Sophistemon

My understanding is that AEGIS is going to go over the data provided, find a white house with blue shutters, and scan for semi-recent excavations underneath. There's also still the hostage exchange to consider, and the missing woman. How you folks want to divide up and go about things is of course your own prerogative -- you have Punchline to tag along, if you'd like an even split. He was introduced a little earlier than originally planned for just that purpose.

Lilly giggled into Ethan's shoulder and raised her head to look at the visiting stranger. "You're silly!" she said, and then attempted to mimic his tone. "Hello... big human!" she said, and her smile was like a glowing crescent. It reminded Warne of Ethan's perpetually goofy grin, but the dimples it dug into her cheeks came either from her mother or were uniquely her own. Ethan laughed, a muted huffing that he tried to hide from Warne, and then disentangled himself from Lilly's embrace. The little girl obliged, then saw the box beneath Warne's arm. "Daddy!" she yelped. "Present!" Ethan looked, saw the box, and quirked an eyebrow. "Hey, you didn't have to do that, man. It's good enough just having you here." Then, he winked and leaned in so that only Warne could hear him. "It's cool you did, though. She's gonna love you." Then, he reached up and gave the other agent a soft pat on the shoulder. "Come on into the kitchen, I want you to meet my wife. You aren't going to believe what she's whipped up in there. I try to help, but I'm really only good at the baking."

The magician nodded; it made sense, and Baku was old and wise enough to discern that the mental guardians were attracted to anything that didn't belong, magic included. So, he was visible and he was vulnerable... which meant he was desperate. He recalled, with a bit of nausea, just how easy Baku was to hurt without his defenses. The fire, the fall... best to not think about that, either. To be honest, Samuel was moderately disgusted with how he'd won that fight. The grandstanding, the old gloating monologue. He'd been fighting a villain, but his attitude wasn't heroic. "When we beat Baku the first time," he said aloud, addressing Becker. "I hurt the little creep. With a fireball. I'd used a spell, drew power from inside me, to hurt him despite his intangibility. What did Warne think about that? Not just that he got away, but hurt him?"

Ethan slapped his hands down, palms-first, to the table. "Come one!" he blurted. "That's not fair." He chuckled, then leaned back in his chair. "But I guess that's life, then, isn't it?" He looked askance at Adept and his smile wavered. He cleared his throat, adjusted his posture, and resumed a serious disposition. "Sorry. Let's continue. We appreciate your willingness to cooperate. It shows, if not a good moral character, at least some moderate amount of sense."

Game Master (please allocate points to Punchline): Lights, Camera, Action! Presto the Preposterous: Psichology. Upgrade: Irradiated Intervention. Punchline: Puppet Day.

The pugnacious Punchline quirked an eyebrow at Warne. "Aren't you some sorta de-tec-tive?" he inquired, his voice rising to an irritating pitch to punctuate the question. "Do I have'ta do everything?" He tossed the model into the air, opened his mouth -- pearly white teeth glistening wetly -- and swallowed it whole, so that his throat bulged obscenely when the model's edges pressed against the interior of his throat. He belched, softly, and tittered. "It's somewhere in the residential areas, I remember that much. I don't really do addresses. I go where I want, when I want." He arced a thumb at his chest, which swelled with cartoonish pride. "That's what so great about being me! No rules to follow!" He paused, considering. "It was down and... to the left of some big house. White, with blue shutters. A sub-basement's sub-basement. Nice place, with a tasteful garden. They grow tomatoes, which I guess makes it a tasty garden, too!" He moved to laugh, but then reconsidered and stuck out his tongue. "On second thought, I hate tomatoes. Too slimy!"

"That's a good idea," added Ethan, grinning askance at his partner. "The more information we have, Mister Gas Man, the more able we'll be to clear you of any wrongdoing." There was a pause, and then: "I can't stand it anymore, I have to know. Why 'Gas Man?' I get that you've got an arsenal of aerosol grenades, but... really? 'Gas Man?' C'mon."

Presto watched the exchange with an increasingly heavy heart. His lips pressed to a thin line, he made his way slowly back to Becker and inclined his head towards the exit on the far side of the room. "Let's go," he said, because it was the only thing he could say. Warne's loneliness weighed on him like a mountain, and Samuel found himself thinking that he would have given nearly anything to have a woman look at him the way E. Gill had looked at Warne just then, before he'd -- knowingly or not -- broken her heart. Humans are a social species, and companionship is as essential to a happy life as water is to a long one. Did Warne have friends, or merely a long list of associates, fellow 'good-guys' that he could rely on, but never truly trust? Best to not think about it.

Warne's knocking echoed throughout the interior of the house. The music was interrupted by the momentary sound of muffled conversation before padded footsteps made their way towards the opposite side of the door. "Ho-ho-hold on!" boomed Ethan, as he turned the knob and pulled the door in. The pilot stood in the doorway dressed in fuzzy socks colored like an elf's pointed green shoes, well-worn bluejeans, a black undershirt, and a white apron emblazoned with a blood-red target and the words MISS THE COOK printed across the chest. A smear of fresh dough dotted the tip of his nose, the result of an absentminded itch. He smiled widely and stepped aside, using one arm to usher his friend in out of the cold. "Warne!" he bellowed. "You made it! Come in, man, take a load off." It was like walking into a schmaltzy movie. Christmas lights were suspended from the walls, up where they met the ceiling, and a sprig of mistletoe hung from the door-frame, thankfully ignored by Warne's beaming host. The lights were red, white, and blue of course, in that order, casting a patriotic glow on the many pictures suspended beneath them. They all portrayed people -- never just one -- grinning whether they were aware of the camera or not. As Ethan took him inside, Warne bore witness to a lifetime's worth of past events: birthdays, graduations, celebrations, days at the park, vacations at the beach. Smiles, fun, laughter, family. Ethan was talking, though it took Warne a moment to divorce the words from his own internal monologue. "-glad you could make it. I wasn't sure, but the wife and I made enough for an army just in case. You won't believe how the missus can cook; sometimes I think she's a robot, but then I remember the baby..." "Da-ad!" objected a voice, drawing the word out into two outraged syllables. "I'm already six! I'm not a baby anymore!" There, at the end of the short hall separating the entrance from the kitchen, stood Lilly. No taller than Warne's thigh, she had both hands balled up into fists and pressed into either side of her waist. Her face betrayed her false anger; it was cherubic, perhaps with the slightest whiff of mischief, but not at all upset. Ethan knelt, arms outstretched, and the girl ran up and wrapped her father in a hug, giggling as she burrowed her face in his shoulder. "Don't I know it?" he asked, then looked up at Warne. "I swear, she's more mature than I am. She gets that from her mother."

This is the Out of Character thread for A Heavy Metal Christmas, which can be found here.

The air was cold enough that James’ breath escaped his lungs in billowing white clouds of a much cleaner sort than was usual. He wasn’t smoking at the moment, having tossed his previous cigarette to hiss and sizzle on the cold asphalt at the side of the road. He’d put it out of its misery with the toe of his shoe, grinding it to an even greater degree of lifelessness before he’d taken the short walk up the path to the porch. Strands of multicolored lights dangled merrily from the gutters and spiraled down the columns in tight loops. A wreath hung from the door; cut from real pine, it still maintained some of its characteristic scent. Reduced by age, it was nevertheless a refreshing change from cigarette smoke and leather-scented aftershave. From behind the door, Warne could hear music playing – the drums pounded softly within the house, the crashing cymbals clanged. It took him a moment, but James realized he was listening to a butchered rendition of “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” The telekinetic shook his head; it was just so thoroughly Stone he had trouble justifying his surprise. What else would the AMP’s pilot be listening to on Christmas Eve but heavy metal? A wind blew by, chilling Warne enough that he considered activating his force-field. Instead, he simply pulled his jacket tighter around his body. Lonely Point was true to its name, being a largely desolate peninsula unburdened by things like enough trees to dull the knife’s edge of winter cold. Home to the Lonely Point Naval Station, it also housed the maintenance bay of the Armored Mobility Platform, the incalculably expensive and oft-malfunctioning vehicle piloted by his AEGIS-assigned partner, Ethan Stone. Stone was employed at the Naval Station as a ‘consultant,’ on the AMP project, a convenient cover that was lent credibility by his former Air Force service and time spent as a MAX-armor pilot for the clandestine organization. Unbeknownst to his wife, Ethan flew the AMP and served his country as Upgrade, a bipedal jet-tank designed to showcase the United State’s expanding arsenal of experimental weapons technology. It was a career that his wife wouldn’t have approved of, if she knew.

Punchline looked at Adept and nodded his head. "Oh, sure! We hung out for hours that first time, just talking movies. It was great -- they didn't take the armor off the entire time, though, which must have been really itchy. 'Course, I stayed me the entire time, too, so who am I to judge?" The clown was suddenly cloaked in a regal black robe, and his hair turned white and flowed down to his shoulders in carefully oiled rolls before everything reverted -- with a buzz of static -- a moment later. He giggled. "It's somewhere here in the city... I think. We bounced around a lot, took a right turn at Albuquerque, but I'd know the smell of Freedom anywhere -- hot dogs and electric cars." He tapped his nose, grinned, and continued while turning to look at Miracle Girl. "It was big, wider around than it was tall. Lots of monitors and screens and computers, like I said. Most of it looked... second-hand. Gently-used, you know? The Fanatic was short on funding; that's why they needed me to make a short-cut. They piggy-backed on my signal to get to Movieland." He reached into his back pocket, a flap of fabric that may or may not have even existed a moment before, and withdrew a tiny scale cut-away model of the Fanatic's underground lair -- at least as he remembered it. "It's all in here, you see?" He pointed to the walls. "See those monitors? That's where they watch, uh, everything. And over here's where they keep the prisoners!" He moved his hand, a gloved finger gently touching a line of cells built into a corner.

Sam watched the memory with a feeling of deep regret building in his stomach. He didn't dare engage Becker in conversation, not with the guards around, but he noted the event for later. He did take a minor detour, searching the room alongside the other guards in the hopes of jogging another memory loose. He knew, though he wished he didn't, that redeeming himself to Adept wasn't going to happen any time soon, if ever. But maybe, if he could learn more about the man, he could use that knowledge to... help ease things along. It was snooping, a terrible breach of privacy, but Sam hadn't ever met a man like Warne before, and his curiosity consumed him now as it had when he'd broken into forbidden Oriental libraries in search of ancient moth-gnawed texts. The knowledge was dangerous, and best left undisturbed... but he wanted it anyway.

Ethan listened to the Gas Man while casting the occasional glance at Adept for the other man's expressions, which were usually comedy gold -- Warne was already always so damn serious that when he put on his 'serious' face he looked pretty darn cartoonish. He looked as though he were drawn by Steve Dillon and inked with the Punisher's permanent scowl. Adept could craft a frown so deep that the dwarfs were only a few swings of the pick away from releasing a balrog. Agent Stone cleared his throat and looked back to the Gas Man. "So, you accept these contracts, no questions asked? You don't have a vetting process in place to work out whether or not your clients are engaged in a criminal enterprise? Because, I'm sure you're aware, that still leaves you guilty of aiding and abetting, if not acting in full complicity -- and your willful insistence on not checking to see if your clients have employed you in a lawful act implies that you're aware of potential illegalities and are planing ahead to feign ignorance." He looked back at Adept and winked. "I watch a lot of true crime teevee," he whispered.

"They're like robots," he murmured, and then looked over at Becker. "They're how Warne's mind keeps itself in order?" He shook his head. "Efficient, but... cold. I guess I shouldn't expect any different." He cleared his throat and strode forward, attempting as best he could to mimic the posture of the mental guardians. He nodded to one of them, but didn't smile. He kept his face placid, unemotional -- like a mask, cold and lifeless on his skull.

Punchline tittered. "Well, sure we met in the real world," he gushed. "We talked a bit online first -- or, I mean, Bob did -- but then we had to meet." He quirked his head at Warne, then winked. "They had such cool ideas, how could I resist getting to know them?" He chuckled, then drew up his legs so that his knees were pressed into his chest. "Like I said, we met online. The Fanatic messaged me after I made a few posts about these reboots they're making in Hollywood." He sighed. "I'm not really down with reboots, and remakes, and requels and premakes and all that. Movies are art, and tracing is lazy." He laughed, flashing teeth. "So I let my feelings get the better of me and wrote some things in bad taste." He turned back, looking at Miracle Girl, and his face fell. "That's when the Fanatic got in touch and asked me if I really meant what I said. I told them, 'No, not really, I was only joking,' but by then they knew who I was." The clown crossed himself. "Even then, they could look through the screen, and they had an idea of what I could do. I just made the mistake of getting their attention." The smile returned, subdued. "But then they told me what they wanted, and how I could help. I mean, honestly: would you turn down a chance to meet your childhood heroes? I couldn't resist. So I signed up, and we met in person, and the rest is... history. Or the present. Or even the future!" He turned in his seat and faced the group. "We met at their place, underground. Big, big room will all kinds of gizmos on the walls and screens hanging up all over the place tuned to different cameras. From down there, they could see the whole world if they wanted. But they were friendly, even through that black metal mask." The frown was back, exaggerated. "No family. No photos that I could see. I get the feeling the Fanatic's a very lonely person."

@Avenger Assembled, @Blarghy, & @Heritage: Punchline quirked his head to look at Adept. His eyes flared a bit, and then he smiled. "Tough crowd, aren't you?" he asked. "All business, no pleasure. Your wife must be thrilled." He chortled, than reached up and massaged his battered body. "Oy! But do you pack a punch-and-a-half!" He took a stand and made a pirouette, his arms outstretched to catch the air, before speaking. "They weren't all bad," explained the clown. "Not at first, anyway. Sure, they were a little intense -- but who isn't when it comes to a hobby that you love? This Fanatic freak-show, they love movies. They don't just like movies, no. They don't call themselves 'the Aficionado,' they're 'the Fanatic,' and I got the barest hint of a whisper of a feeling that they were personally offended by the reboots coming out. They'd talk my ears off for hours about how Hollywood's a bunch of brainless corporate goons without a shred of originality left. On and on they went -- it almost drove me crazy!" He cackled madly, eyes flashing, and then gasped air. "But that's beside the point. They told me, once they had the stars, they'd make the people responsible pay for..." The clown shrugged. "Tarnishing the memory, I guess. It's like nostalgia gone sour." He took a seat in one of the chairs and looked up at the screen, still playing the movie. "They mean something to us, sometimes. Something special. They let us escape, and I guess the Fanatic can't deal with someone trying to catch that lightning in another bottle." He looked back at Adept. "The Fanatic was able to recreate my 'jumping' power to get inside the movies. He made a machine... like a projector that makes a door. If you can do what he did and recreate my signal, maybe you can trace it?" Then, Aquaria's tongue lashed out, snared a bit of lunch-meat, and retracted back into her mouth. Punchline watched the show with rapt amazement, then crossed his arms and frowned. "How come everyone else got the cool powers?"

The magician paused, thinking. "I have a spell that can entangle the target in elemental energy," he mused. "If I used ice, I might be able to trap him in a block of the stuff, if only so that he can be subdued and taken out of here before he can do any real damage to Warne's mind." He nodded. "Yes, I think that might work. Ice. Nice, non-lethal, non-explosive ice." The former villain made a silent promise to keep his anger in check this time, and to handle things the way a hero would. Whether or not the day would play out that way remained to be seen, but at least he was willing to try.

I concur wholeheartedly.

Ethan grinned across the table at the Gas Man and inclined his head in a friendly nod of greeting. "Hey there," he chirped, his voice like honeyed tea. "Before we start, can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Cola?" He arced a thumb behind him, at the door. "I think there's some punch in the break-room, if you're into the fruity stuff." He chuckled. "My kid loves it, but it makes my teeth itch, personally." He folded his hands together on the table and arched his eyebrows. "Look, I figure you don't want to be here any longer than you have to be, right? So, why don't we all agree to play this out nice so we can get things over as quickly and painlessly as possible, okay?"

Game Master (please allocate points to Punchline): Lights, Camera, Action! Presto the Preposterous: Psichology. Upgrade: Irradiated Intervention. Punchline: Puppet Day.

@Avenger Assembled, @Blarghy, & @Heritage: One of Punchline's slightly luminescent eyes opened, slowly, and then the other. They blinked, then focused in on Miracle Girl's angelic features. "But mommy," he groaned. "I don't want to go to school today!" He moved to stand and the room was filled with a series of wet pops which, the other soon realized, were the clown's bones popping back into place after being knocked about by the telekinetic blast. He cracked his own neck and tittered. "Did anybody get the numbers off that bus?" he asked. "I tell you, I haven't taken a wallop like that since the elevator in my building went out and I took the alleyway express." He turned and saw Adept, the appearance of whom caused his red, red lips to split in a wide grin. "You've got the mind-whammy!" he exclaimed. "I wish I had the mind-whammy. All I've got is this lame invulnerability and my irresistible personality!" He chortled, then slapped his own knee. After regaining his composure, he pulled back his left sleeve to reveal a pale, hairless arm absolutely bedecked in various wristwatches, all of which displayed the wrong time. He glanced at them, then frowned. "How long was I out?"

Leviathan's sudden forced silence elicited a surprised guffaw from the clown, who soon erupted into a peal of cackling laughter. "Out of everyone here," he wheezed. "He shuts you up!" Tittering madly, Punchline took a step away from Quirk and held his sides in with both hands. "It's too much," he hooted. "This entire thing is too, too much!" He chattered his teeth and spun in a slow circle, taking in the surroundings, and then zeroed in on the teenage divinity. "Me next!" he crowed. "Do me next! Something classy, like a donkey's head! That's straight out of Shakespeare!"

"Sorry I'm late," Ethan apologized. "Reporters, you know; they can't get enough of me. I'm just too shiny, I guess. At least the engineers can get the polish right, if nothing else..." His ego was still smarting from how the battle had gone. When this was all over, he was going to have a long, potentially violent discussion with the grease-monkeys that handled Upgrade's systems. "We've gotta have something on the Gas Man," he argued. "I mean, come on! After all we went through to bring him in, we can't just let him go again, can we?" He frowned, and slumped despondently into a chair. He arced a thumb at Adept. "I'm with him. What's his connection to the fire-breathing freak? I have trouble believing they aren't connected to what's going on. I mean, how likely is it to be a coincidence?"

Samuel looked over the clothes, then closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated. When he opened them again, his impeccable suit had transformed itself to resembled the SWAT uniform's undersuit. With that done, he donned the tactical vest, knit mask, helmet, and goggles. By the time he was finished he was indistinguishable from any of the pursuing agents. "I feel like an extra in an action movie," he grumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of the mask. He went to the selection of armaments and selected a rifle, if only to complete the disguise. Truth be told, he hadn't the slightest idea of how to fire the thing. For a previously hardened super-criminal, he was remarkably sheltered.