| Viewing Single Post From: RE Heroes 2 | |
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| ~beflexor~ | Feb 13 2009, 10:23 PM |
I just _____ in the _____.
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(OOC: As we’ve decided, this takes place two years after the original and it was in 2007, so the date would be somewhere in 2009 for the start of this RP. I set it in the summetime because I miss warmfs...) A woman, more of a girl at only twenty one really, mixed up a bowl of waffle mix and poured it into the iron, shrugged on a jacket despite the warm summer day, and grabbed a small package. One step she was in Twin Falls, Idaho, the next Moscow, Russia. While the NSA had provided Beflexor, along with the other Exiles, enough money to live comfortably for quite some time, there was just something fun about being able to use one’s power for a purpose. Beflexor had found her ability to teleport useful in the delivery business. Guaranteed at the post office within twenty four hours. Anything further would be difficult as she could only teleport to areas she’d previously been to. The airfare everywhere had been expensive, but it paid off. Russia was cold this time of year, being winter, hence the jacket at least. Beflexor skipped hastily to the front of the post office and dropped the package in the night slot. No one seeing the package the next day would be surprised to see it. She’d earned a bit of a reputation and had even met a few postal workers face to face. At first she went by a different name per city, but as her business grew, it became confusing, soon she’d come to be known as The Deliverator, ala Snow Crash. In her day to day life she went by the false name Alice, a play on another name she’d had. Only her closest friends knew her as Beflexor. Her handles only stuck well because she was quite ordinary looking in most countries she delivered to: she had brown hair that cascaded down to her waist, a lighter shade than usual as it was summertime, blue eyes with flecks of brown toward the center, and a pale cast to her skin. While she’d been bordering on overweight two years ago, necessity made her slim down, while she wasn’t supermodel, she could at least run five feet without collapsing into a panting heap now. Her clothes were what set her apart: her jacket was knee-length black leather while her pants and boots were of a brown, rougher cut of the same cow hide material, few people would consider leather for its light armoring properties, of course, few people could teleport like she could. Most obscure of all were the five clocks she wore on each wrist, all displaying different times. The teleporter, her job done, turned to leave when she saw a crowd of people gathered around a small antique shop, unusual for this time of night and this cold. Curious, Beflexor stepped over to see that they were being blocked by several police officers (though she wondered idly whether they were called police in Russia). She asked around until she found someone who could speak fair enough English. “There’s a dead body in there,” he said, breathing on his hands between sentences. “No one’s told us much, but they can’t seem to decided if it’s a murder or a suicide. She was always such a strange woman, never really leaving her house much, I figure the latter.” The hairs on the back of Beflexor’s neck stood up on end at the mention of ‘strange’. When your friends can shapeshift, start fires with their minds, and talk to computers, nothing was ever classified as strange. Beflexor moved back out of the small crowd and looked up at the second floor window where a light was on. The antique shop was downstairs, so upstairs would be home. After getting a fair look of it from this point, she teleported. And nearly slipped in the blood. The woman lay slumped to the floor in a puddle of it. Next to her was her arm, handcuffed to a pipe that came from the floor. It looked like she’d been ripped away from it and bled to death. Beflexor was suddenly in the bathroom of a bank in Bangkok. China, vomiting. When she was finished she immediately appeared back in her own home, her waffle was done, but she wasn’t hungry now. If Beflexor had been handcuffed and she tried hard enough to get away, she would end up the same way. The teleporter put her breakfast on a plate, poured a glass of orange juice, and left it on the back steps of her house. ~ George Harris thumped a stack of papers on Exile Darthanis’s desk at the National Security Agency. The boy didn’t use it often (though he took full advantage of the high-end computer they’d provided), but he knew it was the place where Harris would leave things of importance for him. He’d been the only one to stay once the metahuman branch of the NSA went through a meltdown, leaving them all to go about their ways. They didn’t keep tabs on anyone anymore, though they still provided a pension to each one, sort of a bribe so that none of them would come with any ill intent. So far things had worked out wonderfully. Harris looked at the stack with a grim expression hidden behind his graying mustache. The papers each held a report of people around the world dying under mysterious circumstances. While there was no telling if they were connected, Harris had his suspicions. Darthanis wasn’t a field agent. All the papers did was serve as a silent warning, just in case. Someone, or something, was targeting people with powers. It would only be a matter of time before one of the Exiles would be in the crosshairs. ~ Zachary Benson raised his fist to knock on her door and then hesitated, his hand running through his blonde hair before falling back down, he worked up the courage but once again he faltered. Maybe she was still asleep, or she was with one of her Exiles, or was just too busy. Being a leader, everyone came before her, and Zack respected that, being in a high position in the NSA before quitting himself he understood. He was making excuses though. He could face people who wouldn’t stop to think before sending him hurling across a room with their mind, popping him into a tiny fold of universe never to return, send jagged shards of metal at him, or melt his face off with the bat of an eyelash. Yet he couldn’t work up the courage to knock on Aiko’s door and ask her out for breakfast. It wasn’t like it was going to be anything formal, he would probably be wearing something nicer than a worn pair of jeans and an obscure band T-shirt. Breakfast wouldn’t mean anything, it would just be a meal between…friends. Could she ever really be more than a friend though? What other friend brought him back from the brink of death after he’d done the same for her? What other friend had spent hours in his mind, literally? What other friend made him feel the way he did? Zack fiddled with an object in his pocket, which only seemed to get heavier with time, and he leaned against the door, groaning. |
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Ceiling Cat is watching you... | |
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| RE Heroes 2 · Random Role Plays | |
3:26 PM Nov 29
