Email contact from an employer. Customer, however, whatever. I have put Gretchen into her make-up box and am sitting in front of a computer. A cryptographically secure mailing program is open in a browsing tab. Tor-enabled. Darknet. The internet calling from beyond, bit like a Zombie. Bit like a juvenile. Not quite dead. Not quite alive. Full of impulses. Porn. Hate. Lust. Murder.

Pleasantries, business-speak. The synopsis:
// We wish you to acquire: One mutant capable of fighting within an underground rink.

Another window opens:

// We just received confirmation. Your Swiss account has been credited. Thank you for doing business.... yadda, yadda.

Back to the first one:

// Special whishes?

// No. (Fighting ability.)

I have to think back, back to places and times when I worked another job. A cover that was a different me. All my covers are, its a secret to success. Be another you. (Any teenager will tell you!) Stepping out: Mansion. Maybe an Xman or Traine. They would certainly fit the bill. It would also resonate with something else. Something that has been turning in my mind. Around like a snake. “Burn this City down” they called from TV.


A slow smile on my face. Burn it down. The xman will be full of hippie peace and crap. Just as they always were. This might change though. If you can, tie in your actions with the background noise. Things will move favorably this way and you can disappear. Yes, it seems so easy to think up the situation.

Only to think up a person? A small black book appears in Martins hand. The writing is illegible, seems that way. Just another mirror for your soul. Find the right person, right time, right place. A little black book. Just for you, dreamers.

Darkness was more of a theoretical thing in New York. Lights everywhere, at all hours. Certain Alleys managed to achieve it. Cafas avoided those. he wasn't on X-men duty, so he had no intention of specifically seeking trouble out.

No, he was seeking a bar that was open a bit longer than the one he had been in. One that would let him in would be nice.

There were still people on the streets. Not many though. It was that time of night. Cabs would be making a killing. One could hope for a bar open that extra hour though, right?

A kebab would also not have gone astray.

Even at night he could not escape the people staring at his hair. A few made comments, loudly, safely on the other side of the road, in a negative sort of fashion. Some assumed it was due to some mutation, others were spot on, assuming dye. They didn't matter.

Some jackass made a comment a mere foot from Cafas' face. He was awfully hard to focus on. He also would not let Cafas pass. The guy was blocking his stumbling path. Clearly looking for a fight. Well, Cafas wasn't in the mood, nor market, for a fight.

A few quick words to calm the guy down. No, that just made it worse. Apparently now Cafas thought he was much more clever than he was, or so he was being told. A fist was drawn back. Cafas saw it. The swaying stopped instantly, his footing became rock solid.

The shot was launched at him. He moved his head out of the way. Mostly out of the way. A glancing blow. it hardly bothered him, too drunk to feel it.

He returned fire. His head had already rocked back a little, so he took it a little further. Then everything tightened, and he launched his forehead into the bridge of the other man's nose.

Cafas missed, very slightly. The guy had moved. Didn't do him much good, he collapsed to the ground. Cafas stepped over him and kept going.

Your first mistake, was letting me know that you were going to attack.

He was fairly confident he'd said it out loud, though the sound never had reached his ears... Oh well.

Night in the City. This meant: slightly less people on the streets. Slightly less noise from cars. More noise from people puking their guts out, though. Everything it seemed, was a tradeoff. The cars that were on the street were driven by reckless maniacs. They might also be posessed by djinns. (More likely by a mutant) What did a timemancer know?

What did a timemancer want to know? All these things were peripherally on his mind. The biggest piece by far went towards following the nice pink-haired victim he had selected. His nice, drunken, victim. Following him through packed bars had been easy -- here and there he had had to help a person or another find something to do with a well-placed ellbow, but it had been an otherwise uneventful observation. Maybe except for the pair of drunken teenagers, who had started making out in what was a proprietary shadowy corner, but oh well. The couple had been well-drunk. There had been sighs to ignore of a certain nature. Teenaged nature. Background noise.

Now his victim-to-be got in a fistfight. A smile crept over Martins face. A slow one, just as his hand crept into the pocket of his pants. *snick* made the weighted plastic baton. Extendable. Collapsed it was about the size of a big pen. Extended, well, longer. Talk about male symbolism.

Martin stepped over an unconscious would-be thug. Fighting ability, as he reminded himself, ckeck. Another few silent strides and he was behind the wild-haired drunk. <<Your first mistake, was letting me know that you were going to attack.>> Martins smile turned wide at the slurred exclamation. He had no such intention. In fact he called people who attacked frontally one thing: Moronic. Well, on occasion he also called them dead. But that was another matter. Tonight there was a live capture job to be done. He swung the baton. Cafas, alas, never saw it coming. He might have heard a slight swishing of the air. That was all though.

Earlier

Mansion, oh Mansion. The brick-walled structure had not changed over the years of his absence. This was quite in keeping with Martins preferences as he was reasonably confident the security system had not undergone major changes. And it hadn't. Wherefore he was able to use the main gate by a simple virtue: He had acquired passcodes of students. And so he was dressed. Abercombie&Fish clothing tried to make its best of his lithe figure and stole a couple of his visible years. Oh he seemed like one of the older students, certainly, but not outrageously so. The steady coming and going of students would add its own to his camouflage. So an old student strutted into the mansion. The baseball cap on his head conveniently in the way of the inquiring cameras.


Finding a fighter. Yes, he was here for that. Why, in his chest, was there a certain tightness though? Some feeling of unknown quantity?

It was one of those lovely days. The ones where he had nobody to train but himself. That meant no chasing people down, no threats of bodily harm and reports to authority. No Persi.

Funny what can become a blessing.

He set up a training dummy in his usual position, under his window. No one seemed to mind that he had to dig a two foot hole in the ground so long as he filled it again after. The poor piece of turn had been lifted and replaced so often he was surprised it was alive still, let alone so vibrant.

It's no danger room sim, but it'll serve.

Cafas wrapped his hands, slipped on some MMA gloves and set his feet into a southpaw's stance. It was good to train off stance some days. A sword stood, tip buried in the ground, a few feet away. He would train with it later. For now though...

Blows began to rain down on the dummy. Light at first, light and fast, but they got heavier as he went, a satisfying thwack coming with each punch, the kicks far more silent, by virtue of the lack of padding on his feet. He cycled through a few combos, sweat running down his brow, completely lost in his training.

But an X-man and a fighter is never truly unaware of his surrounds. He stopped mid combo. The hair at the back of his neck was standing on end. Cafas looked around, casually and comfortably, this was his home after all. It took a moment, but his eyes picked up what his spidey senses were on about. The guy in the hat was watching him. He didn't recognise the face, especially not at the distance they were at, but he knew when he was being judged.

It's the mansion, he's probably another runaway with no place to go.

He went back to his training, ignoring the guy. If he wanted to speak, he would have spoken when Cafas looked at him. He still felt the eyes though.