((Mood Music))


Madness.

The city had turned to madness.

A maelstrom of chaos had engulfed the Big Apple. A wave of discontent, boiled over into hatred and mayhem. The ripples of discord between humans and mutants had now become tidal waves of released bigotry and loathing from both sides. Ranks had begun to form, small pockets of the population who had seized onto the atmosphere and let it fuel their darker passions. Brawls, and vandalism, and looting, and assaults, and skirmishes in the streets and alleys of New York. Mat had felt the current shift, felt it pull away from contained distrust to outright war. Had seen it all fall apart.

He was living on the battleground.

And he didn't sleep...

The changes had been gradual. Along with the hatred for mutants, came the inevitable backlash against the homeless. Mutant or not, vagrants provided an easy target for pent up frustration, and Mat had begun to cop his fair share. It wasn't long before street companions started to band together, seeking safety in numbers. Small gatherings of sleeping rolls, blankets and the inevitable hobo debris started to crop up, along with the people.

Mutants. Humans.

Huddled under his blanket, leaning up against the brick wall lining the alley, Mat stared out at the makeshift shanty town of tents and bedrolls, and felt an anxious flicker in his stomach. There was an air of inevitability to the sight, a sense that something was going to happen. That for better or worse, this group of ragtag vagrants would be fewer in numbers by the end of the week.

Sucking on his teeth, Mat threw his blankets off and rose to his feet, his sudden dread overwhelming him. Such a large gathering of people would not go unnoticed. Sooner or later, the riots would find the homeless gathered here. And one way or another, they would find themselves caught up in this battle. He weaved through the throng of people, stepping over the sleeping, and the sick, and the drunk, and the drugged, until a he found the face he was looking for. An face that was older, and more weathered than Mat's. The man Mat had come to find spotted him, tilting his head back in greeting.

"Effigy, my man! What's happening, brother?"

"Nothing that hasn't already happened somewhere, Doctor." Mat clasped hands with the man, like old acquaintances. Maybe they were. He couldn't remember how long ago it was that he had been introduced to the man known simply as 'Doctor'. Long enough that he had formed a beneficial friendship with the man.

Doctor clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. His smile widened, and his gaze grew hungry. "Need your prescription filled?"

Mat smirked at the man, his hands reaching for the cash in his pocket. "Thought you'd never ask."

There was anarchy in the air.

It was not a time for sleep.

Chaos.

Don't know when. Don't know how. Petrol had slowly been dripping, oozing over the situation for however long now. And someone was stupid enough to throw a match on it.

Problem is, you fuck with matches, you get burnt.

Screams echoed. Bounced from stone. Stone of the brick. Stone of the concrete. Stone of the bitumen. Stone of the urban jungle, and the slum of an alley that housed a growing community of the streets homeless. It bounced, and reverberated, and slowly, slowly evaporated into the vapour.

Screams. And shouts. And the sharp crack of a gunshot.

Effigy didn't know who started it. Didn't know what started it. Or why. But when the battle cries filled the air, New York City melted away. The streets began to drip, and buckle, and boil over. Voices that were shouting began to shift, and warp, word emphasis changing, timbre broadening, drawling. The crackling of fire filled his ears, but there was no smoke, no flames. He glanced around, looking for Trip, or Pockets, or Downpour, but the only face he had recognised was Doctor's. His chest heaved, and his mind reeled.

Melbourne. New York.

Same shit.

A keening weep filled the air, before shimmering into peals of mad laughter. Fear and frenzy. Joy and hate. Dread and sweet, sweet anticipation. And as the homeless began to rise up against the enemy horde before them, Effigy found himself standing amongst the storm, screaming at the sky, stomping his foot. Eyes wild, senses like a razor shard of glass, the narcotic rush flowing from the sole of his shoe to the concrete below. The tug in his mind, as Trip, and Pockets, and Downpour pulled themselves free from the surface of the ground. The bond as the four of them shoved their way to the front of the fray, Effigy gnashing his teeth all the way.

Battle.

Stone fists, and jaws of meat and bone. Snaps, and cracks, and grinding. Whimpers filled the air, but Effigy could only laugh and swear and spit in response. Amphetamine violence coursed through his veins, liquid fire. Blood streamed down his right arm, his white-knuckled hand gripping the handle of his grandfather's razor, no memory of reaching for the damn thing.

Glancing around, he found himself detached from the mayhem, muffled bouts of giggles escaping his throat. A window loomed in front of him, the funhouse reflection convex and distorted. He stared fish-eyed at the swimming vision in the glass, himself and his three stone friends. Then, with a mental nudge, 'Pockets' put his fist through the window. Climbing through, Mat stumbled his way towards the register. Behind him, the sound of more breaking glass.

Great minds, and such...

And as the roars of combatants became the whoops and hoots of looters, Effigy found himself with a single word, gripping to his tongue, the hallucinogenic mayhem wrapping around him like a warm hug.

"ANARCHY!"