xx. no plan

[Deleted]

The thing about gangsters: they're nocturnal assholes. Slipping into their loft den at night would've been suicide - too much activity, too many eyes. Close to noon, though, with the sun bearing down through the skylights fitted into the ceiling? The gangsters were either asleep at their own places, running rounds on the gang's turf or, in the case of their leader, passed out behind his desk. Smoke tore through the weathered seams of the skylight, a pulsing light in the heart of it, quiet as a sigh and quicker than a breath. Soon as it'd started, the phenomenon was over, and Devereaux stood in the middle of the loft, the lower half of his face disguised by a fitted black cloth covering. His dirty blonde hair was swept in an unruly tangle on top of his head and his eyes burned into the only living occupant in the room. The man's silk, soiled shirt was undone to his bloated navel, lipstick marks peppering the exposed, hairy skin courtesy of last night's paid companionship. Empty glasses and bottles littered the desk along with stacks of bills and disorderly cascades of documents. The gang leader snored loudly with each inhalation and hiccuped with each exhalation. Dev rolled his eyes in disgust and disdain, quietly unzipped the duffel bag he carried in time with the sound to disguise it, and got to work. Deathsinger made short work of the place. His bag was soon overflowing not only with money, but bits and baubles that his careful eye knew would fence for a pretty sum. Devereaux was just closing the bag when the snoring stopped. He glanced over his shoulder - his plundering had taken him to the other side of the room - and made eye contact with the now very much awake gang leader. Devereaux smirked behind his mask. The man shouted a curse and slammed his fist on a concealed panel underneath his desk. Dev wasn't concerned with what that might be. He was too busy breaking into tatters of smoke that dashed through the skylight. He reformed on the rooftop and was planning which adjacent building to streak to when a sizzle and the smell of ozone hit his ears and nose. Dev looked up to see a man who had a pistol in one hand and a bundle of blue/white energy in the other. Another smirk twitched on the French boy's lips. His physical form broke into smoke again, but before it could shunt one way or another, a pulse of that blue energy hit the mass of it. The hazy mass of Deathsinger was hurled sideways, off the building. He reformed in time to collide with an AC unit jutting out of the window of the next building over and fall. Devereaux struggled, turning to half-smoke, then back as he hit clotheslines and leftover scaffolding and clipped railings on fire escapes. His hands churned into glowing smoke from the elbow down, trying to check and correct his fall, but they did little to help. At the last, a knot of haze hit the ground, spilled into a lashing puddle, then reformed into Deathsinger, laying on his side, eyes clenched tight with pain. Another sizzle of sound and tang to the air, and the personal bodyguard of the gang leader touched down in the rubbish-choked alley before him.

. . . There's no plan, there's no race to be run. The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

For once in his life, he had a day off. Classes were done for the week, and Aegis didn't have any pertinent missions for him. Of course he still planned on going out on patrol that night, simply out of habit. After doing it for seven or so years, it wasn't an easy routine to break, and even more so wasn't one he planned on stopping any time soon. That afternoon, it seemed he would have an early start to his night. After meeting with a few college friends at the cyber cafe and hanging out for a while, he said his good byes and had prepared to start making the trip home back to his flat. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of blue light and smoke in the distance, not far from the cafe. The efficiency with which he jumped into action was remarkable, fine tuned after lots and lots of practice. Ducking into the restrooms, he was out of his plain clothes in record timing, and into his costume even faster, sans his knee and elbow pads. Jimmy slung the now zipped bag over his shoulder and bolted out the back door before anyone could see him. It could be nothing. Someone might already have whatever the situation was handled. In his mind however, better safe than sorry. Feet pounding the pavement, he rushed onto the scene. Just in time he arrived to watch a man, visibly younger than himself, seemingly appear out of thin air. Or hazy smoke in this instance. Ahead of him, in the dirty corridor between the buildings, stood an imposing silhouette, visibly poised to unleash another bolt of blue energy. Jimmy rolled forward, putting himself between the boy laying in the street as a sort of shield, and the hostile figure. With the press of a button, he let loose one of the prerecorded text-to-speech messages. "Drop the weapon, or I'll make you drop it." The distorted, machine like imitation of a voice commanded. With all the bravado of a typical thug, the attacker laughed, instead gearing up to strike once more. Behind the smiling visage of the mask, he rolled his eyes. A concentrated tendril of fear stretched invisibly out to the target, latching on just as he was poised to unleash another bright blue blast of energy. With a wretched shriek, the thug seemed to forget all about using his power, instead opting to try the pistol. In a perfect world, the bullet that cut through the air would've missed spectacularly. But as the weapon fell to the ground, the gun fired. Thankfully, at least in his mind, it hadn't hit the boy he'd been shielding, instead it lodged itself into Jimmy's arm. He hissed in pain, but did his best to remain concentrated on the tendril of fear linked between himself and the unfortunate sod writhing and thrashing just a few feet ahead of him. With the imminent threat mostly neutralized, he shuddered forward, fishing a zip tie out of the pocket of his olive green jacket and doing his best to restrain the thug. It was more difficult than he would have liked. Stepping back finally and glancing over to the younger man. Quick as he could, he pulled out the little black berry-like device and keyed out a message. "Are you alright?"

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 531

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

Pain and the struggle to remain conscious bogged him down, making the next few seconds pass by in disjointed, confusing revolutions. The sudden appearance of another person, crouching between Devereaux and the thug; flat, computerized syllables in English; a laugh; a shriek - the kind of choked, raw, throat-ripping ones that Dev had heard the night his roommate died - and the sharp clap of a gunshot. Dev flinched into a fetal position, shielding his head with his arms, from the scream more than the gunshot. The sound of it though, leaving a ringing in his ears, was enough to drive away the last of the stupor that smudged and blurred his senses. Devereaux squinted up at the scene; a person in a demented mask struggling one-handed to wrangle the thug into a zip-tie. His gaze flitted down to the dropped gun on the ground between him and the other two people. Deathsinger glared in anger, he extended a hand and a concentrated torrent of red-hot smoke lashed out to consume it, leaving a hunk of melted, fused metal in its wake. He was gone, then, in a shiver of miasma, only to materialize a half-second later in front of the fear-frozen thug. Devereaux's hand cracked against the man's face and he lolled to the side, dazed or unconscious, the boy didn't care. He paused to look at the masked person, half-perturbed by the ghoulish mask, half-oddly turned on by it. "Are you alright?" The computerized voice came again, emanating from the device the masked person held in their hand. Devereaux looked at it, then the mask, then the arm that he'd noticed being favored. "Are you?" he turned around, heavily-French-accented words more hostile than he meant for them to be. Dev felt bruises and aches blooming and stinging all over his body from the fall, but nothing seemed broken and he was conscious. He'd not been shot.

. . . There's no plan, there's no race to be run. The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

The returned question admittedly caught him off guard. After a moment, he gave an audible snort, glancing at his arm and back to the boy. Typing quickly, he shot back, "I asked first." He let the voice read back his message in full before adding, "It could've been worse. It hurts. I should be fine. I'm more upset about my hoodie to be honest." Jimmy pinched a bit of the orange fabric, as if to accent his point. With a momentary pause, he pressed a few more keys, and with just that he had a cruiser in route to them. Thank god for Aegis tech. He supposed it was the one high point of dealing with all the bureaucratic bullshit. Prodding the unconscious thug with his foot, he gave a quick nod as if confirming it to himself. Clicking more of the keys, he asked, "What was his problem anyways? Just wrong place at the wrong time?" Behind the mask, he quirked a brow in curiosity as he looked at the boy. Clearly, he had some sort of power. Though, to what extent those abilities stretched, Jimmy had no idea. He entertained the idea of the young man before him being some sort of vigilante, similar to how he had at the same age. That struck a nostalgic chord in his chest, and he smiled briefly at the thought. For a brief instant he froze, letting his gaze fall on the younger man. "Sorry, I just realized I didn't even introduce myself." The device chirped, and he keyed in another message. "My name is Phobia. Or at least, professionally it is." Jimmy shook for a moment with a voiceless laugh at even just putting his moniker and the word 'professional' in the same breath. It was an oxymoron for sure.

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 305

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

Again, Devereaux looked down while quick fingers pattered across the device in the masked man's hands. He wondered if the stranger couldn't speak, or just didn't want to - worried his voice would or could be recognized, or some other reason - and that's why he was using the gadget. Admittedly, the kind of mystique that it added went in the same category as the ghoulish mask: half-chafing, half-arousing. Dev's eyes remained intense and severe, but the fabric of his face covering twitched - the only sign of the smirk flickering on his full lips beneath - at the comment about the hoodie. "What was his problem anyways? Just wrong place at the wrong time?" Deathsinger's smirk turned tight and sour. He had the urge to shrug the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder, or pivot to use his body to conceal it more, but he resisted. Those were rookie mistakes that had been wrung out of Devereaux in the first few months of learning to pick pockets. Drawing undue attention. "Something like that," Dev conceded. Introductions came next, and one of Dev's expressive brows shot up while the other tucked down. The alias wasn't surprising - the man was wearing a full costume and a mask that hid his identity, after all. It was the codename itself that surprised and amused Devereaux. Not the flashy, bold, noble sort of name you'd expect. He took in the unnerving mask again, biting his lip under his face covering. Though, that tracked the rest of his vibe. "Deathsinger," Devereaux countered, unseen smirk returning. He'd toyed with the name since getting his powers, but had never had any occasion to use or tell it. Most of his superpowered jaunts were covert or didn't really involve extended conversation. It wasn't lost on Dev, how his chosen alias was just as, if not more, macabre than the man standing opposite him. A sound pricked his ears. One that had put him on edge all his life, but so much more since he made his living through thievery. Police sirens were in the distance, and rising in volume. Dev's eyes widened, then narrowed accusingly at Phobia. He cursed in French on impulse, then searched frantically with his sight through the surrounding alley. "I'm afraid this is where we part ways," Devereaux said. His body broke apart, streaking upward to reform almost as soon as it'd discorporated on the bottommost platform of the fire escape hanging overhead. He leaned over the railing, looking down at Phobia, and his eyes burned with a vulpine mischief. "Your mask is hot, by the way." Dev turned and started eating up the metal stairs of the fire escape two at a time, hands clawing at the rails to heave himself along for good measure.

. . . There's no plan, there's no race to be run. The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun . . . deathsinger @jimmy

template by rem of WW

[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

As much as he was trying to give the benefit of the doubt, the answer given painted his expression with suspicion beneath the mask. Jimmy considered himself to be pretty decent at reading people, and even though the body language didn't hint at anything awry, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't getting the full story. With another glance at the unconscious sod on the ground, he felt another thing entirely. It was clear whoever this thug was, he wasn't a law abiding citizen, which made him hesitant to be so quick to judge the younger man. For all he knew, he could be an unregistered vigilante. That earned him an automatic pass from Jimmy, as much as Aegis might hate it. Curiously, he cocked his head to the side at the introduction. The codename in itself was interesting, and it only further provided evidence to his hunch that this boy had thought one up. An interesting one at that. A siren wailed in the distance, drawing ever closer by the moment. Much like a spooked deer, Deathsinger seemed to put two and two together with the gaze he threw at Jimmy. With a curse, he watched frozen in place, as the other man bid him farewell and seemed to evaporate right before his eyes. The sudden disappearance caught him off guard, but he watched the boy reform on the fire escape just a moment later. "Your mask is hot, by the way." Beneath his mask, his face flushed bright pink, admittedly caught off guard by the comment slung down at him. He didn't dwell too long, watching as Deathsinger began to make haste up the escape. His lips parted, uttering a voiceless curse, and he observed his surroundings quickly, looking for anything that might be of help. In an instant, he himself had disappeared from the alley, leaving the thug to groan on the concrete walk between the buildings. In a pleasant turn of events, there was a rooftop service elevator not far from where they'd been standing just moments before. With a smirk, he loaded into the cramped metal box, fishing a roll of gauze out of his belt as the doors shut behind him. On the way up he wrapped the wound, knotting a tourniquet around it to slow the bleeding. Just as he stuffed the wad of bandages back into his belt pouch the elevator door chimed, and once more his eyes fell on Deathsinger. Jimmy gave a friendly wave, stepping out of the lift and leaning against the brick wall it was set into as he took the small communicator out of his pocket once more to key in a message. "You can't just flirt with me and not give me enough time to say bye." It read out, and simultaneously he gestured as if he was redrawing the gruesome smiling face on his mask into a frown instead. More clicking, and then, "I can type fast, but not that fast!"

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 502

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

Smoke-dashing up the fire escape would've been the quickest option, no question. Devereaux wished he had the extra energy to. The fall he'd taken - and, more than that, he thought, the energy that the gangster had socked him with - had him fatigued and weathered. He wanted to save the last bit of power he had at his fingertips, just in case. He hauled himself up onto the rooftop breathing heavily, dirty blonde hair plastered to his exposed forehead. No sooner had Dev's feet touched down on the rooftop when a faint clunk, followed by a rattle distracted him. Rusted metal doors shuddered open, revealing the unnerving smiley-face mask that he'd left on the ground several stories below. Devereaux cursed in French again. How'd he not noticed that service elevator? He tensed, ready to have to defend himself. But the animatronic voice that shivered from the device the stranger held caught him up. Devereaux's mind flicked through options. There didn't seem to be any hostility or wariness, even, from the stranger - as much as he could tell through the mask. Dev thought of the police en route to the alley down below, but there was no reason for them, after they arrived, to come up to that rooftop. Besides. If they did he could dash to another rooftop. If he played for time, his energy would build up to something more useful, too. With all of those troubles sorted, Dev relaxed the slightest bit, his eyes shining slyly above the face covering. "You wanted to flirt back?" he questioned, covered smirk curling more wily by the syllable. "Well, go on then. I'm listening." He stared at the mask and, while he waited, bit at his bottom lip.

. . . There's no plan, there's no race to be run. The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

For a moment he balked, fingers freezing on the keypad as he thought up a reply. He looked down at the little communicator and the up once more at Deathsinger, seemingly contemplative for a moment before letting his arms fall to his sides and walking forward slowly. His approach was cautious, not wanting to scare off the younger man, and he carefully closed the distance between them, stopping just in front of him. Hesitating momentarily, he reached out, pausing just before in a silent ask for permission, before brushing a stray blonde curl out of Deathsinger's face. Jimmy knew better than to go for the mask. It didn't even cross his mind, simply out of respect for the other man. He let his hand fall once more, bringing the communicator out of his pocket once more and cursing internally for how inconvenient it could be at times. "If you let me take you on a date, I might be inclined to show you my actual smile." He finally replied, smiling sheepishly beneath his own mask, despite how self-assured the message itself sounded. Stepping back, he tilted his head to the side slyly, attempting to maintain any perceived confidence he might have had. Internally, he was kicking himself for being so entirely lame. The sirens below stopped, calling out once more before going silent. In the dying afternoon light, he could see the red and blue shining against the adjacent building, strobing the alleyway they'd just been in. It relaxed him just so, knowing they'd handle taking in the thug still zip-tied below. As he glanced back at the man in front of him, he typed a quick message before letting it play, stowing it in his pocket and offering Deathsinger his hand. "Looks like the babysitter's here. What do you say? Wanna get out of here?"

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 308

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

Phobia faltered. Then he straightened and slowly closed the distance. Devereaux kept his body loose and resisted any urge to turn away or keep distance between them. His gaze turned a little steely, almost challenging, as that grinning mask stopped a foot from him. One hand raised, paused, until Dev's glare softened, then pushed a blonde lock out of his eyes. Deathsinger smiled pensively under his face covering. The act was tender and completely unexpected and all at once burned away any desire Dev had had to flee that rooftop. He waited almost in a daze as Phobia typed in another message. Brushing the lock of hair had been unexpected. The words that came next did something that very, very few things could do to Devereaux: drove him speechless. His eyes widened, then almost immediately began shining. Dev opened his mouth to reply, but the sirens and their lights stopped on the street below, distracting him. The automated voice of Phobia's device pulled him back to the rooftop. He looked down at the gloved hand held out for him. His chest burned. "Come with me. I know a place I can stash my things," he took Phobia's hand and started leading him along. Two blocks away, negotiating the urban playground that the sandwiched buildings created, and Devereaux guided them to the roof access of a dilapidated apartment building's stairwell. Dev pulled a loose vent from a rusted AC unit and tossed his duffel bag behind it, fitting the vent back into place. "Wait-!" Devereaux almost shouted. Phobia was reaching up toward his mask. Dev caught the other man's wrists and firmly lowered them, eyes glinting. Slowly, he raised is own afterward, grasping the leering smiley-face mask, and took it off of Phobia. He held it between them, then put it down, revealing the other man's face inch-by-inch. Devereaux stayed deathly serious, dropping the mask at his feet, then retrieved Phobia's at the wrist again before moving them up and placing them at the upper seam of his face covering.

. . . There's no plan, there's no race to be run. The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun . . . deathsinger @jimmy

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]

[Deleted]

With a smile, he followed along after the other boy willingly, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd even been holding. The ease with which they navigated the city sprawl was impressive, even for Jimmy. Especially with his arm temporarily out of commission for much more than holding Deathsinger's hand. In his head though, it seemed perfectly suited for just that at the moment. After a couple of blocks, and a condemned apartment building's access stairwell, they stopped. With amusement, he watched the bag being stowed away, leaning against the bricks with his good shoulder. Feeling the mask had served it's purpose, he started to reach for it, freezing at the command issued almost immediately. There was a shine in the younger man's eyes, and as his wrists were gently forced back down, he looked on curiously. Staying perfectly still, he smiled, catching on as Deathsinger reached for his mask instead. With it dropped to the ground, he sheepishly met the other boys eyes before letting his own gaze fall and follow their hands as they moved jointly. Jimmy let himself be articulated, and once his hands met the upper seam of the face covering, he took control. Ever so carefully, and slow as he could manage, he took the fabric and pulled it down until it resembled a scarf around Deathsinger's neck. For a moment he stared, not taking his hands away, until he ultimately needed to to communicate the thoughts ricocheting around his head. With an apologetic look, he retrieved the device once more. "You're gorgeous." Jimmy glanced up again, before looking down at it and adding. "I hate using this thing. It's annoying. I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier...but...I'm mute." It came out like a confession, and his expression turned to a sad smile. He hesitated for a moment, before stowing the communicator away once more, letting his hands stay in his pockets. He felt oddly embarrassed, and only just managed to meet the younger man's eyes once more, looking through his lashes at his companion.

. . . and you can sleep in a coffin, but the past ain't through with you. . . phobia @dev wordcount: 332

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[googlefont=Dancing Script]