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It was a kitchen, or rather, the back room of a kitchen. As Jorge walked in, the details of Mr. Koober’s experience started to flesh out, become more life-like. It was as if he were walking directly into the man’s horrid tale and it came to life before his eyes. All the details were here: the large table he woke up on, the back room with the shattered door, even the heavy, cast iron stove that glowed with fire deep in its belly. Jorge shook his head, unable to believe his eyes as he wandered through as here the stories and reality were colliding. While it was impossible to disbelieve Mr. Koober, now just made it all the more real.

Moving through the kitchen, the fire behind the oven’s grate cast a wicked light over the scene. The detective remained cool, however, moving carefully and with precision as he stepped through the dilapidated kitchen. Mr. Koober clearly didn’t notice this but it seemed that the kitchen was part of what was one a bakery. This wasn’t someone’s home, but rather an old business that looked as if it had been defunct for quite some time. With each step deeper into the kitchen, the evidence of this became far more real as he noted dirtied aprons and pastry hats, all of which were emblazoned with the name “Patti’s Cakes!” It was all starting to make a sick sense.

As he approached the edge of a doorway, Jorge kept his gun at the ready as he slowly peered around the corner. What would have once been the waiting area was reconstructed into a small dining hall, the only piece of furniture being an extra-long table. The windows themselves were covered with flaps of cardboard, keeping out the light of day, allowing the room to be lit only by candlelight that was scattered throughout the table.

Another step and Jorge watched in surprise as he looked upon the expansive table. There, just as Mr. Koober said was a large array of pastries, all of which looked to be desperate for help. They screamed behind their glass containers, some of them unmoving except for the visage of flies hovering over their half-eaten forms. Though they were just cakes and pies, knowing what Mr. Koober had gone through made it enough to turn Jorge’s stomach.

”God damn…” he muttered to himself.

He shook his head and turned to face the kitchen again. However, just as he did so, Jorge’s eyes widened in surprise when a pair of large, meaty hands grabbed him by the face. A tooth-decaying smelling voice then spoke directly as two large glowing eyes bore into his.

“Well, well, well…a police officer, huh?” the sickening voice whispered. “How about a nice…doughnut?”

There were tons of flower shops in New York City, from the small mom-and-pop owned ones to the big 1-800-4PETALS ones. They, forgive the pun, sprouted up everywhere, especially around the holiday seasons. Nothing like buying flowers last minute to show your loved one how much you care for them. Jorge wasn’t one to judge, however. On the contrary, at this moment, he was actually very glad for the predictability of the booming flower industry because, right now, there were no major holidays that required flowers.

In the middle of summer, far from Valentines or Easter, High School and College graduations already having been done since at least June, now was the slum of most flower businesses. This meant that there were few, if any, of those pop-up flower stands or anything that would make the search more difficult. By checking the few flower shops that were around, matching them with how long Mr. Koober said he was on the run, and identify known routes, the Jorge was able to come up with three distinct places of origin.

On all sides of the precinct where the victim showed up, Jorge stalked the streets. He traveled across the same routes that Mr. Koober could have taken, peeking into abandoned buildings, flower shops, etc., but none of them seemed to fight the bill. However, when, finally, he came across a small flower shop at the corner of a lonely street, he looked up at the torn awning that hung over window, a window which sported faded letters that touted that flowers were for sale. On the ground he noted several broken stems and petals, flowers the likes of which that Mr. Koober could have easily tripped over.

”Hrm…” he though to himself.

Turning the corner, Jorge slowly made his way down a dark and foreboding alley. As his tired eyes drifted over the scene, he took everything in, slowly, keeping an eye on his environment and being wary of everything and anything. This alley, it certainly looked like an alley that a small gingerbread man would have been terrified of as he fled a scene. It certainly made his own skin crawl, that was for sure. But Jorge pressed on, bolding crossing the spoilt, foul smelling alley. At the end he spotted a door, a cracked door, one that smelled of fresh baking…

If it weren’t for the fact of how real it all was, Jorge would have probably laughed it off as a fever dream of some lunatic or drugged out crackhead. Rather it was very actual, very real, reality. If it weren’t for the fact that Jorge had sat there, taking the statement of a ****Ing gingerbread man, then he certainly would have thought that the whole ordeal was made up. Sadly that wasn’t the case and now the situation was only getting worse.

Mr. Koober revealed the rest of his story, how he had managed to escape from the mad chef by means that were best left to the imagination. However the month he spent on that kitchen table had been one wrapped in terror and something that he pushed out of most of his mind. When placed in truly terrifying circumstances, there is only so much the mind can take. The victim watched as confection after confection was consumed by the man, starting at one end of the table and working his way down. He was voracious, never allowing himself to breathe in-between bites and only focused on consuming as many of his delights as possible.

At some point, watching as new creations were brought to the table and others were consumed, the chef finally made his way to the cookies, a large glass of milk in hand. His intent was clear that night. As the glass dome was removed, and a handful of his maddened comrades were picked up, it eventually came to his turn. Paralyzed by fear, the victim seemed ready to accept his fate but, just as the hand brushed against his gingery leg, he felt panic rush through him.

The rest he couldn’t remember. All Mr. Koober could recall was breaking free from the man’s grip and running off the table and he kept on running. The chef’s cries echoed behind him as he gave chase until, finally, he caught a whiff of rain and he ran for it. Slipping out through a crack in the blistered door, he ran out into the night and kept running, never once looking back. The next thing he knew, he was standing outside the police precinct, his leg having gone soaked through and broken off during the run.

It was a tale the likes of which Jorge had never heard before and probably would never hear again. But now that it was on his desk, he needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do about it.

Jorge sat behind his desk, a pen in his mouth as he looked over the story (again) that the little gingerbread man who was once Chris Koober gave to him. Chris had stated that while walking home from work, he had been attacked with a heavy blow to the back of his head. Upon awakening he had learned that things were certainly not going to get any better for him.

His surroundings were dark, foreboding, and completely unfamiliar. Shelves upon shelves were around him, like in a pantry, but the shattered door in front of him allowed him to look out and see that adjoining room. It was a kitchen, and one that was seemed rather disgusting. Chris couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was looking at, only able to identify the room as a kitchen thanks to the absolutely giant stove that was situated across the from him. It was an old fashioned on, black, cast iron, with the glow of fire behind a metal grate.

Most telling, however, was the scent of baked goods in the air, exactly the same as he had smelled from before. Looking down and noting that he was bound by rope to a seat, Chris had begun to panic and started to squirm and shake to get himself free. However, nothing he did seemed to have any effect on his predicament. It was then that, from just outside the door, he watched a shadow loom across the dirty, tiled floor.

Framing the doorway was a massive man, rotund, sweaty, with stained pastry hat sitting on his head. As he stepped into the room, Chris’ panicked further until he released that the scent of baked goods grew even stronger with every step he took into the room. A demented gleam in his eye, Chris’ panic renewed as he struggled more but it proved to be fruitless as the scary chef eventually was before him, shaky hands out as he bit his lip and seized Chris by the shoulders.

“You…” Chris recalled the chef saying. “…I’ve caught you…my little gingerbread man.”

After that, Chris could only recall pain and shock as his body seemed to be quivering and shaking, struggling to keep itself together. It was as if someone had found the one string that was keeping him pieced together and completely unraveled it with a single tug. Afterwards, there was the pain of being rebuilt from the ground up and only pain and surprise would follow.

Jorge wanted to know what these two were really made of, however, he couldn’t really get into the meat of it without exposing the underside of his business. Then again, the duo had already witnessed him killed several SUPER agents and rescuing them from capture. If that wasn’t damning, he didn’t know what was. Therefore, it was going to come down to these two, and their personal beliefs, before he took this any further. Again, he didn’t believe that they would be on opposing sides, but experience had taught the man to remain cautious in certain regards.

So he asked, a general question, what was their view of a “perfect world”? It was an open ended question to be sure. The answer could be anything, really: no more poverty, no sickness, every building made of cake and pie, anything. But these two were smart and, given their current discussion, it shouldn’t be too hard for them to understand where he was trying to find out. However, he had been disappointed before…

>>"That's easy...Mutants only. No humans and definitely no Adapteds, just us."

The first to answer would be from the surly brunette with the bows in her hair. She was by far the more vicious of the two but seemed almost attached to the hip to the gentleman, Dio, at her side. Still, she made her feelings perfectly well known, with no attempt at trying to be subtle about it: she was a mutant supremicist. It was perfect, really.

>>“My own views are not quite so clear cut, but suffice to say I believe both mutants and humans have their place but that much needs to be done in terms of recognizing and prizing mutants for their abilities.”

A respectable answer. While Jorge had no qualms with killing humans, he also firmly believed in using his empire to use them up like resources. Humans needed to be eradicated, yes, but it was more their status in the world that he wanted to assassinate, not them as an entire species. After all, one simply doesn’t kill all the cows in the world because they want to eat meat, do they? No, they cull them, they breed them, they keep them locked away in pens and serve a singular purpose. That was what humanity was, cattle that had just run free for far too long.

>>“What about you Poseidon? What is your vision for the world?”

A grin swept over his face. A twisted grin that could only be created by the most firm and vile of thoughts. He turned on his heel, his back to them, as he started to march towards a lone door on the other side of the room that said “Employees Only”.

”Why don’t I show you both?” He said with all the air of a showman. Jorge didn’t turn to see if they followed as he was assured that their curiosity if anything would move their feet. As he stepped over to the door, Jorge tapped a code into a keypad attached to the door, waited for it to buzz, and pushed his way inside. He held the door open for both Dio and Isabel, before letting it close behind them.

The hall was empty and vastly unimpressive. It looked like a “behind-the-scenes” look of any business really, with offices, restrooms, staff break rooms, and etc. Jorge stopped at none of these as he made a beeline down the hall and towards a lone door on the other end. Quietly the man whistled to himself as he marched to the door but stopped just before it. Turning to a supposedly blank wall, Jorge reached placed his hand on the flat stone and waited until a holographic laser grid of green light encased his hand. A satisfied “Ding” rang through the air as the wall panels slid aside revealing a spacious elevator. Jorge stepped in and gestured for the other two to join. It was only now that he would go into his familiar speech.

”My vision of the world is much like the both of you. You see, I too have witnessed the atrocities that mankind has delivered upon our kind. My own family suffered heavily from the internment camps and occupation of SUPER in the country has certainly made things even more difficult.” Once both were in he tapped a button on the panel to take them to the lower levels. ”When I came to New York, I came across several like-minded individuals, people who would become my associates. Together we had a idea...a vision of the world as it should be -- rather than what it was.” A beat. ”Humanity has pushed off its extinction for far too long.” He gave them both a generous smile. ”It’s time for us to do what mother nature had always intended us to do…” The elevator came to a stop, metallic doors sliding open and filling the room with light. ”...take our place at the top of the food chain.”

On the other side was a waiting room where a pair were already waiting for them. One of them was Duke Manchester, the driver with the inhuman silver eyes whom they had met earlier. Next to him was another individual, smaller, leaner, a woman with tanned skin and ink-black hair. Cybernetic enhancements were clearly seen as she kept her eyes glued to a tablet that she expertly tapped and swiped. Jorge smirked eyeing the two as he stepped out. Hands in his pockets, he turned back to face Dio and Isabel.

”Mr. Dio...My sweet lady Isabel…” He gestured to the surprisingly high tech waiting room that branched off into a series of halls that hinted at a much larger complex around them. ”...welcome to the Syndicate.”

There was something about being in his own club that was quite soothing. Jorge always commanded a presence, no matter where he went, but being in his own element was soothing and calming to him. Amongst these familiar surroundings, safe with the knowledge that he was untouchable here, made whatever fears others may have of the outside world simply secondary to him. This was his turf, hard won and solidly his; no one would be able to take that from him.

But while he may feel safe and secure in his world, could the same be said for either Dio or Isabel? The two of them certainly had made quite the first impression, enough to spur on his involvement, but could they continue to deliver? Did they believe in the mutant cause? Or were they idealists? Gently Jorge would broach the subject -- once drinks and introductions were added to the equation. Hence, he asked, how did they end up here? He had an idea but it paid to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

>>“...Got caught up in the mess when that Rip thing opened and got tossed through it somehow and wound up here. Dio came to find me and then we ran into those SUPER jerks before we could get back to our side."

>> “The rift appeared during a small scale lunar festival on our side. Before stabilizing it acted much like a black hole, I’d be rather surprised if Isabel was the only one caught up in it. That said, it calmed down fairly quickly and I had little trouble following her in the confusion left behind.”

Jorge nodded. He was watching them both closely, scrutinizing them now that they were face-to-face and free if any trouble of interruption from SUPER or any other law enforcement. A face could tell a thousand stories, even those that were just beneath the surface. Watching the duo allowed Jorge to see just how valid their stories were, ensuring that they weren’t spies or anything of the like. It helped that the second the two walked into his club, River was probably already running their faces through recognition systems in their world to see there were any conflicts with their stories. His phone silent in his pocket, he was sure that River had found nothing yet.

Taking a sip from his own drink, she smirked as Isabel downed her tequila and respected Dio for his choice in only taking water. There was no offense to be taken for his choice in water as opposed to free alcohol.

”Yes. It certainly seems to be causing quite the stir, the rip, that is.” he commented. ”From reports on this side, the story is remarkably similar. We had a lunar festival on this side that was interrupted by the...event.” There were conflicting reports on what caused it but, of course, fingers were swiftly pointing towards mutants.

It was needless to say that the two intrigued him. They clearly had no love for SUPER or what it stood for. Any other mutant would have probably cringed and given up, especially when access to their abilities was taken away. These two, however, showed a remarkable will to fight back, something that the crime boss couldn’t help but respect. But how to inquire as to their allegiances...that was the question...

>>“If you don’t mind me asking Poseidon, what are you after? I appreciate your assistance but I doubt it was an act of charity and I dislike being in others debt.”

Jorge smirked, staring down at his glass. ”Ouch. My heart certainly aches at the accusation, Mr. Dio…” Jorge said, taking a sip from his drink. He lifted his gaze again, smirking as he eyed them both. ”...but once again you prove to be quite astute. Now, please don’t misunderstand, I hold no one in debt -- unless, of course, I have lent them money.” A grin. ”But helping mutants is both a passion and...my business.” He sighed, another sip of his drink following. ”SUPER has become an oppressive force, leaving our kind a little lacking. So...I step in where I can. It was a pleasure to offer you both an escape.” A beat. ”Now, once the heat dies down, you two are more than free to skedaddle back through the rift and head home. Neither myself nor my associates will stop you.” He leaned against the bar, watching the pair of them. ”But, I must say, as a collector of certain talents. And I see two very talented individuals before me. So...” he downed the last of his drink. ”Before I continue, you must indulge an old man’s inquiring mind.” A sly smile. ”What is your idea of a perfect world?”