Avenger Assembled

Around the same time, maybe a little after, Grim's birthday.

The message arrived for Lynn through Grimalkin's personal fan mail, not the Interceptors directly, and was signed with an all-too-familiar handwriting. The postmark was just a few days earlier, giving her plenty of time to make the meeting...if she dared!

The angel thanked Stesha for her time and paid his bill, making sure to count each piece of unfamiliar currency carefully before handing it off to the florist. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's that I don't trust myself," he admitted. "All this is still rather new to me." With that he stepped outside and flapped his wings, choosing to stay within sight by flying away under his own power rather than simply vanishing.

Five robots go on 21 The Human Battering Ram goes on 19 Fusion goes on 4

"You sonofa-" Avenger growled at the mirror, before belatedly remembering that it was a mirror and that the man there could not in fact hear him. Instead he glared uncomprehendingly at the face before him. "I have no idea who that is. He looks a little like Jackson," he said thoughtfully, "or maybe..." He blinked. "Is that bastard trying to steal his FACE too? He is! He's trying to make himself look like some kind of grown-up Jack Jr! I'm going to rip open his face and find the real one underneath!"

I've got no beef with anything on the sheet. Background is...well, about what a noir gumshoe SHOULD have. One thing that strikes me, though, is wondering how much this is a superhero? One idea: maybe Gregory decides that the safest way to retaliate against the Mob is to do so in disguise? Put a domino mask on him and he's our Spirit. Up his Stealth or throw on some ranks in Concealment and he's the Shadow.

Initiative, plz?

Up on the roof, quite a sight awaited the two costumed champions of justice. Five big, menacing humanoids stood underneath a whirling black helicopter, their shining metal bodies exposing their robotic natures even as the machine guns fixed to their robotic arms exchanged bursts off the concrete "New Jerseys"hastily erected by AEON security. In the middle of the group stood a huge figure looming some eight feet high, his body covered in armor but with a humanoid face behind his big helmet. Shouting orders to his 'men', he called "WHERE IS PSYCHE?!?"

Zealot cocked his head, frowning at the young woman for a few moments. For half a second, Taylor caught the impression that the murderous madman was desperately weary, but a few seconds later he excused himself from his prayers and ducked into the crowd. He was a very sneaky man, and within seconds Taylor realized he was about to disappear entirely.

"That son of a-" Avenger's hackles went up as he stalked the room, his big hands balled into fists at his sides, the vampire seeming the perfect accompaniment to a room full of the unquiet dead. "Put his hands on my son. MY SON!" He growled, then shook his head. "Yes, I know, you kept him safe, and I'm grateful, but if his power can reach him here, he can reach him anywhere. We need to find him." He snapped his fingers. "Taylor! Maybe he duped his own signature, but did he cover everything? His clothes? _My_ clothes?"

"I'm sure we will be too," said the angel with perfect warmth and sincerity, his brief moment of depression forgotten. "Thank you again," he told her, "I couldn't ask for better flowers, or, by all accounts, a better florist. I'll come by myself to pick them up," he promised, then added, "If it won't alarm your colleagues too much." He'd caught sight of several peering through the door to look at him, then glancing away when they saw him look that way.

Joan got as far as the elevator before she grinned and tore away the bottom part of her dress, revealing the strong, muscular body beneath and the thickly lashing tentacles that at her command burst forth and punched through the elevator emergency exit above her head. "Time for Fusion to make an appearance!" Within seconds, she was ascending the walls of the shaft, easily climbing up the cables as flesh and steel intertwined. As she moved her costume boiled up over her body, all black armor with big, white, expressive eyes over her completely covered face. Up on the rooftop level, she swung her way out a fan belt and out onto the scene of the action!

"Almost certainly," agreed the angel. "You went to the happiest place that your soul deserved, and I'm sure that must have been Heaven. As for why you forgot...well, it's kinder that way. Most of those who see Heaven truly, don't want to go back. Even when there are finer things to do below." He hmmed at that, as if he'd said something he regretted, then said, "Well, I think these flowers will be adequate. Thank you again for your help, Stesha."

He proceeded to show her those tricks, and more besides, the dark shadows of the sky letting things stay quiet and discreet. Well, discreet, anyway. Eventually he suggested they settle down on the roof of the nearby art gallery, the better to finish their business without having to concentrate on flight. "After all," he told her in a voice like melted dark chocolate, "it's classier down there."

"With all that said-" There was suddenly a BOOM from up above that shook the building, and Joan's eyes flicked upwards automatically as the alarm on Alex's desk sounded. "Ms. Albright!" said a voice Alex recognized as Rowena Fuller, one of the rooftop security guards. "Ms. Albright, we've got robots attacking the building! We could use some backup here!" Joan was on her feet quickly, betraying yet again some definite movement underneath her dress. "I'll make my own way out. You have a pleasant day, Ms. Albright."

Avenger stalked into the room like a tiger into a new cage, immediately heading straight for Derrick and Stesha, barely concealed fury blazing behind his eyes. "Tell me everything you saw," he said, carefully modulating his words so it didn't sound he was angry at them. And he wasn't; he was angry at the vampire who'd dared come on his family's land. "I know you can find him again, but I may find him first."

"Ms. Albright," said Joan, again with that great sincerity that reporters today weren't supposed to have, "you can take my word that I have no interest in exposing any other children mutated during the Terminus Invasion. My daughter is only about eight years younger than you are: if I'd been a generation older, she'd have been born at the same time and exposed to the same things as you." She nodded, then went on to say, "What I'm more concerned about is your community. What do you think about the argument that if no civic-minded leaders step forward for a minority community, that ones less inclined to work within the system are natural to follow?"

"Believe it or not, Ms. Albright," said Joan with a perfectly honest smile, "I'm here to ask about your work, not about your costumed identity. If I were from Teen Hero, I'd have asked to meet you in costume, presumably somewhere glamorous like your rooftop restaurant." She shrugged her broad shoulders slightly. "The Ledger has been Freedom City's superhero newspaper of record since the 1940s. I like to think in this generation, we've broadened our focus somewhat. I was asking about metahumans you might have met outside your 'other' career. Particularly those who share, ah, similar experiences with yours."

She's very good. Practiced, but not repetitive: she's answered questions like this plenty of times. As always, she was throughly enjoying the game. "Do you know a lot of metahumans?" Joan asked innocently. "You have a Q rating higher than all but the most publicly active super-teens in Freedom City. Has the celebrity worked to introduce you to other teens in similar situations?"

"Hmm." Alex got the feeling her reply was being considered seriously, which was more than what she'd gotten from some adult reporters who treated her, always respectfully. as a very impressive prodigy and nothing more. "How do you answer those who suggest that the entire idea of corporate metahumans is immoral? That those abilities are better served in a capacity that serves the community, private or otherwise?" There was little genuine malice in the question: Joan was asking an honest question, and looking for an honest answer.

At that juncture, there was a distinctive feminine ululation from outside, followed by Mark's "Wa-hi-hi-hoi!" as Zarana, daughter of Zartan the king of the Lost World, swung through the window of the dance hall, the two of them landing neatly inside, Mark carried in Zarana's arms as she dropped the retractable line she'd deployed from the roof and set them both down by the punch bowl. Mark, who'd been looking very depressed when his friends last saw him, looked at Zarana and said, "Okay, fine, that was freaking awesome!" She grabbed him by his rented tux, kissed him on the lips and said, "You're welcome. Now get me some punch, Lucas!"

"Yes, my daughter would love it," said Joan with a warm reporter's smile. As she spoke, she reached into her pockets and snapped out a small yellow notebook and an old-fashioned fountain pen, her hands working with a trained notetaker's skill as she began asking questions. She started out easily enough, softballing a few mild inquiries into AEON's revenue stream and the current prospects given the poor local job market, before she asked, "What are your opinions on the Herald's recent article that metahuman corporate executives should be subjected to the same regulations as metahuman athletes or military personnel?"

Joan smiled down at the young woman, reminding herself that Alex wasn't quite as young as she looked. Not like she's the first CEO who made me look like an Amazon. "No thank you," she said politely, carefully picking her way to one of the seats in front of the desk. "I ate on the way," she said politely. She sat down carefully, but not so carefully that Alex couldn't catch sight of some additional...movements underneath that padded dress. "You have a lovely office," she commented. "I can see designs here I recognize from the rest of the building. Did you design it all yourself?"

In the OOC

Joan Collier picked her way along the sidewalk carefully, mindful of keeping her skirts in place and undisturbed by the four arms she'd carefully wrapped around her legs before starting out that day. To all but the most careful inspection, she looked like a woman who happened to favor brightly colored, heavy, ruffled dresses in the style of a previous generation. But she had her secrets, just as any good reporter did, which was one of the reasons she'd finagled this assignment from Old Fletch himself. The new media had gotten their hooks into Alexandra Albright already; it was time for the city's premiere newspaper to do the same. She was expected, of course, and ushered into an elevator that took her high into the towering glass and steel of the AEON building. Hmm. New building, good for local business. And it's a colorful place, she conceded. Hope it's not tied into the lady herself too heavily, she thought. Too dependent on one boss, and the whole thing goes south. And then she was in the corridor, walking along with slow measured strides, and then at the front door of Alex Albright's main office for her first full-length interview with the Freedom City Ledger. It was good to be the press.