in two.  Like he was twisting a towel.  Can you imagine?"

He sets the duffel on the ledge.  "Remember those numbers?  You wanna guess what they were?"

Go ahead.  We'll finish the rest next post.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:23, Wed 04 Mar 2020.

When Kevin reveals his plan, Jack thinks for a second and despite the fact that Roger blowing him up indicates several things about the guy, he keeps quiet about the attack itself. Instead, he grabs a space on the roof nearby and pulls out his phone, sending a second text to Darja:

Jack: What’s going on? 

He nods his head when Kevin mentions that it isn’t real until he sees a fellow Cape or Cowl get killed. That’s probably true, he can’t imagine what it’d be like to watch Darja die trying to help people. It’d make him angry in a way he can’t really describe. Blinking away the mental image, he continues to listen to Kevin.

The story makes his eyes widen slightly, but from an outside point of view he mostly just sits there with his perfect posture and never relaxing air about him. On the inside, he’s both amazed, saddened, and furious on Kevin’s behalf. It doesn’t justify his laissez-faire attitude about things, but Jack begins to empathize with the man a bit more.

Thinking back on the numbers when asked about them, he speculates a few things, “Going to need one of those Roger-doohickeys. But uh, given that Kana had the highest and you were on the lower end? Some sort of willingness to cooperate with Link measurement? Psycho-quotient?”

He has other questions, but he doesn’t want to interrupt Kevin mid-story, so he stops throwing out guesses there. But in fact he thinks he can think of a dozen or more different things one might label young capes with; the psycho-quotient was just the one that seemed to fit the best.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 161):

"They were bookmaking odds."

Kevin shrugs.  "Later on...the story was that Link and Bronzy had...some kinda mind wipe thing or some such from some Hood they battled.  But I think that's a bunch of bullshit.  I have learned one thing about Capes.  They'll try to blame everything on Hoods.

" 'Oh, I didn't mean to sleep with her.  She has some kind of pheromone power.'  'Oh, I'm not really drunk.  I crashed my car because some villain hit me with a vertigo ray!' "

He waves a hand in resignation.  "Whatever the reason...they were both gamblers.  Like addict level gamblers.  And The Paladins thought takin' them off regular duty and assigning them to head The Program would...I dunno.  Help rehabilitate them.  Like these people had never heard that Vegas was online."

A bird lands on the air vent Kevin had pulled his duffel from.  It's unexpected, at least to Kevin, who's been wrapped up in his story.  He scowls at it, but continues.  "They were taking bets on us.  Who'll do well on the test?  Who is likely to gradutate top of the class?  2/1 was two to one odds.  1/20 was 20 against.  That's what I was rated.  At least the last sheet I saw.  A bet of $1 would get you $20 if I survived.  That's what it came down to anyway.

"Cos Linky and Bronzy got bored with tame bets.  They had to up the ante.  Olathe?  They set it up.  Had her arrive in the middle of a drug deal they'd found out about.  Billy?  Well.  He was nosing around.  So he had to go.  But they gave him a sporting chance.  Put him through a training program built for Marty with all the safetys off.  I think he was 1/75 when he went in there."

Kevin looks at the roof and kicks a small pebble that's somehow laying there.  "After Roger an' I got out into the tunnels, we ran as well as we could.  Roger kept jumpin' bodies.  Me?  I just kept flippin' around.  But...obviously...we made it.  But it was..."

He shakes his head.  ”I killed Bronzy.  Do you believe that?  I killed the Bronze Medal. Choked him to death by sticking this rigid foam grenade into his mouth while he was tryin’ to bear hug me to death.  He forgot I had a tail.”

More to come.  Sorry for the long posts.  This is quite an info dump

In reply to Editor-in-Chief (msg # 162):

The bird suddenly takes off from the vent hood.  Kevin watches it take to the sky.  ”When we got out…Link told everyone we had gone rouge.  Had Red Tiger down here hunting us.  You don’t kill a Paladin and get away with it ya know.

“But Roger was a step ahead of her.  One of the last bodies he jumped in to that night was the lady runnin’ the security cam desk for the tunnels.  He downloaded a bunch of the footage and e-mailed it to Guardstar.  Roger’s a thinker, that boy.  Idea.  Whatever he is.”

Kevin coughs.  ”Man.  All this talk is makin’ me thirsty.  Well.  I’ll just give you the short version of what happened next.  Guardstar intervened and me an’ Roger had to submit to an Insurance Board inquest.  You heard about those, right?  No?  Well.  They don’t like to talk about ‘em if you aren’t Cape.

“We got cleared.  Though it was determined I acted ‘excessively’ in what happened with Bronzy.  How’s that for a hoot?

“Kara is…I dunno what happened to her honestly.  I think they sent her to juvie.  Or wherever they send bad teen metas.  Link…Link got away.  Last I heard she’s in Miami.  Runs a smuggling ring.  I try to keep tabs on her.  See.  I killed her boyfriend.  So I never know when she’s gonna show up. Wanting a piece of flesh.”   He spits on the roof, then picks the duffel back up.

”I got cut loose.  The insurance companies have me on a ‘monitor list’.  As long as I don’t start being active, they’ll let me slide.  Guess that’s out the window.

“Roger went to ground.  Guardstar offered to take him on.  But he kinda…ya know.  The whole experience just left a bad taste.

“Me, I worked a few odd jobs.  Then I started goin’ to U of M.  Managed to get a scholarship on the wrestling team.    It wasn’t a lot.  But I figured I could get my degree.  Find a decent job.  Live quiet.  Ya know?

“Then last year I run in to Roger again.  He’s jumping back and forth between these kids over at Edison.  He’s…doin’ some nasty stuff.  I got in the middle of it.  Made him stop.  But the damage was done.  Roger promised me that he wouldn’t do it again.  He…”

Kevin shrugs again.  ”Shit.  Anything I say now is just an excuse.  What we went through did somethin’ to us. Yeah.  But.  That doesn’t mean we can take shit out on someone else.
“Roger calls me a month ago.  Kinda outta the blue. He was hangin’ around Edison because he was worried they were restarting The Program.  And they were.  I talked to Guardstar.  And supposedly…this time…it’s a joint venture ‘tween The Paladins and Guardstar.  This time everything’ll be different.

“But Red Tiger’s runnin’ the show.  And he’s the one who gave it to Link a’ Bronzy last time.  He’s an asshole.  Red Tiger is an asshole.”

He starts to walk over to the door leading to the stairwell.  ”We can get out this way.  That is unless you wanna take another chance on someone seeing you.

“Roger tells me he thinks the kids they’re gonna round up this time have the right to know.  About what happened before.  So they can go in eyes wide open.  I couldn’t argue.  Plus Roger says he’ll slip me $500 bucks.  Hey.  I need money.”

Kevin stops at the door and reaches up, feeling around the top of the sill.  He comes back with a key.  ”Make sure you get copies of keys too.  Leave them layin’ around.  You don’t wanna always be ripping doors off hinges.  Or turning them to vapor.  Or whatever it is you can do.”

He puts the key in the lock, but stops before turning it.  ”Roger can be anyone.  He talks like himself sometime.  But other times…he uses their voice.  He’s got some tells though.  He giggles sometimes.  It’s this real…kinda…weird…sharp. High.  Giggle.  Like…”
”Chi he hehehe”
Kevin does a good impression.
”He has this thing for Mozart too.  He listens to Mozart whenever he can.  Says the genius calms him.  If you can believe that.  Oh.  When he’s real stressed?”  Kevin points at his eyes.  ”His eyes turn all blue.  Not just the iris.  The whole thing.  White an’ all.  It’s kinda freaky to see honestly.”

He turns the key.  ”Alright.  I’ve given you all I’m goin’ to.  The cops will ID my truck.  I’m gonna have people lookin’ for me.  So I’m laying low.  Tell your girlfriend to watch her back.  And not just for Roger.”
He starts to turn the knob and stops.  Another sigh.  He’s like a never ending output of sighs and shrugs. ”If you need somethin’.  If things go south for you an’ her in The Program.  The Stone Arch Bridge.  You know it, right?”

You hadn’t made it out that way yet.  But it’s a local landmark.  A stone bridge crossing the river for pedestrian and bike traffic. It starts on the south side of Marcy Holmes.

”Wednesday nights.  9 PM.  Halfway across.  Stick around there and I’ll find you.  Good luck Kid.”

He starts to open the door.

Darja texts you.

Lots of onlookers.  Not seeing anyone weird.  There's been lots of traffic going by though.  Not hearing the music.

I've taken some pictures of the crowd and cars.

Jack nods his head when it is revealed that they were bookmaking odds. That had been one of the possibilities he’d considered, but until he’d heard about the mind wipe and the methodology behind how the bets were taking place it doesn’t really make sense. True villains. The only thing that gets Jack to respond is when Kevin says he’d killed Bronze. That was unexpected. Jack actually spends a second considering if he could handle that method of attack and decides that he thinks he could. His ability to exhale would make such an attack all but impossible, but it’s a rather interesting trick to attack bricks that still need to breathe.

All the while as he listens he never wavers in his attention from the Monkey. He is clearly listening to every word and while he doesn’t ask many or any questions for that matter, he has the look of an active listener.

“Well played,” he actually praises Roger’s quick thinking when he mentions the sending of the video to Guardstar.

“Before you go. Two things, first, please call Guardstar and explain Roger and what he has done and what he did. If you won’t, I will, but they’ll want to figure out who I am first, and that means I have to play games. Since they’re planning a new Program, they’ll be invested in protecting the students. Second thing, if you ever need backup, leave a meaningful mark near the window that we entered through at Edison. I can have her keep a watch there. If you ever leave a mark there, one of us will meet you on the roof of Edison at midnight,” he proposes.

"And yeah, good luck."

That said, he does a brief scan of the area to make sure that Kevin isn’t going to run in to problems, in case Roger was setting more traps and then pulls out his cell phone.

Cell in hand, he looks at the response from Darja and sends her a message:

 Come pick me up on the roof of the building at the corner of ___ and ____.

Lots of things I need to tell you about.

Never worry about giving me too much details and info! It's great. Though now I want to know about Guardstar too, haha. Thanks for everything.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:02, Fri 06 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 165):

Kevin laughs when you mention a sign for him to contact you.  "Brat.  Like I'd need your help.  But I'll keep it in mind.  Watch your back.  And your girlfriends.  I'll let Guardstar know.  Though don't hesitate to have Girlie mention it to.  When they approach her."  He waves and walks through the door.

Darja takes only a few minutes.  She circles above and then descends.  She brushes a hair out of her eyes.  "I'll need to pin my hair back if I do much flying.  So?  What happened?"

Just need to know what you tell her or don't.  No need to go into details on Kev's backstory unless you want to. Thanks

“Everyone inevitably needs the help of Encyclopedia Brown,” Jack jokes, since that was the only name Kevin would recognize him by, so far. He returns the wave to the parting cowl, and then settles in to wait for Darja to return. Noting as he does, that Aunt Marlene hasn’t texted back, he hopes that this means she isn’t watching for him to be coming back tonight.

Jack has no intention of becoming a cowl, or of going on out on these late night missions much, but when necessary it’s good to have some sense for aunt Marlene’s vigilance. He’d been sort of worried she’d be watching for him like a hawk.

“Maybe a mask you can roll up in to a hair band, maybe?” Jack proposes and waits for her to scoop him up.

As they fly back toward home, he explains much of what he’d heard:

1. The most important thing: Roger has a power that lets him inhabit other’s bodies and take control, but not apparently metas. (Or he’d have taken Bronze- but maybe that deduction was wrong. Jack actually shares his uncertainty on that point, but surmises that he feels sort of confident.) Also, he can be repressed by a device that the Paladin’s likely have access to.
   
2. Roger had been responsible, as assumed, for the previous business with Sara- and had been controlling the students who’d done it. So he’s clearly a double-asshole.
   
3. His issues at the school apparently stem from a previous super-training program at the school which had been led by two members of the Paladins. Though it’d gone wrong because the two who’d been in charge had gone a bit crazy- Jack says he can explain more in depth, but the short story is that it was bloody.
   
4. The Paladins and Guardstar intend to enlist Darja into a new program starting at the school, most likely.

“—and having said that, I think you’ll be safe. I doubt they’ll have the same systemic issues that the Paladins had with Bronze Medal and Link, but that’s just me. I wouldn’t join them, personally, but you’re your own person, Darja,” he passes his final verdict.

Having summarized everything he’d learned without getting into the nitty gritty of gambling, Kevin and Roger escaping, and the specific grizzly deaths. He feels he has covered all of the essential topics.

"Any questions?"

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 167):

Darja is quiet for a while after you finish.  "...seda on palju kaaluda..." she mutters at last.  She comes starts to circle your block, looking for an inconspicuous place to land.  "Would the roof be okay?"

You think so.  There's a ladder that leads down to the ground.

"There's a lot here I don't understand.  How did they know about me?  I from Estonia.  How could they have managed to make me end up in Minneapolis?"

She touches down wherever you think is best and steps back, her face scrunched up, eyebrows knit.  "Why wouldn't you join them?  Do you mind me asking?"

Glancing down at the roof, Jack nods his head and replies, “Yeah, roof is fine, there’s a side ladder.” And as his feet settle onto the tar and gravel roof, he smiles up at her and mentions, “Flying is the best, you're pretty good at it.” Partially because it seems like the normal person thing to say, it happens to be fun, and partially because she actually seems like she might be better at it than he is. Peeling the ski-mask up from his face for the first time in an hour, his skin and face shows not a drop of sweat. Aside from his hair he looks completely at ease.

Pursing his lips slightly at her question he thinks for a second. Moving over toward the edge of the roof, he balances a hip against the spot where the roof and the ladder meet up. Folding his arms over his chest as he decides on an answer after a moment of deliberate deliberation, more of that practice at being normal in effect.

“I’m guessing the story about INS testing you was fake then? Because if it wasn’t fake, that’s how they know about you. Then once they knew who you were, a meta-brain type could probably arrange for it with some subtle mind-trickery, or just outright telepathy type business? A few psychological nudges would probably move your mom or your uncle or your dad? I mean, Minnesota is a great state, but most people don't decide to immigrate here directly,” he reasons, throwing ideas out there.

As to the second question, he doesn’t even really need to think about that and shrugs slightly, only looking down at his shoes a touch as he talks. Taking a moment to look through the roof and check on the disposition of Sol, his aunt, and the other neighbors. Making sure everything is fine.

“The results of the first program were a bunch of dead kids, a dead cape who was actually a bit of a villain, another cape who according to Monkey is now the head of a cartel in Florida, Roger who I just told you about, and the Monkey. So out of them all, the Monkey is the best product of their first try,” he answers. “If you could join another school for metas or something, that would be cool, but unless they can guarantee they’ve taken care of Roger and previous problems, I wouldn’t trust them.”

This message was last edited by the player at 05:23, Mon 09 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 169):

Wow.  Harsh on Kevin aren't you?

Sol is watching some cheesy old movie on his TV. Marlene is laying in her bed, a sleep mask covering her eyes.  She must have gone straight to bed.  You doubt she even noticed you were gone.

Darja blushes at the compliment, and then hovers there, listening.  She shakes her head.  "Ei.. I mean 'no'.  INS really did test me.  That's how I became official."  She shrugs.  "Of course I also kicked a truck across the road.  So that may have been what let the cat out of the bag.

"I really hope not," she adds when you mention how they could have arranged her coming.  "That's...the kind of thing that made us leave Estonia.  You don't think they would try to revoke our VISA do you?"

She takes a deep breath. "Sorry.  I need to be more positive.  Oige?"

She watches you start to descend the ladder.  "What about Sara?  Do we do anything further?"

“Well, there you go, that’s how they knew,” Jack confirms. “It could be government sanctioned.”

Having checked on the neighbors and Marlene, he returns his gaze to Darja. Putting his hands into the pockets of his pants, he shifts a bit for the illusion of comfort.

“I don’t know, honestly, and I don’t know that it’d be bad. I just know that I’m wary of anyone whose track record is that bad, even if it’s new management,” Jack admits with a light shrug and smiles a bit at her. “If you get the impression it’s a threat, I’d say you should play along until you have more cards. You’re tough and the Midwest affect means there aren’t really any people in the area who can hurt you, so you’d probably be fine,” he reasons.

He laughs lightly when she says that she needs to be more positive.

“You’re fine. Sara? I’m still going to track down who sold the banner, in case Roger is staying with one person. I guess I’ll also be curious to see if Guardstar and the Paladins take action. If we could get our hands on one of their head-doohickeys, I’d say we should slap it on them and deliver him, but as is, we aren’t equipped. I asked Monkey to inform Guardstar, and you should do so as well, when they contact you,” he advises.

A pause.

“I’m not sure what else we can do in the next few days. Just have to hope the metas in charge are quick to resolve things.”

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 171):

Darja nods. "Thanks Jack.  Be careful going down.  And good night."

Moving along.

We never talked about XP.  Do you want it?  We're kind of assuming Jack is uber-powerful.

---

 Marlene doesn't say anything about last night.  She simply gives you a plate of scrambled eggs and toast with a cold slice of deli ham.  "OJ is in the fridge.  Oh.  I'm gonna be late tonight.  Got a do at the University I have to attend..."

She digs in her purse and hands you a ten and two fives.  " 'fraid that's all I got on me.  But that should cover lunch an' din din.  Oh.  I think Sol...you've met Sol next door right?..Sol is gonna have a new sofa or armchair delivered.  If you see him trying to carry that upstairs himself, help him will ya?  That guy has a bad ticker.  You didn't hear that from me.  But he's always tryin' to do this an' that like he's still in his twenties.  'kay.  Gotta motor.  Have a good day at school now."

And like the tornado of activity she is, Marlene leaves for work.

As you do the breakfast dishes...one of your few chores...you can 'hear' everything going on around the neighborhood.

Someone else is listening to the news as they drive into work.  The top story is about the fire at school.  In fact, according to the news, school is closed today.  A quick check of the internet confirms it.  The police have closed off the school for the investigation.  Classes start tomorrow.

Marlene wouldn't have known.  She wouldn't be used to checking for things like school closing.

Or maybe she did.  And that's why she told you to keep an eye out for Sol.

She probably would've mentioned no school though.

You've got a day off then.  What to do with it.

“Night, Darja,” Jack calls after her and quietly begins the descent of the ladder. Mindful of aunt Marlene and the neighbors that might hear him rattling against the side of the building, he relieves some of the pressure of his feet by lightening the load of his body just a touch.

---

Jack, finding that she doesn’t say anything about last night is immensely relieved. He has no intention of a great many late night trips, but knowing that he could get away with them in the situation is became necessary is a good thing to know. In fact, given her sleeping habit of a night mask and a deep sleep, he expects he can just open his window and slip out on the qt.

Settling down at the kitchen table, he immediately digs in and nods his head with a mouthful of unnecessary but welcome food.

The cash will go into his meager savings, bringing him up to a sum only slightly more than she’d just given him, but not by much.  He doesn’t have any plans for the money, but sometimes a teenage boy just needs a little spending money.

“Sure!” he confirms and nods in confirmation, he’d definitely help Sol.

When he hears the news, he sends Darja a quick text about it and then adds a very prompt: Delete all texts between us since last night. In case they got your face on camera. If you need to talk, just call.

It’s a bit business-like, but he’s looking out for both of them.

Once he has finished the dishes, Jack walks across the hall and gives Sol’s door a light knock. “Hey Sol! Marlene said you were having some furniture delivered, do you know the timeframe for when they’re showing up?” he asks.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 173):

"Oi vey.  Your aunt.  She watches over me like a hawk," Sol is already prattling on as he opens the door.  "Come in.  Come in.  Have you eaten?  I was about to have some kolaches.  Help yourself."

He has a box of the Czech pastries on a small TV tray set by his current recliner.  There's sausage and fruit ones.  They smell like sex and taste almost as guilty.

"She's good people.  What did you do to your school?  You broke it already?"  He gestures at the TV>  "What kind of world do we live in that someone would set fire to a school?  That's like burning a synagouge!  Or I guess in your case a church.  But the point is that some places should be exempted from the hate crazy stuff."

He frowns and looks at the TV.  Reaching for the remote, he turns the volume up.

The news has a special story going on.  They're in front of your school.  But what is going on isn't exactly about the fire.

A reporter is standing by the police tape blocking access to the school. Behind her is a crowd of students.  Well.  Not a 'crowd' as much as several ordered rows.  And not just students.  You can tell at a glance.  They're BEs.

"...refusing to move.  These students began showing up thirty minutes ago in small groups and congregated here, as close to the main entrance of the school as they can."

She's having to almost yell.  The BEs are singing.

I saw two shooting stars last night
I wished on them
But they were only satellites.
It's wrong to wish on space hardware.
I wish, I wish, I wish you ca-ah-ared.

I don't want to change the world.
I'm not looking for a new England.
I'm just looking for another girl.

I don't want to change the world.
I'm not looking for a new England.
I'm just looking for another girl.

The reporter is trying to get one of them to stop singing and answer some questions.  The BEs look annoyed.  But they don't stop singing. And they don't stop smiling.

"Why the hell are they singin' Billy Bragg?" Sol wonders.

On the TV, they've suddenly stopped.  The reporter looks stunned.  The BEs suddenly all turn their heads at the same time, like they were a well rehearsed drill team, and look to their left.

The cameras swings wildly as the camera man follows.

At the end of the first row, an older man has laid a hand on the shoulder of the outermost BE.

He looks...grandfatherly.  He's maybe Sol's age. Slightly younger.  He's balding on top, with a ring of hair around the middle of his head that puffs out like strands of cotton candy.  He's got a grin that had to come right out of a Pixar film.  His tweed coat is brown and the rest of his clothes, including his shoes and socks, are lavender.

He turns slowly, waving 'c'mon', but saying nothing.  He's too busy grinning to say anything.

The BEs turn the rest of their bodies and begin to follow.  Single file.

Sol whistles.  "I guess that's one way to run a railroad.  Wonder who he is?"

Jack’s sense of smell is much more sensitive than a normal person’s, and while he can usually block out the majority of smells the smell of the kolaches is rather a bit too much to be resisted. Picking up one of the fruit ones, he slowly starts to devour it. “Thank you, Sol, also, I'm non-denominational and more of an agnostic, I'd say I'm more inclined to think that there is probably a divine power, but whether Christ was a divine being or just a meta, or didn't exist at all, is all just too mysterious for me. As far as I'm concerned, Judaism is as likely to be right as Christianity or anything else,” he mentions after he finishes it and settles his hip against the nearest piece of furniture. One of those learned humanizing behaviors that he does to make it less obvious that he can stand perfectly still essentially perpetually.

Peering at the school, he laughs a bit at the question.

“They set a fire? I thought I only heard it was some smoke not like part of the building burned down,” he says. Turning his attention to the screen, he watches. Of course, the BEs with their extremely formulated lives would be a bit thrown by school being shut down.  He isn’t familiar with the song, so he just turns his eyes back to Sol.

“Who is Billy Bragg?” he asks, never having heard the name.

Seeing the behavior of the old man, Jack wonders if this old man is a key to the mystery, or just another cog in a mysterious machine.

“Not sure, I hadn’t seen him when I’d looked into the business and their apartment building, but I didn’t really have the time to eyeball everyone involved,” he answers and clearly is paying the old man a lot of attention. He’d definitely want to figure out who the old man is.

So far, the BEs don’t seem to be suffering if they’re under control, and they aren’t exactly well hidden, so part of him thinks it might actually be voluntary to join their ‘hive’ if that’s what it is. But in case it isn’t, he will have to add it to the list of things to deal with.

---

"So, do you know when your furniture is supposed to show up? I could just leave you my phone number, I won't be too far, so if it shows up and they leave it downstairs, I should be able to get here quick either way," he mentions.

Having offered it, he actually finds a piece of paper and a pen in the old man's apartment, expecting that the rabbi probably has quite a bit of that sort of thing. He writes down his name and phone number.

"There, you should have it anyway."

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 175):

Sol smiles slightly when you speak about your beliefs.  "Everyone has to find their own faith. Just...well.  Just don't forget.  God believes in you, even if you're not too sure about him."

"Hmmm?" he hmmms when you ask about Billy Bragg.  "He's a singer from back in the 80s and 90s.  How these kids know that song...and can sing it in four part harmony..."

He frowns when you talk about investigating the business and apartment building.  "Don't go nosin' around too deep in those people Jack.  Cults always look silly and fuzzy.  But they got claws in there somewhere too..."  He sighs and looks back at the TV.  "They always got the claws..."

He smirks when you write down your phone number.  Then he takes out his cell and enters it in.  He calls you.  "And now you got mine.  Crazy kid.

"Alright.  You would be doin' me a big favor.  They're like to just leave it downstairs.  They're supposed to be here around 3.  You're a good guy Jack.  Not too much of that these days.

"So what have you got goin' on today?"

Wasn't sure if Jack had anything specific planned.  If so, let me know in your reply.  If not, I'll move us along.  Thanks.

Jack has some ideas about how they might know of a singer from so long ago, but he isn’t about to sit and discuss his current suspicions about their meta status, or the meta status of that old man or whoever was serving as the nexus for the hivemind—or whatever they are. Instead, he just thinks and nods his head a little to indicate his understanding and that he’s listening. Being normal. Normal kid.

“Speaking from experience, Sol?” he asks when the old man mentions claws in such a wistful way.

He waves off the compliments about being a good guy.

“I’m thinking I should go and see my mom, but I haven’t been to a jail before, so I’ll have to look up the procedures ahead of time and then jump on the light rail up to Saint Cloud,” he mentions. Holding off on doing it until he has finished his conversation with Sol.

“But I should be back by noon, so no problem. After I help you? I’m uh..” he pretends to be thinking about it more deeply than he really is, “Going to the university library to get some books for a research project. No real plans other than that.”

Oh, about XP, I forgot to respond: I think we should just handle it with organic (for Jack) improvements. He spends adequate time studying math? Just give him a more well rounded math skill (besides his lightning calculator ability), he finally gets to start practicing flying full-speed with loops and stuff? Improved, etc. I don't need a separate XP reward to inorganically improve him randomly.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:48, Sat 14 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 177):

Works for me.  I would consider his investigative skills have gone up a schooch.

Oh.  What are Jack's Mom and Dad's full names?

Thanks

Sol glances at you.  <Gray>"Oh.  Yeah.  Bein' a Jew has it's drawbacks.  Always some knucklehead waitin' around the corner.

"Light rail go up to Saint Cloud?  But I used to be part of a prison ministry.  You want me to ask some of the folks who still do it about visitin' hours and such? Dependin' on where she is, they might be able to get her a message."

---

Visiting hours at the county jail are from 9 AM until 3:30 PM, Monday through Friday.

Visitation procedure will always include a pat down.  No cakes with files in them coming through.  They do scan for metal.

Form of visitation depends on your Mother's sentence and how well behaved she's been.  You can either see her in a common room, person to person.  See her from the other side of a clear plastic partition, talking through a set of phones.  Or you can't see her at all.

Tara (Applewood) and Daniel Sharpe – I couldn’t remember either! I had to check the original who’s who I sent you.

Going down his list of innocuous normal behaviors to exhibit, Jack feigns a yawn and runs his hand through his hair a little. He nods his head at the words of Sol regarding the whole thing about being a Jew. He could probably make a comment about being a meta if he didn’t keep that tucked away, and how they’d been treated during the World Wars. Not just as weapons, but for those with ‘lesser powers’ as prisoners.

It wasn’t on the level of the treatment for other minority groups, since unlike other minority groups, there was always the chance of being free by being a slave or science experiment- but it wasn’t a pleasant time for the meta population either.

That brief thought flashes through his mind and he tamps it down. It’s stupid. Comparing his fate with the fate of normal people or even normal metas. Like comparing the lifecycle of plants with the lifecycle of stars, and he’d never felt the slightest bit of victimization, nor would he ever fear a ‘knucklehead’ in an alley—not unless they have a nuke tucked up their ass. The worst he’d seen was in the past week with the way people whispered about Darja.

And that hadn’t even seemed too bad, just a bit of stupid teenage speculation about nipples and toes- in the end, guys were going to speculate about girl’s tits regardless of their meta-status.

“I think she’s being held at the Stearns county jail,” he answers and while Sol makes a phone call, Jack pulls out his phone and gets the information on the train. He won’t be taking the train, but it’ll be good to be able to justify how his money was spent.

That being said, a moment after he answers, he actually isn’t entirely sure that’s where she is. Aunt Marlene hasn’t been around to talk about it, and mom hasn’t called. He just knows that’d be where it happened.

Then again, if whoever she used to work for, or if they figured out she was a meta with serious super-brain, would they move her somewhere else?

Suddenly he’s unsure.

"Actually, I'm not sure."

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 179):

"Yeah.  Jus' a sec," Sol says to whoever he's on the phone with.  He looks at you.  "Tara Applewood?  Tara Applewood." he confirms to whoever he's speaking to after you nod.

He listens for a while.  You can hear the conversation.

"Over at Stearns?  I don't know her.  Though it's not like I've met them all yet.  Let me check around.  Oh. Hold on.  Andy!  Andy!  Yeah.  It's Sol.  Do you recall a Tara Applewood over at Stearns?  No?  Okay.

"Lissen Sol.  Neither of us remember her.  Lemme check with the day officer.  I'll ask around about-What?  Oh wait.  Andy's comin' back.  Yeah?"

The woman must put her hand over the phone on her end because you hear some mumbling.  The connection isn't great, so you don't catch most of it.

But what you do catch sort of confirms what she comes back on line and says.

"Hey Sol.  Andy remembered.  We didn't know her.  But we heard about her.  She had...an episode.  They transferred her to Yarwood."

Sol goes stiff and then thanks them.  He turns back to you.  He's got a look on his face. If this were a TV show, he'd be about to tell you your pony died.

"So..uhm..."  He sighs and gives it to you straight.  "My friends in the ministry think she got transferred to Yarwood.  You know what Yarwood is?"

You know it's a rehab hospital.

Sol shakes his head.  "Well.  I mean.  Yeah.  It is.  But it also contracts out with the county to handle psychiatric cases.  If your Mom was being forced into rehab, they woulda sent her to High Meadows.  Or Bright Recovery.  Was-"  He seems to think better about what he was about to ask.  He dials on his phone.  "Sorry.  Lemme see if anyone in the ministry is workin' Yarwood now.  Lemme cancel my delivery too.  I can go up there with ya."

Jack answers each question in turn, and listens in on the conversation both near and far. Responding as appropriate, his hands sliding into his pockets in thought. Looking at the old man, he reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay Sol, my mom is a bit crazy,” he consoles the man. He is fully aware that his mom doesn’t have all of her screws, but what she does have, she has a lot of. She’s excessively mom.

He’s about to tell Sol he can make the trip and be back in time to take the delivery himself when he realizes that, although it’s a bit manipulative, he might be able to talk to his mom without audio recordings with the presence of the Rabbi.

He can also probably expedite the meeting.

“I don’t know if you should cancel your delivery though, we can be there and back in a few hours, can’t we?” he questions. It’s still pre-work for some. Early morning, he’d just finished breakfast and washing dishes and had come over to talk to Sol directly. Delivery at three.

“Or maybe you can just push it back a timeframe? I’d like to help you with it, and I don’t often have days off,” he mentions.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 181):

Sol smiles.  "Lemme give them a call..."

His delivery gets pushed back to 3.  The two of you head towards the light rail stop.

Sol tells you stories of his time as a Marine.  "Everyone was always so shocked by me being a Marine.  I'd tell 'em 'Hey.  Jews were Marines before there were Marines.  We don't just make good accountants!'"  He finds this tremendously funny.  "You mind if I ask what your Mom was in for?"

---

Yarwood on the outside looks more like a retirement home than a mental hospital.  The grounds are well kept though not pretentiously so.  There's a hydrangea bush set up to one side of the entrance.  How they keep that alive is a mystery.

Yarwood inside...yeah.  It's a crazy house.  Leaves no doubt.

The janitorial staff has laid down some serious Pine Sol.  But it still doesn't quite cover the stink of urine and sweat.  There's a small visitors center just inside the front door.  A few old couches and some chairs.  An old man is sitting on one of the couches, flicking his ear from the back, like it's annoying him and he wants to swat it off the side of his head.

A couple of well built interns stand by the only door leading further into the hospital.  A rather athletic looking nurse sits behind a glassed in booth beside the door, typing on a computer.  She looks up at you as you arrive.

"Lemme talk to 'em..." Sol nods at the Nurse.  "See if I can get the skinny.  You wanna wait here?"

The ear flicker is watching you.  He gestures at you with the hand that's not batting at his ear.

“I don’t think it’s shocking, Sol, you have a bit of a scapper in you, I can tell,” Jack mentions and also laughs at the accountant joke. Like he’d told the rabbi a few days ago, the closest thing he’d ever had to a rabbi was Mel Brooks so he can appreciate good old Jewish man humor. “Short story long: she drinks too much, she was out on a bender or doing the stuff she does, and she got in a car accident and someone died,” he explains.

A pause.

“In the end, regardless of the outcome, at least she’s sober right now.”

---

Glancing around the building as they walk up, Jack is scanning through the residents, trying not to dwell too much on anyone who isn’t pertinent and the only person who is pertinent right now is his mom.

Ignoring the scent, he follows Sol inside. Prepared to act as the old man’s bodyguard. That instinct is somewhat relaxed however, since Sol had shared his war stories. He wasn’t sure it’d go over great if Sol had to fight a young athletic person, but he wouldn’t bet entirely against Sol.

“Sure,” Jack replies and glancing over amidst his examinations of the facilities, he spots the man batting at his ear.

With a look of bemusement, he approaches.

“Hello,” he says, pleasantly. His gut tells him that the patient probably isn’t dangerous if they let them sit in the entry way, and of course, Jack himself wouldn’t be scared if it was Freddy Kreuger’s even scarier uncle Bob.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 183):

Wherever they are keeping Mom, it's not someplace obvious.  You don't see her on any level.

The old guy batting at his ear stops as you approach. He leans towards you and says, "Did they drag you in here too?  You don't look like you're nuts.  Not yet at least."

He bats at his ear then leans a scooch closer.  "Lissen," he says in a conspiratorial whisper. "you can't trust the ones that get all smiley.  They ain't right.  They're bad copies."

"Hey Jack!" Sol waves at you.  "They'll be down in a minute ta take us up."

Listening to the man, Jack gives him a sage nod like he’s clearly on to something. Playing the part of Bruce Willis to his Brad Pitt in 12 Monkeys. Sure sure, the ones that get all smiley. Not that it’s beyond possibility that there are in fact some sort of weird experiments happening here or anywhere else, or that there are copies of people, or even that metas are working nefariously and this is going to turn into a convoluted plan to rescue his mom.

It’s all just unlikely. Being a person who can think as fast as Jack means that he can think of all of these things, weigh his personal estimation of their likelihood, formulate a response and seem essentially somewhere close to normal.

Except his posture.

He always forgets to slouch a little. Now that Rosamie and those girls in the cafeteria have said something, he has to keep reminding himself to relax his spine a little. His mom should have pointed it out to him earlier.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he says to the man and then stands back and walks over to Sol. “Okay. Excellent, I’m glad you’re here Sol, by the way, since you’re a rabbi does that mean they’ll not be able to record your conversation with her?” he asks. Being upfront about it.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 185):

Your question seems to surprise him. "What? Like a priest confession kinda thing? Yeah.    Well I mean I can tell 'em she's from my synagouge.  But I've never had troubles with anyone taping or demanding to listen in.  No one in the prison ministry has ever said anything.

"If she was on the violent ward...yeah.  They'd probably insist an orderly stick around.  But it sounds like she's on one a' the regular wards.  So yeah.  We can give you two some QT."

An orderly comes down and calls out Sol's name after a few minutes.  You head down the hall behind the locked door and to an elevator.  Second floor.

The orderly turns right after stepping out of the elevator.  As you follow, you can see the hall going to the left.  But just normally.  You can't 'see' see it.  You just see the hall and the closed doors and the windows like you assume everyone else sees it.

The orderly takes the second left and uses a badge to get you through a secure door.  Past the security door is a day room.  Three women are seated around a table playing cards.  One of them doesn't have any cards in her hand.  She just makes motions like she has some, throwing one out from time to time.  The other two women ignore her.

A fourth woman is sitting in the middle of the room.  She's not on a chair.  She's stuck in a chair pose and just...sitting there.  On nothing.  Her glutes must be powerful.

The orderly gestures to a couch set against a wall.  "Have a seat.  She's being brought...Ah.  Here we go."

From down the hall, lead by a nurse, comes Mom.  She looks rough.  Her hair is sort of greasy and balled up into a rough ponytail, sticking out at an odd angle from the left side of her head.  She seems to be chewing on something.  Her jaw moves in little circles.  Her eyes are almost vacant looking.  She looks like she's been on a week long bender, but there's no smell of alcohol on her.

The nurse brings her over and nods at you, giving you a smile.  "You must be Jack.  She's been excited."

Mom sits down heavily and looks at you.  "Jack.  You been chewing your peas?"

I leave it to you to decide if chewing your peas is any kind of reference Jack is aware of.

And, from what he can scan, yes.  This seems to be Mom.

“Let’s see what we can do then, it probably won’t make a difference but it might help her feel more at ease if the chances that someone is recording is reduced,” Jack suggests to Sol as they walk through the building. He notes as he walks that there aren’t any of the normal things ones finds in a hospital. No nitrile glove boxes by doors, no hand sanitizer stations readily available, no easily reachable across counters with lots of random things behind them.

The smells of the hallway are properly sanitized, but beneath the scent is the scent of a great many people living in tight quarters with questionable bathing habits. He can’t see through the walls, which is odd, but he suspects this was done on purpose. He can still hear through the walls, he can still see through the windows, but now he begins to suspect that this is a meta ward.

There was no reason to layer those sorts of meta materials in every nook and cranny without doing it on purpose. It isn’t in everyday paint, and it wasn’t done anywhere else.

Conclusion: they know mom is a meta.

Conclusion two: they now might suspect that Jack is a meta.

His conclusions are all the more supported by the woman holding herself in that pose in the common room. It’s not that she’s holding herself in that pose, it’s that she’s doing it without breaking a sweat or even looking like that’s something she is taxing herself to do. That’s certainly a meta.

Taking a seat, he waits for his mom and rises to his feet, paying attention to the nurse for a moment he nods at her. “Thanks.”

Looking then to his mom, he smiles even as he analyzes her words. Peas? Powers. It’s the only relevant thing she would bring up before even saying hello or how have you been. Chewing? Discussion. Jawing. Alternatively, she’s being poetic and asking if he has been minding his p’s and q’s, but he doubts that. She’d never used that phrase before. They’d never arranged any particular code to use in conversation, but he can draw conclusions.

“No, no peas to speak of, though I did meet a nice girl. Mom, this is Rabbi Sol, he’s aunt Marlene’s neighbor,” he introduces them to each other. “Sol, this is my mom, Tara,” and having made the introduction, he looks back at his mom.

“So, the DTs must be past by now, you’re still feeling the withdrawal I guess?” he asks, looking at his mom pointedly.

I assume you meant that I can’t see through the walls because of the anti-meta materials they’re using, not that my powers are somehow being blocked.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:49, Sat 21 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 187):

Correct.  It's just vision that's blocked and only on that one ward.  You can see here fine.

Mom rolls her eyes at Sol, and then back at you.  "You know I'm an atheist."  Her eyes roll back at Sol.  "No offense."

Sol shrugs.  "None taken."

But she's already blocked him out.  She looks back at you, listening to your question.  "Is this the part in the after school special where I'm supposed to let love in?"

She sighs.  "Can we do without your sermons?  You never did as well as your Father at that."  She looks you over.  "You doin' good?  Marlene not driving you nuts?  How's school?  Who's the girl?  Still keeping secrets?"

Jack shakes his head slightly at his mom, pursing his lips slightly as he watches her interaction with Sol. Not her best laid plan, that one. He’d thought she’d at least grasp at the straw of future possibilities that having a ‘spiritual advisor’ allowed.

“What sermon? Take a shower,” he says. He doesn’t ask her for specifics, since she tried to change the subject, he just goes with it. Clearly, she’s gone from needing alcohol to needing medication. He tries not to judge her too harshly, but at the same time, he isn’t going to just let it slide. As Jack gets older, he becomes more and more capable of recognizing the flaws for what they are.

The rest of the questions, he answers those all in one breath. “Still an immutable law. She keeps busy, but otherwise she’s a peach. I’m managing. She’s just some girl, has secrets, though she’s been more open with hers than most,” which sort of answers her question without outright saying ‘of course I’m keeping secrets’ like that’s a satisfactory answer that her doctors and keepers won’t wonder about.

“So, I’m guessing you may have talked with aunt Marlene about it, but should we sell the cabin? It’s in a good location and isn’t falling apart,” he questions, thinking of the cabin in the woods where he has spent so much of his life. He'd definitely need to clean it into a Uhaul, but he could do that in ten minutes flat, so it's not exactly something he thinks of as drudgery.

A pause.

“Do you want me to help get you out?” he asks. The last is perhaps one of the most important questions of the day. He wouldn’t like it, but he could take her to Venezuela in an afternoon and she could figure things out from there. But in order to mask the intention of the question that only she would immediately be able to read, he further asks, “Do you have a public defender?”

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 189):

She frowns.  "We don't own the cabin.  Your Dad does."  She stares down at her hands as she says this.  She's clenching and unclenching them into fists.

It's not true.  She and your Dad are both on the deed.  She can sell it if she wants.  Though you'd probably have to forge your Dad's signature on the papers.

She shakes her head at your last question, wiping her eyes.  "No.  I'm good.  I...I think I need a chance to rest Jack.  I need some time to think."  She laughs.  There's some of her patented self-pity-bitterness mixed into it.  "Who'd a thunk I'd need time to think.  Huh?"

She looks at Sol.  She's smiling and it seems genuine at the moment.  "Thanks for comin' to visit me.  Sol, right?  I appreciate you looking after my son too."

"He's good people," Sol says.

"Yeah.  I hope."  She looks back at you.  "I think this place might be good for me right now.  I mean.  It's not a Vegas four-star.  But.  I can't get the booze.  So I'm gonna have to find another way to deal with all the shit in my head.  You know what I mean?  I think I need to do that."

She sighs.  "Jack.  I don't know if you're ever going to see your Dad again.  If you do...well.  Just remember.  It's complicated.  We have very complicated lives.  We are a complicated family.  Alright?"  Her smile seems to be getting kind of saggy at the ends.  "Just make the best decisions you can, okay? Just do good."

Jack doesn’t call her out on the lie, which he actually suspects might be code for something. Why? His mom is super-smart, in a literal sense, so she probably forgets things as often as Jack does. Which is to say never. She also thinks quickly, like he does. So, it’s unlikely she’d forget that he never forgets things, or that he’d seen the deed in 2008 when he was helping her sort out paperwork. Or maybe she just prefers not to remember everything like he does.

He decides not to try to analyze her mentality, it’d probably end up being upsetting to think about. Instead he focuses on the lie.

The lie says: "We need your dad to do that." Is she saying she needs him to get his dad? Where would he even start with that?

Listening to her talk about her plans to self-reflect and get her self together, he nods his head slowly. “Sure.” He doesn’t remind her that she should keep in mind that she has options. She knows. He had only asked so she would have a way to bring it up without it sounding like, ‘hey kid, rip the walls open and get me out of here.’ She also knows how to contact him, and if she wants to set up some sort of coded message, she can tell him now on the sly.

“I’ll keep it in mind, and I’ll give him the chance to explain himself,” he tells her. “I always try to do good, mom.”

Thinking for a moment, he smiles at her a little. Situating himself a bit more comfortably forward in his chair as he leans his elbows down onto the tops of his thighs.

“So, what’s it like here? What’s with the lady holding herself like a chair? She a meta or something?” he asks, deciding to let the conversation flow to a topic they’d normally avoid.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 191):

"Rosie?" She glances at Chair Woman.  "Not really.  I think she's a catatonic schizophrenic.  Those women playing cards probably posed her like that.  The patients are always moving her around and the staff has to come along later and put her right again."

Mom shrugs.  "It's not terrible honestly.  There's the smell of course.  And it's a crazy house.  But maybe I'm nuts.  So...why not?"  She searches the pockets of her sweater for something and then clicks her tongue, shaking her head.  "Damn.  I've started snacking on pepitas. They sell 'em in the vending machine.  I forgot my last pack.  Or maybe I already ate it."

"You mean pumpkin seeds?"  Sol stands.  He looks around.  "No staff nearby.  So I can run over and get you a pack or two.  We passed the vending machine."  He nods at you. "Back in a mo."

He turns quickly and walks out of the day room.  Mom watches him.  "Nice guy.  Tell him I'm sorry if I came off too strong."

It does seem no one is around.  And you aren't picking up anything that seems like recording equipment.

Jack squints ever so slightly when she says that ‘Rosie’ isn’t a meta. Holding a position like that doesn’t seem possible for normal people, but then again, maybe he just isn’t familiar with the limits of what people can do. He shakes his head and glances over at Sol as mom gives him a story, urging him from the room in a sort of sly way.

He also appreciates Sol for playing along.

Turning his head then, as Sol leaves, he takes the time to visually inspect the room in a manner that is downright over-the-top. Double checking for recording equipment. His eyes rapidly checking not only spots that can provide consistent power like power sockets and light fixtures, but the edges of the table, the seats they are sitting on and stuff at further range.

Once he has finished his sweep, he makes a point of covering his ears with his hands and gives her a look to indicate that she might want to do the same.

And then whistles once. Sharp as a razor. A single spike of noise made with only barely a motion of his lips. Hopefully even that remains undetected.

It’s the best he can do. The rest, he tries to keep in code. Just in case.

“Let’s see, what else to talk about- they’re serving a lot of food groups at school, peas and carrots aplenty. Organized by food group.

Also, there’s a bully who seems to get around, picking on kids. I’m trying to help stop him but he has a way of getting in people’s heads, you know, like, literally, and I can’t fight him with my hands, you know?

Lastly, I sort of want to  with that girl I mentioned, since we have so much in common.”

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 193):

Mom sighs.  This one is a deep, deep sigh.  She looks a little deflated at the end of it.

"I can't keep up with the code anymore Son.  I'm sorry."

She looks at you.  Her eyes are a little wet.

"Jack.  I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I don't think we raised you right.  I don't think your Dad and I raised you like we should have."

She shuts her mouth and shuts her eyes.  She's obviously trying not to cry.  Since a tear runs down her cheek, she's not doing a good job.

"Listen Jack.  I don't know if I'm crazy or not.  I really don't.  I...sometimes I think up all these...secrets.  And formulas for new rocket fuels.  And theorems that prove the refraction of light is a lie.  Lies by the Government.  Lies by the Aliens.  Some of what I think is really good.  Really good stuff.  And some of it's just shit Jack.  It's just.  Shit."

She wipes a palm rather aggressively across her face, swallowing hard at the same time.

"Listen Jack.  I need to work this out.  I need to sit down and study on myself for a while.  I need to get my head out of my ass and think."  She says the last word with so much force a gob of spit flies from her mouth and hits the floor.

She stares at the spit and then rubs her eyes.  "This place is as good as any other to think. At least I don't have to worry about where my next meal is coming from."

She looks up at you.  "Jack.  You need to do the same.  Think.  Think about the way we raised you and whether that was the right way to do it.  Think about what you want. Think about how you're going to fit into the world. 'kay?"

Sol has crept on to the sidelines.  He's standing back, trying to decide if he needs to stay back.  Mom cuts her eyes in his direction. "Your friend's got manners."

She studies you a moment and adds, "And don't trust your father.  Don't ever trust him.   No one's as smart as he is Jack.  No one."

Jack isn’t sure how to take that sort of comment. He tries not to dwell on having his mom tell him he wasn’t raised correctly, but maybe she’s not critiquing him so much as herself. He is certainly a bit peculiar. He listens and he reflects, looking at her as she tries to figure out what she should do and how she should handle things going forward.

When she starts to tell him that he needs to think about what his place in the world is, he gives her a pointed look. But instead of harping on her on how her being here isn’t going to work long term, or making her self conscious about her decisions, he just nods his head a little. There is no look of resignation on his face, or in his actions. He doesn’t say or reflect it in anyway, he just nods minutely.

In his head, he has many thoughts on her mental state, the security of staying here, and a dozen other things besides. But none of those things are essential to improving her mental state.

As to his father, he nods his head a little. “Trust is earned, and if he’s stupid enough to try to do harm, I’ll drop him in the middle of the Pacific with a life vest and a box of saltines,” he warns. He doesn’t exactly hate his father, but he certainly doesn’t like his father for running off.

Jack nods his head when Sol is mentioned, but doesn’t make an effort to invite the man back over until they’re clear on the long term.

“I love you mom, see if they’ll let you write letters or call? I can try to call you otherwise, or come up,” he offers a few options as he starts to rise to his feet.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 195):

She smiles.  "I can get letters. At least I've seen other people get letters.  Calls...maybe not so much.  If I need help, I'll ask about your Uncle Saul.  How 'bout that?

"I love you too baby."

Jack looks around, and not seeing anyone watching or a camera, leans in and gives his mom a hug. Not exactly top notch security. “Did you know they’ve painted this ward with anti-meta materials?” he asks quietly and then leans back. Leaving her to ponder over that. She hasn’t given him any indication that she’s here because they know she’s a meta, but she hasn’t denied it either. He’d have thought it’d indicate the ward was full of them, or that she herself was in higher security, but neither seems to be the case.

It’s a bit mysterious.

“Sure, uncle Saul,” he confirms with a nod of the head. Starting towards his neighbor Sol, he is aware of the poor choice in name, but perhaps that’ll work for the best. He can work with it either way.

“Hey Sol, ready to go?” he asks and holds out his hand for the pumpkin seeds so he can in turn hand them over to his mom.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 197):

"Yeah.  The smell gives me headaches.  But my room's not on this ward.  It's only down here.  I'm up on three.  No meta stuff there."

She chuckles. "Whoever they're holding here is a bad mamajama.  But it ain't me.  I don't think they know who I am."

Sol hands over three packs of seeds.  She thanks him and walks you two to the day room door.

"Think about what I said Jack.  An' honey?  Take care.  Please.  Write me."

Sol is quiet in the elevator.  He waits until you get outside.

"So.  Did that go the way you thought it would?  Or should I not pry?"

“Which room specifically?” Jack asks, glancing up towards the third floor and finding that things are painted between here and there, he can’t actually see where her room might be. But for future reference, in case he needs to rescue her, it’d be good to know exactly which room. All the same he nods his head at her and takes a step back.

Pushing his chair back against the side of the table he politely resets the furniture to their default configuration and puts his hands into his pockets. His eyes taking a moment to glance around and take in the current affairs of things.

“I will, I’ll also try to get you some things,” he suggests, not quite glancing at her hair which clearly needs to be washed. He would find out what was acceptable and use his lunch money to get her supplies and maybe some books she’d enjoy. Maybe he’d even swing by the cabin and pick up some of her favorites.

Walking out of the dayroom and down the hall, he is mindful as they step into the elevator. His head slightly downwards, his chin tucked. He watches through the walls of the elevator for a moment and hearing the question from the rabbi he glances over.

Following Sol out on the ground floor he smiles and says, “Better, actually. Short of restraining her, I was always sort of powerless to stop her from drinking, I think this place will be good for her as long as she works on it. I’m tentatively optimistic about her situation. Even if it came at a terrible price.”

On their way out of the building, Jack stops to ask the front desk attendant for the rules regarding how he can send stuff for his mom.

Books, her favorite soap, lady's shaving stuff? That sort of thing. He gets all of the details and then checks the time.  He'd have aunt Marlene help him put together a care package, which would offset some or maybe even all of the costs for him. They weren't going to go crazy, just get her some essentials.

"We should head back to the Cities," he decides. "We need to get your furniture moved in."

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 199):

Her room is on the corner.  You can see it clearly.  If you need to get her out, the placement is actually kind of optimal.

---

Sol nods.  "If you want.  I know the couple that's doin' the ministry here.  I could ask 'em to keep an eye on her.  Pass her your letters or any care packages.  They should be allowed to do that.  And it'd save you some postage."

The chair is actually waiting for you when you get there.  It's a large, well cushioned recliner.  Sol looks incredibly happy as he sinks into it after you move it inside.

"Thanks Kid.  You saved my back somethin' fierce."

It's about two now.

Anything else you want to do on your day off?  If not, I will move us along.  Thanks

Jack glances over at Sol, his eyes full of a sincere appreciation. “That’d be great Sol, good to know she gets the stuff put in her hands,” he decides. “She won’t want to talk with them too much, so they shouldn’t pressure her.” Having said that, he takes the ride home on the train and the lift from there back to the apartment building in relative reflective silence. Though eventually he does ask if Sol has any more Marine stories.

Because like many who appreciate stories, Jack appreciates the anecdotes of a soldier. The comraderie, the hazing, the jokes, the feeling of belonging. He’d never felt like he’d belonged anywhere. He was always around people, but he was always alone. Even Darja was only a hint of the idea of companionship.

When they carry the recliner up the stairs, he basically does it by himself to spare Sol, and he puts it wherever Sol requires without complaint or comment. Helping him re-arrange furniture if necessary.

“No problem, anytime,” he says.

---

Separating from Sol after a goodbye, Jack retires to the apartment and takes the time to look up all of the businesses that sell banners. He also pulls up the website that sells them. He’s feeling a bit like this bit of legwork is going to be completely not-useful, seeing as how Roger can just jump to another body.

Like he did last year.

Which means that he’s only doing this to get this particular kid in trouble. Which seems stupid. In fact, after twenty minutes or so he stops doing research and puts away the laptop.

Pulling out his phone, he sends a text to Darja: What's up?
This message was last edited by the player at 01:21, Mon 30 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jack Sharpe (msg # 201):

Just before you log off, you get one hit.  A store over in Downtown West sells the banners you were looking for.  It's the only one you could find on this side of town.  There are two on the south side that sell them.

Darja answers you rather quickly.

It's been a day.

You want to go get frozen yogurt?