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Zinnia seemed profoundly amused by the prawn's stoicism, but kept it to herself. The quip about "four Average Joe's" also amused the prawn, but she betrayed no glimmer of amusement. Zinnia insisted that the man drive, quelling his hesitantce.

"I'll wait here," the prawn said, certain that the three of them wouldn't fit very comfortably, and not wishing to crowd Zinnia into the back. Jack squeezed Zinnia's shoulder in a quiet farewell, leveling a stare at the man as they climbed in. Jack didn't budge while they took the truck for a test drive. It sounded fine as it pulled off of the lot and, minutes later, it returned. Jack perked noticeably as Zinnia disembarked.

"How 'uzz it?" the prawn mumured. It seemed good. They circled the truck, assessing cosmetic damage, and then began talking prices. If it could even be called "talking prices". Jack knew haggling was part of the process, and that the buyer was supposed to try lower while the seller overpriced the vehicle. Unlike in a store, where the price was what you saw unless you had a coupon, pricing on cars (especially with private sellers) was fluid.

The guy zoomed away and spilled into the car of his friend, before the two of them sped out. It would seem that the massive prawn had given him the willies. Jack glanced over at Zinnia, who quickly eroded now that the man was gone.

>> "Well, bye then”

"Hey," Jack teased, lightly bapping her girlfiend's stomach with the back of her hand, "I 'uzz just trying to 'e sure he 'asn't going to railroad you. 'iss he's scared, he ain't gonna 'lay any gains."

The delight was contagious, though. They'd gotten a truck with surprising wheels. Now, Zin could take on the world.

>> "That went just about as well as it could have. Hungry?”

Jack gave Zinnia A Look™ and a discontented burble.

"I 'ould sooner eat your shoe," the prawn announced, a smirk touching her features. She touched a hand to the small of Zinnia's back, urging her towards her new truck, with the suggestion, "I'n sure 'e could signed sun-sing nor... edi'le? Like... tires? Nuclear 'aste?"

She was being facetious, of course, but anything was better than the Golden Arches.

The prawn tilted her chin at the smaller man. His eyes roved over her imposing physique, as often eyes tended to do, when she introduced herself. That's right, Max Rosewood. This is your interviewer. In a way, their kneejerk reaction to her was step one of the interview. This was a mutant club, after all, and if the manager's unsightly appearance sent you reeling, you wouldn't be fit for a venue that served other such mutated sorts. He didn't miss a beat. Good for him.

>> "Pleasure. I'm doing quite well. How about yourself?"

They exchanged a professional handshake.

"Doing swell," Jack grunted in response, " 'ell, shall 'e get right to it? 'anna get to know you, sirst. Has a see-ew kesh-tions to ask. Den, 'e'll see 'at you can do."

She'd get the phone out if he was having difficulties understanding her, of course, but it was always better to start talking in a standard way, first. Timing wasn't as great as it could be, when you relied on a piece of technology to do all the talking. The prawn gestured towards an open table, where there were two seats for each of them to sit. The kid chattered excitedly as Jack made her way towards the table.

>> "To be honest I'm resisting the urge to hit the dance floor. This is one hell of a setup you have here. The Xynes 450 is class, and the dance floor looks like it has a super receptive music synchronization software. This place is great."

"Sank you," the prawn said uncertainly, easing into her seat. She wasn't even sure if what the boy had said was English, but it sounded positive. This was an interview for waitstaff, wasn't it? If it were tech crew, she would've called upon one of the techy-sorts to check his know-how. (Besides, they didn't really need any techy-sorts, presently... they needed waiters.)

>> "Devon said you were looking for a waiter and some event staff. I'm willing to work whatever shifts you need and I live right upstairs so I won't ever call off."

Jack gestured casually to the chair opposite of her, amusement glimmering in her lavender eyes.

"O'en a'aila'ility is al'ays good," she said reassuringly. She flashed her phone to Max, explaining, "Dis is sore iss you has a hard tine understanding nee. Has technology dat does duh talking sore nee--" before setting the phone face-down on the table, "Just let nee know, and 'e real a'out it."

That being said, the prawn leaned back in her seat.

"So, Nister Rose'ood," Jack said. Of course, ther perfunctory first question of any interview, "Tell nee a little a'out yoursell-s."

Jack chuckled at the sibling antics, lightly rubbing her face against Zinnia's before stepping away. It was nice to have such a normal house... the kind of things that one might take for granted. The prawn watched as Zinnia dolled-out hashbrowns and beans and eggs, before handing the plate graciously to the prawn.

"Sanks," the prawn murmured. She unhooked her mask again. Really, the wasn't even much a point to keep it on in this house. The family had her over so frequently that, after the first few timid shared meals, she steadily warmed-up to the parents and the brothers and the domesticity of it all. She ambled towards the table, carefully taking a seat upon the open chair.

>> “Have to say, I’m pretty excited about this truck. I looked up the details and stuff and it gets good miles to gallons and it’s not too expensive to replace parts if something breaks and stuff.”

Jack trilled, "Nay'e 'e can e-zen see iss 'e can talk den down in duh cost."

Admittedly, Jack knew next nothing about cars. But she did know that you were supposed to barter a bit. Right?

"Jack, have you beaten any guys up lately?" the eldest of the brothers demanded excitedly, "At the club?"

Jack shook her head, "New clu-h now. Don't get to knock as nanny heads now."

"Ah, what? Why!! That's the best part!"

Jack carefully forked a glob of hashbrowns. She explained, "Sun-tines, you get older, and you need to 'ay rent to lizz in your house. Dis new jaw, dey gizz ne nore none-ey. Get to 'e a... nan-a-ger."

The prawn then took a bite, "Nake duh rules. I'n in charge."

The role of authority seemed to appease the brothers.

Jack made quick work of the breakfast, pausing occasionally to answer the boy's queries and amuse them with stories of school and work. She stumbled her way through conversations, occasionally casting an imploring glance towards Zinnia when the need for help arose. It wasn't polite to pull your phone out at the table, but her speech capabilities only went so far. Once the prawn's plate was clean, she went to the sink to rinse it off, but not without touching clenched mandibles to Zinnia's forehead.

"Sank you," the prawn reiterated, "Awe-sun, as al'ays."

AV!Jack, a.k.a. "Blue"

For sake of ease (because I know I tend to be wordy) I only listed the information that differs between Jack and Blue. Please assume that anything that is unlisted is the same between the two versions of Jack.

Individual

Character's Full Name: Joanna Olivia Beasley

Alias/ Nickname/ Code Name: The prawn has no preference for names, but they recall being called “Blue” by someone in the past.

Most of this basic information has been lost in the dredges of Blue’s memory—they are not sure of their gender, age, where they’re from or who they were. But they also don’t seem self-reflective enough to care. ((Author's note-- referring to Blue as either "they/them", "it", or "the prawn" would be preferable since AV!Jack a.k.a. Blue makes no declaration of gender.))

Appearance

Eye Color: Sclera not visible, iris is lavender. Pupil is a slit that expands and contracts, much like a lizard’s. The left eye is visibly damaged, and Blue is blind in that eye.

Height: 7’6” upright, usually crawls on all fours which places them at about 5’.

Other Features: There is an essence about Blue that screams “apex predator”, but something in Blue’s gaze suggests a deeper intelligence than that. Definitely a presence. Blue doesn’t speak, but communicates entirely through inhuman vocalizations and body language (most of which are violent and animalistic). She seems to understand human language and will respond non-verbally to it (with humanoid gestures like nodding or shaking the head, grunts, hums, or trills), if someone establishes themselves as a non-threat.


Everyday Clothing Style: Blue has a pair of cargo shorts, held up by a woven belt, in which they carry a retractable blade for their own protection. Sleeveless hoodie, fabric wrapped around lower limbs and often caked in mud. All clothes are neutral ones of grey, black, or brown in order to help camouflage. Blue goes to great lengths to conceal rainbow carapace.


Character

Personality: For the most part, Blue acts like an animal that heralds from an abusive past… cagey, jumpy, and prone to snap. That’s how they’ve survived so long without getting tagged or collected.

Sometimes, a glimmer of humanity shines through—Blue is very protective of their own kind, meaning mutants, and will leap to the defense of someone visibly mutated. The prawn would be affectionate towards one who proves their trustworthiness.

But given the years of isolation Blue’s experienced, the prawn has never had the opportunity to hone their speech capabilities, nor do they have adaptive technology to speak on their behalf. And, since even mutants fall into the ranks of those people with the guns, it takes a lot to reach that "glimmer of humanity".

Make no mistake, though—Blue is not some mindless monster. They have lived on the streets, on the fringes of society and in the sewers (at times) for years. They are calculating, shrewd, and ruthless. If Blue determines you to be a threat, you’d best have a plan of escape.

Hobbies/ Interests: They know of no hobbies.

Job and Description: They have no employment.

Fears/ Phobias/ Concerns: They fear capture, They fear death. If anyone ever got close enough to Blue for Blue to care about them, they might fear the loss of a loved one.

Special Talents: Blue is rather adept at hand-to-hand combat, especially with a knife. (Though brute strength is often enough to do the trick.)


Morality

Other: Blue operates on an animalian sort of instinct that pays no heed to the concepts of “right” and “wrong”.


Mutations

[unaltered]


Physical Abilities

General Physical Capabilities: [unaltered] To compensate for the blindness in their left eye, Blue's reflexes have become noticeably quicker on their left side. They look around quite a bit more frequently, as well, to help compensate for the blind-spot.

Fighting Style: Only fights when cornered. Lacks formal training but possesses brute strength and a reason to fight dirty. Has no qualms with killing if someone is deemed a threat. Use their carapace, off of which the tagging guns typically ricochet, to its full advantage.

Fighting Style Pros/Cons: Animalistic ferocity has its advantages, but it also has its disadvantages. Someone with extensive training could probably take Blue without much trouble.


History Of Your Character

Blue acquired their mutation much in the way that their MRO!version did. At the age of thirteen, Blue’s mutation emerged. Their parents tried to lock them in the basement and tortured them, believing that they had been robbed of their daughter. Blue fled from home, found their way to San Francisco, learned to fight from their life on the streets, fell in with the same gang their MRO counterpart did. Blue likewise watched a friend get shot in a war between rival mutant gangs.

In this world, however, there were no vigilantes in dumb masks to break-up the battle. There were only SUPERS. The gang-war tripped the algorithm due to the high level of X-Genes—SUPERS showed-up to the fight with guns of their own. Blue was an ideal target for experimentation—a waif without a family and a kick-*ss physical mutation. Fearful of the tagging gun, Blue fled.

Days bled into weeks bled into months bled into years. The last shreds of humanity Blue had clung to washed away as they continued keeping to the periphery, continued staying alive. Somewhere along the way, in the midst of their wandering, Blue found their way to New York.

Between then and now, Blue has been in countless scuffles, one of which resulted in the damage to their left eye. (The assailant, a SUPER agent, was attempting to tag Blue but was unable to get to the gaps in their armor. The assailant then attempted to detain Blue for experimentation purposes, but Blue managed to fight free...) This established the people in suits, the people with guns, as a threat. Blue has thus lived in constant fear of those people, uncertain of their intent.

The prawn was surpised to see as many familiar faces as she did. The mutant community wasn't that small, she was sure, but as you made your way around it began to feel much smaller-- she saw Mr. Holloway (the returning art teacher from Xavier's), Devon (of course), and a few faces that were vaguely familiar-- those of young women-- who were likely patrons at Chrysalis at some point.

Another yawn escaped Jack. She wasn't paid to schmooze, thank God. But without the action of ousting inebriated, brawling patrons, playing security wasn't nearly as fun. Of course, she hoped this benefit ran smoothly. She hoped that it would go without a hitch. But she also hoped that something would come and save her from the impenetrable boredom that was overwhelming her.

A waiter glided by with a tray of girly drinks. Probably wine or champagne or something mild. Not Jack's usual go-to drink. But anything to spare her from idle time. The prawn lightly tapped the waiter on the shoulder.

"'scuse nee," she said politely, bowing her head, "'iss I nay?"

"Of course," the waiter said politely, proffering the tray. Jack delicately pinched the stem of the flute, which looked like a shot glass in the prawn's massive mit.

"Shanks," the prawn purred. With a nod, the waiter left.

Jack unhooked her her surgical mask and clenched it in her free hand. She delicately sipped the drink, her maxillae curling with displeasure at the bitter taste. Jack found it hard to believe that people voluntarily drank it. But the warmth that followed made it worth-it.

>> ”Nah, Jack’s just doing her job. I totally get it. She let me come get my coffee, so she’s alright in my book.”

Saltily Jack thought that if everyone was doing their job, they wouldn't have had this problem in the first place. She kept that sentiment to herself, however, only a droll look finding its way to the other security guard. See, the look said? I let him get coffee. I'm alright in his book.

She watched as the fellow guard got the paperwork in-order, signed Nate in, and handed him a guest pass.

"'til we get your official staff I.D. in order," he said warmly, "I've got to head back, but it was good seeing you! Don't be a stranger!"

After a short farewell, the guard was off.

The prawn shifted her weight, clearing her throat. Now that he was all checked-in, there really was no point in her lurking around.

"Sorry sore duh trou'le," Jack said with a nod. She extended a closed fist towards Nate-- fistbumps were easier than handshakes-- and the prawn rumbled, "I'll catch you 'round sun-tine."

She was dismissing herself, leaving Nate to his morning coffee.

How had she gotten here, again? Jack found her self standing in the periphery of the main hall, hands behind her back, gaze trained on the gala before her. It was some swanky benefit being held at the Natural History Museum, and Jack had been enlisted to work security. The neon lights and throbbing electric beat of Chrysalis had been exchanged for live classical music and museum exhibits. Girls in tight, revealing booty-shorts and low-cut tops had been exchanged for gowns and dress-suits. The prawn rubbed the back of her head.

It had started with a visit from Devon. He'd come to the club, inviting her to this dumb event. Internally, Jack thought it was dumb, anyways-- a benefit? To support... what? The human-mutant melting-pot that comprised New York City? Quite frankly, the prawn had never believed that crap. Though she supposed years of being an iridescent behemoth had made her jaded.

Not that her perspective mattered-- for in his invitation and request for Jack's services, he offered a nice chunk of change in order to compensate her. It was twice what she'd make in a night at Chrysalis, and about half of a shift. The prawn graciously accepted it and swallowed her cynicism. She could swallow her qualms for cash.

Now, here she was, standing at the edge of the floor in-uniform. It wasn't Chrysalis's uniform that she donned, but the same in-principle-- a wine-red dress shirt with a cream tie, and a black vest, slacks, and surgical mask. She was also wearing a bone mic, given that she was not the only security here.

Her instructions were simple. Keep an eye out for trouble, and break it up if any trouble arise. A yawn escaped her. Of course, her Boss had been all too eager to let Devon invite her. Chrysalis was a mutant nightclub, and any affiliation with such a humanitarian effort would reflect well upon them.

The prawn's gaze slid wearily over the floor. Not an inch of trouble in-sight. Well, sometimes you needed a slow night to break-up the monotony. The performances were decidedly more mellifluous than the track-lists chosen by Chrysalis's DJ.

For a moment, Jack's attention caught on a young woman in a black dress. She recognized her, and that sensation was a mix between excitement and dread. (The prawn was not, as she would attest, overly extroverted.) What was her name again? She'd been at the club, they'd danced, they'd swapped phone numbers... ah, but she didn't have a carapace. Even from afar, Jack could see that she was lacking the characteristic carapaceous seams in her skin. Whatever her name was...

The prawn continued to scan the floor.