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Thursday, November 28th "How's the oven looking, Vince, dear?" Gina Espadas called as she pushed her wheel chair into the front room of her family's home, lap piled with brown and orange seasonal decorations which she began placing about the shelves and cabinets. In the adjoining kitchen one of the most advanced human-designed artificial intelligences on the planet native to that era interpreted data from a webcam jury-rigged to a computer monitor yellowing slightly with age to gauge the temperature inside the closed oven opposite it with precision worthy of laboratory testing. To an outside observer, however, an enthusiastic man wearing a cameo pattern apron over a bright green suit appeared on the monitor, raised a comically long telescope to his eye and snapped a salute as he shouted back, "Operation Bird is the Word proceeding full steam ahead, General Ma'am sir!" "Sure, you she trusts with the turkey," Erik Espadas sighed with exaggerated ire as he methodically worked his knife up and down on the cutting board, rapidly turned fresh vegetables into piles of thin slices. Sweet and hot peppers alike joined a bowl of other ingredients as the chef briefly looked over his shoulder to grin at the monitor. "To be fair, Jack-O," Vince countered, pulling a firefighter's helmet and an extinguisher out of virtual space, "you've set a lot more things on fire than I have." "Don't set things on fire, please," came an earnest requests for waist height as the precocious Yolanda set out plates and cutlery at the table with deliberate precision. The stout eight year old scampered back to the counter to retrieve another stack of dishware, moving with the care of someone entrusted with a precious cargo indeed. "Careful, Yoyo, don't carry too many at once," Ellie cautioned as she returned from retrieving the last of the folding chairs from the attic, one tucked under each arm. Pulling them open, she set them down in front of the place settings before inhaling through her nose. "Mm. Alright, that does smell pretty fantastic." Her mother finished arranging a trio of small gourds on the end table next to the couch in the front room and rolled over to the window to peer outside. "Well it had better! Everyone should be arriving soon."

GM November 11, Monday, 4.50PM the city of Algeciras, Cadiz province, Spain Algeciras is easily one of the world's busiest ports. Connecting the shipping of Africa, the Americas and Europe meant the city was a hive of activity, and the three newcomers from America had seen plenty of evidence of that just from the plane. Down on the streets that feeling was compounded. The air rang with voices from a dozen nations, the roads hummed with traffic racing across the metropolis, and along with the sharp smell of the sea were the deep scents of petrol, metal and lots and lots of cheerfully sweaty people strolling, jogging, running and generally moving on the long trek of their lives. The coffee house Corbin's contact, an archaeologist with an at least cursory knowledge of the arcane world, had asked to meet them in was hardly a respite. It buzzed with the chatter of its patrons, the strong, thick coffees made every breath aromatic and the intricate carvings that passed over every corner of the ceiling, the myriad of pictures and beautiful sea view from the windows ensuring that if you bored of the people, the place could still entertain. It had been only around ten minutes since Tia Rojas had been late, and the minutes flew by regardless of what she was here to tell them. Cobalt Templar was always on the search for the rest of the Seven Rings of antiquity, in part to make sure they found worthy bearers in the present, and that nobody would abuse their power. Tia had heard rumors that something uncannily like the Indigo Ring had just appeared in Spain, somewhere in southern Iberia. Its wielder was impossible to make out, a patch of inky darkness that vanished into the night it never dared leave, leaving behind people stricken with lost memories only able to recall a flash of purple light. Thus, the presence of his former team mates Indira Singh(Wraith, of the shapeshifting metal species Kinigosi), and Kimber Storm(Ghost Girl, world's happiest poltergeist). Whatever this new bearer was about, it was hard to look at favorably.

2AM (Los Angeles time) December 5, 2013 Richard Cline sipped his coffee and checked his 1989 Chrono-Quartz digital watch, a 20th anniversary present that he would get tired of about the time his son stopped asking him when he was going to learn how to text. Six am in Freedom City. Better get moving. "Juanita," he said, slapping a twenty down to pay for the several cups he'd drunk that morning, "your coffee is great every night, but this stuff?" he picked up the cup and winked, glad as ever he'd found this greasy spoon diner instead of the trendy coffee shops everyone else seemed to hit in LA. "Totally radical." He stepped out of the shop, let his feet hit the pavement - and ran. Back in the late 90s when he and Paige had been trying to have a kid, Richard had sat down for the first time with a science-type and figured out how his powers worked. Behind all the nerd stuff, the German guy they'd hired had been pretty straightforward: first he emitted a chroniton field that stopped time all around himself, freezing everyone and everything in a nanosecond bubble of no-time as his powers washed over everything like paint on a tie-dyed shirt. And then he turned his power on himself, accelerating his own subjective time so that he was running faster than a man, faster than a plane, faster than Johnny Rocket, as he laughed at the sound barrier and reached his typical cruising speed of 20,000 miles an hour. At the end of a run, he reversed the process, slowing himself back down again, then restarting local time so that he synched back up with the rest of the world. From Richard's perspective, though, it was like this - Olvera Street slowed to first a crawl, then a stand-still as Richard sprinted down the zigzag brick street. Pause. A moment later, as acceleration kicked in, the city erupted to life again as Fast-Forward rocketed down blurred LA streets faster than a jet could fly, Richard's phenomenal reflexes turning speeding cars and zipping bikes into so many standing-still slowpokes. Play. As he left the LA basin behind, Richard reached down his watch and hit the timer button, a smile curling his lips. "Time to fast-forward!" he exulted as he hit hypersonic speed, the wind in his face like a summer breeze as the world became a series of slow-moving images and garbled sounds, the thousands of miles between LA and Freedom City falling away like a sprint around the block. 8 and a half minutes from LA to Freedom City. Four slow, slow minutes buying a box of assorted doughnuts at World's Fair in St. Louis. His watch beeped at 6:13 as he hit the streets of Freedom City and Richard slowed down, coming to a halt just outside the Cline family's brand-new front door at six-fifteen on the dot. He glanced down at his watch and turned off the little timer, keeping a grimace off his face. Fifteen minutes to go cross-country. I'm turning into Don freaking Ameche here! He pushed that thought down, reminding himself that today wasn't about the old man, today was about his boy and the family taking him to school. Holly was asleep, or at least her lights were off, but even still there was no burdening his little girl with her dad's unhappy thoughts. He glanced back at the white picket fences around the house and opened the door; his leather jacket was hanging up and costume in his belt buckle faster than a normal man could blink, and he set the box of donuts down where they'd stay warm in the kitchen. All right, time for breakfast...Freedom City was cold, so reluctantly he turned on the electric stove, flipping his way through five or six cookbooks until he remembered where he'd left Will's favorite Mexican bacon and egg recipe. This was a big day for the kid - better get it started off right!

Robert Moses State Park Massena, Upstate New York Friday, November 22, 2013 10:24 AM Cold winds whipped across the waters of the St. Lawrence river, the major waterway that formed part of the international boundary between Ontario, Canada and New York State in the United States, before traversing through Ontario and Quebec before opening into the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Massena was one of the many towns that lay along the New York side of the river, just before the point where the river continued northeast into Quebec. Located along the St. Lawrence Seaway, a pair of locks were located near the town, Massena was a logical location for a number of manufacturing and industrial sites in the Twentieth Century. But like many such towns in the past couple of decades, many of those business had closed up and moved away, though there were still a few such plants in the town. Located to the north of the town were a number of larger islands out in the river, much of which were covered by Robert Moses State Park, which contained thick wooded areas and wetlands, as well as beaches, boating areas, as well as a wide variety of other recreational areas. Given the current cold temperatures that were hovering only a little above freezing, the park was understandably less than crowded. Out on the eastern end of the inner island on which the park sat, a group of white vans pulled into the nearly empty Hawkins Point visitor's center parking lot. After the vans came to a halt, the driver’s side door of the lead van opened and out stepped a man in his early fifties with dark grey hair, who stretched slightly before looking over at the other occupants of the van who were also exiting. The man was Professor Walter Morris from Freedom City University, who was part of the environmental sciences department. Inside the two vans were just over twenty students from FCU, Freedom College, as well as a couple of community colleges and even a couple of high schools in Freedom City that were involved in environmental studies courses at their schools, all of whom had signed up for this little trip to study the ecosystems in the wetlands and forested areas of the park. "Okay everyone." He called out to the students exiting the two vans as he pulled on a pair of warm gloves. "I know it has been a long drive, but we have about an hour and a half until lunch time, so we don't want to waste it." Alexander Cross made his way along one of the trails through the woodland areas that dotted Hawkins Point in Robert Moses State Park. Having recently found himself in a time rather removed from the one in which he had retired from several decades service as a locomotive engineer. He had been able to resettle himself somewhat, finding work as a night guard at the Museum of Science and Industry in Freedom City. When a chance to take a bit of vacation time had come up, Alexander had decided to revisit the area along the St. Lawrence river, recalling how more than three decades ago he taken trains along the river, delivering and picking up loads from the various industries that had sprung up, before carrying them further into the American heartland. Things had certainly changed in the intervening years. Many of the industries were gone, the towns clearly suffering from the loss of jobs. Most of the railways in the area were all but completely abandoned, over grown with weeds and other plants and generally not being utilized any longer.

GM 10.50 AM, November 4th, 2013, 4500 Swan Drive, Ashton The Parson's Elementary School construction site was positioned on a small hill, just on the edges of Freedom City. To the north and west and mere yards away, the Wharton State forest loomed in a mass of reddening or yellowed oaks and ashes disrupted by the odd sentinel green pine. This site had been chosen, and the architecture modified after exhaustively-precise surveys, to present as little disruption to the beloved and vast national wood as possible. The concrete foundation had set by now, and the two-story frame was already getting into spindly wooden shape. Sounds of hammering and the sight of workers carrying boards and lengths of metal into place gave the scene an oddly old-fashioned quality despite the nearby yellow construction equipment. Jasom Ballard, head foreman of the local DeCosta Construction team, nodded shortly to Arnold Felt, the main foreman who had been overseeing the work in his absence, as he walked briskly up the hill to get a view of how things were going. "Any trouble, Arnie?" he asked hopefully. "None Mr. Ballard! Everything's been quiet this last week." Arnold smiled in relief. Everyone on the crew had heard the rumors, and it had taken a little bit of talking to keep people on schedule instead of leaving when the shadows started to deepen. Jason clapped him on the shoulder a few times and nodded in silent thanks and trudged on, all but running up the ladder onto the second floor framework to check out an iffy-looking bit of scaffolding. Everything was going well in the crisp morning light, until one of the amber-covered trees at the forest's border got up, cascading loose rock and soil in an explosion of dust, and started walking towards the school with heavy, slow strides on each formidable taproot that sent a faint tremor through the ground. At first the rest of the dimming trees were still. Then another, and another rose in a shower of dust and rock and joined the growing vegetable procession marching impassively onwards and churning up the ground as they went like a dark wave. The first had gotten the attention of the workers, who watched in growing horror as it approached and was joined by rustling, creaking cohorts. The rest sent them into a very soft and orderly panicking retreat. "Mr. Ballard? I think we should...um...go. And possibly take the digging equipment. Don't want to get them smashed." offered a nearby worker, edging away towards the ladder and trying to tug Jason along with her. The foreman shook himself abruptly from the shock of seeing walking trees, and said with quiet earnestness "Yeah, good plan. And we need to call for help!"

GM Friday, November 15th, 2013 Southside 10:32 PM The cool November air felt like an early greeting from the forthcoming winter. The waxing gibbous moon overlooking the dark sky was difficult to make out under the cover of a menagerie of thick clouds. If the effulgent lights reflecting from the casinos and various businesses North of the banks of the South River were a symbol of change and prosperity. Then the rigid buildings that have supported multiple generations of families South of that very same river represented perseverance and longevity like nowhere else. Only in the Southside did wealth and poverty truly find themselves standing side by side. With many of the area's affluent neighborhoods paired with those neighborhoods unfortunate to be stricken with rampant crime and misfortune. Outwardly one could be excused for thinking the Southside hasn't changed at all in decades. The mob's influence was as strong as ever, and the perpetual corruption continued to counteract any efforts to improve the situation. But the denizens of the Southside knew better. The heroic efforts of costumed crimefighters who patrolled the area continued to make their streets safer every day providing a magnitude of comfort for those who needed it. And fear for those who needed that even more. Rumours of a new underground designer drug operation had been brewing in the air for days now. There has even been talk of shipments leaving Port Regal for international waters. The distribution has led to increased gang activity as of late with talk of the occasional group of thugs loading up and starting a commotion in unsuspecting areas of the community. Despite all the publicity not a single trace of the source of the drugs distribution could be found. The situation was slowly turning the district into a volatile hotbed for crime and chaos, more so than usual.

Tuesday, October 1st, 6:44 PM The Dutemps Building bustled with activity as the various office workers and residents of its lower and mid-levels shared space with the construction workers and ubiquitous scaffolding wrapping around the skyscraper like wireframe chrysalis. The hewn stone of the fantastical addition to the tower's upper levels was beginning to take shape, promising to be a memorable addition to the Freedom City skyline but most of the people forced to detour around cordoned-off area or squeeze into elevators alongside power tools seemed to be counting the days to its completion. One young woman had entirely different matters distracting her as she politely apologized for bumping into yet another person in the crowded lobby and made her way to an elevator. On the taller side, the unremarkable taupe trenchcoat she wore, fiddling absentmindedly with the buckles, concealed most of her athletic frame while the snow white streak in her otherwise dark, chocolate brown hair drew some small amount of attention. The other elevator riders were too consumed in their own schedules to pay her much mind, though one gossip-minded administrative assistant couldn't help but notice that the young woman selected the highest floor still open during construction after checking a room number jotted down on her phone. The last person to exit before the elevator headed back down, the young woman hesitated, having to shoot out a hand to stop the doors from closing when she took a moment too long. The sliding metal creaked in protest at the unexpected resistance but she slipped into the opulent hallway and let them shut behind her. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at her reflection in the floor to ceiling windows and quickly rubbed a bit of errant dirt from one cheek off on the back of a sleeve. Walking the rest of the way to the end of the hall she knocked quickly on the door as though worried she would loose her nerve otherwise.

Thursday November 14th, 5:00 P.M. A few miles offshore from the dockside. The hustle and bustle of the dockyard was in full display. Despite the large number of scheduled deliveries in and out of the city not a single shipment had been late yet. It was clear example of how efficient the Waterfront could be when all the cogs were in working order. With the day winding down many a sailor was looking forward to finishing up and heading home. And if it wasn't for the freak storm that came out of nowhere they might have gotten a chance to do just that. The sky over the water began to darken to an unnatural degree. The wind violently raging pushing waves to crash against the shore. The sound of thunder echoed overheard with the stray bolt of lightning coming down to emphasize how dangerous the situation was. A maelstrom forming from beneath as if to match the typhoon. And caught in the middle of this catastrophe? Two freighters each incapable of doing anything to combat against the raging storm. The crewmembers unfortunate enough to be in attendance could only watch on in horror as the disaster began to unfold. All the while a shrill cackle could be heard in the wind itself. To the keen observer the storm seemed completely self contained with the not even a speck of the violent gust reaching the shore.

Freedom City Waterfront November 12, 2013; 6:15 PM The clouds that had hung over Freedom City all day were still very much in place as evening fell. The temperature was hovering just a bit above freezing, but the wind chill certainly made it feel as if it was colder. Fulmen Fairison had just spent the last half hour fighting his way through Freedom City's rush hour traffic to deliver a set of ice sculptures he had made in one of the part-time jobs he was involved with to help pay his bills. Some corporation was having some event at their Waterfront research lab and somehow Fulmen had ended up having to make the deliver as the normal driver was sick. Fulmen spotted his destination up ahead, a sleek three story building built on one of the piers along Freedom City's Waterfront. The company's logo was visible in one of the upper corners, a large star with its name written across, "PanStar." As he drew closer, Fulmen realized that the building was fenced off, and he had to pass through a gate, at which a pair of men in dark red uniforms stood waiting and checking vehicles. Getting into the small line behind a florist, Fulmen saw the armed guards check the driver's deliver order and then take a look in the back of the van. Once they were satisfied everything was in order, they waived the vehicle through and the gate opened, closing again behind the florist's delivery van as Fulmen pulled up. A stern looking man that looked like he might have once played football stepped up and shined a flashlight in Fulmen's face. "Can I see your delivery papers. Please." There was a distinct pause before the ""please," the word itself stated in a rather terse and businesslike manner.

(GM Post) Remote Laboratory Facility, Mountains, Sweden, Europe Monday, November 11, 6pm Local Time Anyone who knew Baron Katastrof wasn't truly shocked at what had happened. The man was methodical, safety-conscious, detail-oriented when needed, and demanded rigorous testing standards. He was also young, hideously intelligent, occasionally obsessive, and had a near-fanatical need to prove himself "worthy", not just of his place as head of his father's company, but also his place as a "super-scientist" in a world already brimming with them. Miss Americana had heard he'd been on the polar expedition to the remains of the Curator's ship. Archetech had had representatives there, and the Doctor himself had teleconferenced in. It wasn't known to the world, but basically everyone who had high-end scientific know-how and the trust of most of the world had been there. The place was a near-literal goldmine of data, materials, and technology samples. There'd been so many "dead" Curator drones you could practically build an office building out of them, and they were physically intact. Everybody had taken quite a few home, and Katastrof and Sorenson Technologies was no exception. They'd been careful, of course; all the Curator tech was set up in a couple of isolated lab buildings in the mountains, purpose-built a few years ago for handling "dangerous samples". The two sites were connected by 1 single tunnel with multiple security doors, and each site had internal and external airlocks, negative-pressure air systems, and a whole host of other standard and esoteric features. In the last couple of months, the primary site (where all the actual tests occurred, rather than storage at the connected site) had even received an extra dose of security in the form of magical wards, with the secondary site slated to receive them in a few weeks, thanks to discrete efforts from some contact or another of the Baron's. Which was all well and good, until one day every drone in the secondary site woke up and started moving on their own power, and suddenly the evacuation was underway and complete within 20 minutes. The staff was all set to use the emergency measures (which was to say, special explosive charges that would reduce both complexes to ash-filled holes in the mountain without disturbing anything else) when they realized one critical thing. The Baron had visited that morning and was not outside. That was Friday. On Sunday, the company had had no success penetrating the even-more-upgraded security, and, not wanting the matter to make regular public news (and thus strike a terrible blow against the reputation of KST), they made a couple of discrete calls. Which was why a small group of intelligent, talented heroes who focused on metal and wire technology found themselves standing on a tarmac at the foot of a mountain, the sun sinking below the horizon, and armed guards standing nervously to one side.

Set, God of Awesome @readySETgoWhat ho faithful followers! Spy you any unrighteous badness for Set to practice pugilism upon? #crowdsorcery #heroics Obsidian Nighttalon @charizardking@readySETgo All is quiet in Port Regal, hero, but the night is still young! We remain vigilant. #crowdsorcery #nightwatch Peter Benjamin @jamminpeteAnybody know if @readySETgo is for real? If he is, nothing to report in Hanover, I guess. #fake? #overhanover Queen Nefertiti @setsgurl5492@readySETgo "What ho faithful followers!" The ho would tote be @setzgirl1337 #burn Jeralie Sena @jerajerajeraAshton is fine, too. Totally doing a class project on crowd sourcing, this is so smart! #crowdsorcery Nile Princess @setzgirl1337@setsgurl5492 Whatever Hefertiti, y u even trying to start something? Ur not even big in the fandom #poseur #whatever John Cannes @mractivist@setsgurl5492 @setzgirl1337 So a guy can't even use medieval talk now without it being an insult? So a double standard. #misandry "Intolerable prattle!" Sekhmet growled in abject frustration as she turned from reading over Set's shoulder to pace aggravatedly across their shared apartment in the Cline Building. The goddess dragged a hand over her face, momentarily pulling lips back from pronounced canines as she grimaced. "Thou cannot possibly believe there to be value in this stream of inane mortal chirping." "Tweeting, dear Lady of Slaughter," the red haired godling corrected, sitting crosslegged atop the couch and tapping away at his tablet as he carefully chose a reply, "and by the sound of things, someone needs to check her divine privilege. You look upon the modern prayer! How better to know where we be needed?" With a distinctly feline sound of annoyance, Sekhmet crossed her bare arms over the front of her shendyt robe. "And so imply thy intent to in fact go to do such honored deeds rather than watching thy trough of words until the journey of glorious Ra's barge is past halfway." She didn't completely understand just what his charge did with his rectangles of lit glass until the small hours of the morning but she doubted it was a good use of even an immortal's time. "Where did thee procure the coin for thine baubles in any case?" "The nights have been slow of late," Set admitted with a cough, still not looking over at the Mistress of Dread. "And said coin was won fairly, through crafty auctioning of commercial forum space upon my social media presence! My Tube of Yous is much beloved and so most lucrative." He made no attempt to hide how pleased he was with himself for having managed to solve their lack of funds and continue to grow his base of followers in one fell swoop. Sekhmet's eyes only narrowed. "Which does not explain from whence thy first bauble came." There was an awkward pause as Set finally glanced over to her. "For a timeless avatar of abstract concepts, you are awfully hung up on linear causality," he noted with a defensive sniff. Knocking her forehead into the half-wall that separated the apartment's main room from the small kitchen, Sekhmet came to a decision. Her duty on the mortal plane may have been to guard Set in both senses of the word but she suspected if she were forced to spend one more night cooped up with the godling and his ego he would not make it through until the morning. "I am going out, liesmith. 'Do not wait up', aye?" "Out? What do you mean out? Without m--?" As Set uncrossed his legs and scrambled to his feet, he was interrupted by a slamming door. Standing nonplussed with his hands on his hips, the godling pursed his lips. "Well. Rude!"

GM Friday 1st October, 15:07pm The Beginning of Rush Hour... A busy street... It happened in a flash. The truck was stuck in traffic, beeping its horn in frustration. But then, lots of people where stuck in traffic and beeping horns in frustration. This was Friday evening rush hour. Freedom City was the city of heroes, but for all its super powers, it was not immune to traffic congestion. The truck was marked full of hazardous chemicals. And then, it got hit. Three. No four. No five men, marching out a nearby van, in full orange jumpsuits, headphones, and gas masks, and wearing heavy rifles, fired - gas grenades it looked like. Knockout gas. Everyone fell asleep - pedestrians, drivers, the hot dog salesman at the corner, the street performer playing "The Ace of Spades" on a rubber band and a smoked kipper, and the preacher with a megaphone and a particularly individual interpretation of the old testament that did not hold him back from telling the world of his unique revelations. All of them hit the floor, snoring heavily. Cars swerved into one another, crashed. Alarms sounded, and injuries - from minor to more severe, peppered the streets. And one car crashed into the Truck. The chemicals started flowing freely into the street. An unpleasant smell to say the least, and from the warning signs on the truck, a toxic one too...

GM 29th October, 21:00 on the dot... The man was dressed in unremarkable black casual clothes but even someone with casual military knowledge would know he was equipped well. Guns, explosives, night vision goggles and all sorts of equipment lay to either side of him. He was operating out of a van, unmarked, with a license plate that, if one was to hazard a guess, was probably ripped off or falsified. The guy was a professional. He was atop a rooftop, using binoculars to scan a building in the distance. "Hmmm" he murmured to himself, and stood up, satisfied. With military precision, he packed away his guns, explosives and gadgets into a plain duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. For all his planning, he could not have planned for the unexpected. Three youths approached him as he slung his bag into the van. Thee youths from the Fens. They were tough, they were tough, and they wore the colours and clothes of a local gang. A glint, and a knife came out.

GM Monday, October 28 12:30 PM Six patients. Addicts, junkies, casual users. Whatever they tried to say, they'd all done whatever it had been. Drugs were bad enough, tainted drugs were even worst. He had four patients who had a bad reaction. The symptoms were consistent; Intense vertigo, hallucinations, vomiting and tremors. They shook uncontrollably, could not walk, seemed barely lucid, and could keep nothing down. When questioned, all four of them pointed out to something they'd gotten their hands on. Some new, cheap source. Probably tainted, but he did not know by what. He knew better than to assume he could keep the streets completely clean. Tainted drugs, though, drugs that could potentially kill on one dose? That he could probably take care of. But not as Tyrone Mendoza, not as a doctor. No, he would need to do something a little more drastic. With that in mind, he suited up. ------Meanwhile------ Jackie. He was about sixteen maybe seventeen, a friendly kid who was probably destined to end up dead in an alleyway. It wasn't fair, though. He was smart, good looking, and had a ready smile. When asked where he came from, he always redirected the conversation. He couldn't keep himself clean. Now he was sixteen or seventeen and laying in a bed in the back of some free clinic. Shaking and vomiting, barely able to tell who anyone was. The rumor was someone had put tainted drugs on the street.

Parkhurst October 30th 11:00 PM Rene DeSaens opened his eyes. He stood inside his room in Parkhurst, even though he'd laid down to sleep in his own bed at home. he did not remember how he'd arrived. He was standing in front of a canvas. He heard the gentle rapping of a cold, autumn rain on the windows. Whatever he had painted, he did so in darkness. Apparently the trance that had overtaken him had left him able to paint even in darkness. He could not see in perfect darkness, and so turned on the light. His eyes went wide at what he saw on the canvas. Lurid, bright colors slashed this way and that. Green, yellow, white, blue, red. Lots of red. What should have been cheerful, bright colors were made painful to the eyes, and the figure that dominated the painting was horrifying to look at. It was a clown; a hideous, malformed monster with razor teeth and a cruel, mocking grin. There were bodies, bleeding on the ground beneath him and in one hand he held a cruel, jagged knife. Everything came on him suddenly as he remembered what the painting was showing him. A clown in bright colors, face twisted into a monstrous visage. He stood over bodies piled upon the floor. Bells on his clothing that did not ring like bells ought, but rather clanked like old, rusted chains. Jingles. The name came to him suddenly. Who was this Jingles? Was this a painting of the past? Had this thing happened? Was he supposed to stop it from happening, or stop another like it?

Wakaya Island, Fiji Friday October 25, 2013; 11:33 AM local time (Freedom City time: 7:33 PM (Thursday October 24, 2013)) The late morning sun shone brightly in the sky over the small Fijian island of Wakaya. With the "cool" season coming toward an end, the day was turning out to be pleasantly warm, the temperature already approaching eighty degrees. Megan Howell glided through the water of the large infinity pool located on the spacious main deck of the large compound situated on the highest point of Wakaya. Dubbed Rai Ki Wai, Megan and Robert Howell had acquired the property a little over a month ago at a rather reasonable price, considering the size and quality of the property. This last week had been their first real chance to enjoy their new vacation home, other than a four day weekend back at the end of September. The decision to purchase the property with Robert had felt like something of a major move for the young woman. After all, it had only been about seven or so months since they had renewed their relationship, after nearly a year apart. Of course, Megan blamed that year apart on her on mishandling of things in regard to her identity as the superheroine Velocity. If she had not kept that a secret from Robert while they had been at Cambridge together, she was rather certain they would have recently celebrated two years together. Of course, the decision to purchase Rai Ki Wai together had also been made a bit easier by the knowledge that, at least in some timelines, she and Robert married. But that knowledge also came with the burden of knowing that in a number of those timelines (and perhaps even others where they did not marry), they had a son that would develop terrible powers. That possibility had made Megan consider not reconciling with Robert when he had initially indicated his desire to do so. But discussing the issue with a few fellow members of the Freedom League and their allies in the superhero community in Freedom City had convinced her otherwise. As she neared one of the stairs from the pool, the young blonde woman put her feet back under her, touching the bottom of the pool and standing back up out of the water slightly as she walked the rest of the way and up the stairs to the polished teak deck. Picking up a towel she had left nearby, Megan began to dry herself off as she made her way across the deck towards a row of lounge chairs overlooking the ocean. Seated in one of the chairs was Robert, the young English lord apparently in the process of making more edits to a paper he was to be presenting early next month at some scientific society he belonged to back in England. Unable to stop herself from smiling slightly, Megan moved over to take a perch at the edge of the chair beside him, running the fingers of one hand through his short blond hair. "You know, you have a long plane ride home early next week, not to mention several days once your back, to finish that up." She stated with a grin.

GM October 17th, 7:32PM, Farrel's Bar. Her boss, Gerry (short for Geraldine) had told her that a rising star of the Alt-Country scene, a guy who went by John Perdition, was willing to do an interview while in Freedom City. A couple tries, and it hadn't worked out with the guys who normally covered those kinds of artists. Fortunately she was available. Coincidence. Or something like that. The location for the meeting was a simple bar known for it's open mics. Tonight was a little special, and John (a guy with a label deal) was just finishing up his couple songs, singing and plucking a banjo, covering material from more well known artists, ending with a song from a prisoner's perspective. He looked all long, hard, and dusty roads. His voice sounded like an authority when the topics veered to being half-passed out in crap motel rooms on painkiller binges, and having to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun on his hungover. There was some applause as he took his banjo and walked back to his seat (this place generally fit more the 'introspective college type,' less so a tattooed ex-con who seemed at home with making a whole bunch of middle class folk more than a little on edge), wearing a worn in and patched flannel shirt and jeans. He set about fixing the cantankerous tuning of the banjo.

September 30, 2013 Somewhere in Ashton The apartment complex looked like any other in this bedroom community, an anonymous collection of two-story boxes done in a vaguely mid-20th century Spanish style, occupying the edge of the bedroom community in the space that lay between Ashton proper and the industrial loading docks of Greenback. Thanks to Dr. Metropolis's powers, and Daedalus' wealth, nobody much had noticed just how fast the complex had gone up, or who exactly had moved into it. There had been some very special circumstances over a year earlier, when the heroes Wander, Jill O'Cure, Dragonfly, and Harrier brought back the >last survivors of a dying world from the grip of the Terminus. Most of the time, dimensional refugees in Freedom City went to the same place - Freedom League Special Circumstances Housing. But these refugees, such as they were, were very special indeed. Murdock stepped out of the car, the taxi rising off its struts, and looked up at the nearly-anonymous building complex, clouds in a darkening sky overhead showing what promised to be the mother of all rainstorms. He wasn't looking at Circle Ten Apartments, though, or even at the agents waiting inside who he knew worked directly for the Freedom League. Instead he was remembering the last time he'd met the people inside that building. He remembered that day, and how close he had come to losing control, with a fever-hot vividness, and took a moment outside to compose himself. Gabriel was arriving at the same time, by a discreet League teleporter into a nearby side-street rather than by his own very noticeable flight. The news wasn't good - the Terminus prisoners resettled in Freedom City had been found making a secret room inside their apartment complex, marked with strange signs and unknown names, and as the League's expert in religions, he'd been called in to see if this was another Terminus cult alive and well even among people who were supposed to be their guests.

Freedom Hall Monday, September 30th, 10:23 AM For all its international presence the Freedom League could sometimes be viewed as American ambassadors in questions of law and often more importantly public perception. Questions of jurisdiction became very muddled very quickly in the wide and wild world of superhuman powers, brightly coloured costumes and brass tacks politicking. When it came to the Igneous, a thriving subterranean civilization with settlements and tunnels far, far below the surface of much of North America and north-eastern Asia, the question of borders turned suddenly difficult. Thus it was that a team of Leaguers, including their resident Russian liaison, had been requested for a joint mission with the representatives of the nationally funded Canadian super team True North to respond to a reportedly tense and escalating situation deep within the section of the Rocky Mountains that crossed the 49th parallel. Besides Comrade Frost, who had had some dealings with the underground culture when the Kola Superdeep Borehole had found a little more than it had expected in the 1970s, the geokinetic Gaian Knight had been a natural choice, along with the famously diplomatic Fleur de Joie. The team gathered about a conference table littered with briefings on the area's geography, past encounters with the Igneous and the members of True North they'd be meeting with, familiarizing themselves with all of them before departing.

GM September 1st The Ministry of Powers, London There were, of course, a number of government agents. Armed ones, too. And a number of bustling, virtually faceless civil servants. But the only two men with any gravity in the plush office, decorated in oak, with lined leather volumes gilding every wall were the Minister for Powers, the Rt Hon. Cecil Booth, and Sir Cruxberry, who actually ran the agency. Cecil Booth was middle aged, slightly rounding, and moderately intelligent. A career politician, he had never been particularly successful and had never really failed. He had slowly risen the ranks, never destined to be a star, but never destined to take a fall. "Good old dependable Booth" was the genial comment that accompanied his name, when it was mentioned. He was even respected by the opposition parties, which of course only served to further dampen his career prospects. He had never wanted the portfolio for the Ministry of Powers, but once he had it, he had applied himself to it. Sir Cruxberry was older, ex army, and a veteran of war and spying. He wore a patch over one eye and walked with a noticible limp, but his solitary blue eye shone bright. His form was lean and his hair was white and clipped like his moustache. Somehow, one was left with the feeling that ones boots were not quite polished enough when one talked to him. Or that he could kill you in some ingenious but terribly effective way without breaking a sweat. "Thank's for popping over" said Booth, offering Young Brittania a cup of tea, of which he had already drunk several cups and was quietly trying to hold on to his bursting bladder. He was quite excited to have the heroine in the room. "For Queen and country and all that" he continued, with encouragement. "Look, I expect you know what this is all about. The Vanguard, they vanished without a trace a few months ago. Quite the mystery. Left us defenceless, and beside that, we would rather like to know what the devil happened..." he said with a helpless shrug, backed up by the precise gaze of Cruxberry who spoke no words but communicated his iron agreement.

Hughes Household Friday, August 9, 2013 The invitation had gone out some 2 weeks prior. Out of the metaphorical blue, Corbin Alphonse Hughes had invited some of his closest and longest-running friends over to his home. He'd mentioned it would be "breakfast for dinner" and that he'd be providing a "nice spread", but that people were welcome to bring an additional dish. There was little else on the note, but for someone who supposedly had intended to take a break from school to go off and hunt ancient artifacts, it did perhaps seem a bit sudden. It was a fairly decent day out when everyone started arriving, just a bit before 5pm. The house had several lights on on the ground floor, though there was no evidence of anyone moving about from the front entrance. There was a hand-written note on the front door.

GM Claremont Academy, garden paths September 16th, Monday, 10.15AM The brief, terse letter each of the teen heroes had been given after morning classes led them there at the crossroads, to wait for a meeting with the dour Edme Dupont, one of the rotating Ethics and Superhuman Law teachers who had an uncanny gift for knowing exactly what topics to emphasize for maximum effect. 'Student,' they ran 'you and four others have been selected for the chance to perform an extracurricular exercise. I and the others faculty hope this encourages team-building spirit and your abilities to work in tandem. Assemble at the garden path juncture before 10.20AM, I will meet you there if you wish to attempt it' Under the bright morning sun, the fog banks were quickly evaporating, but the ones still drifting over the city gave the dew-speckled lawns and crisp buildings a strangely lovely quality. The air was beginning to heat up in anticipation of the day to come.

September 13, 2013 10:03 PM The night air was beginning to get cooler in Freedom City, though still far warmer that it would be in the months to come. But neither the current cool temperatures nor the freezing ones that would soon arrive were of any concern to Henry Mason, as his powers allowed him to survive in the depths to space. Since his return to Earth, Henry had taken the identity of the Solar Sentinel, using his powers to aid the fight against crime within the city. For the ageless veteran, it was just another war to be fought. Currently, the ageless veteran of an intergalactic war was gliding over the streets of the Boardwalk. Over next to the south bank of the South River, the brightly lit casinos stood out from the dark waters and often dark streets that stretched to the south. Solar Sentinel was just about to move on to another part of the city when he heard the sounds of sirens below him. Glancing down, he spotted a pair of police cars, their lights flashing as their sirens continued to sound, speeding down one of the dark streets…

GM Caniff St., Riverside, Freedom City 11.45AM, September 7th, Saturday, 2013 "So yeah, if we schedule this for Monday, we can-ohmyGOOOOD!" Charlize Fellows, temporary manager for the acts at Hot Licks, dropped the papers she had been sorting through in the mad jump away from the window. Standing and trembling, a nerveless hand pointed out the offending portal, she stammered out to the older woman she'd just been talking to "S-s-snake! Mz. Stone, there's a giant snake outside!" A casual glance outside quickly proved that while remarkably easy to startle for a lifelong Freedonian, she was no liar. A massive ebon-scaled snake was, in fact, seeping from a jagged black tear in thin air down the street, turning a shovel-shaped head this way and that as its black tongue slid in and out experimentally. It ignored the shocked and panicky people rushing away from it yelling in horror, seeming instead to be looking for something. "W-what should we do Annice?" whispered Charlize as if the snake could hear her "Get out the back door?" Suddenly the pitch-black reptile swerved, and one enormous eye looked straight at the singer. 'You cannot hide, lighted one' shouted the distant voice 'Come, and fight'

GM Saturday, August 31st, 2013 Eastern Seaboard Bank Building (Riverside Branch), Downtown Freedom City 4:51 PM Freedom City has always been an odd cookie, even for one based in a world filled with those of truly exceptional gifts such as superpowers. It has always been something of a mecca for those with a penchant for the extraordinary; a trait that has both been reviled and revered in the long annals of the city's history. Yet no matter how many heroes claim Freedom City as their home, there will always be those who oppose them in the face of such overwhelming odds, crime as readily available on the streets as it is in any other city. And today was no exception. For the Downtown Branch of the Eastern Seaboard Bank Building, it had been an otherwise uneventful day as the clock slowly crept its way towards closing time. With most of the staff having already left for the day as it wound its way down, only a handful remained steadfast in their duty, placated by the silence following the last mild rush of the weekend. The manager, Janice Fitzgerald, still sat poised at her office in her smooth two-piece business suit, plugging away and double-checking figures, ocassionally pitching a glance towards Bernard, the thirty-something security guard who'd been with the branch since his graduation from FCU. The man was relaxed, a magazine in-hand as he rested in a plain black chair near the front entrance. He was a good guy... but more noticeably, he was the apple of her remaining teller's untold affection. Rebecca was positively smitten; and while Bernard might have remained oblivious to her hints, Janice -- and practically everyone else! -- wasn't. Just another day, really. Suddenly, an unmarked van pulled in alongside the entryway, its faded and chipped grey paint belying its age against the modern world. With a harsh, audible squeak, the driver side door of the decrepit vehicle was flung open, and in its wake came forth the last customer for the day -- a customer who was looking to make one last withdrawl before the eSea Bank shut down for the day. Garbed in a simple grey, nigh skin-tight spotted jumpsuit, the young woman wore a humble domino mask and matching hood alongside the rest of her atire; a woman who would be a spectacle anywhere else were it not Freedom City. For a moment the guard hesitates, but that disarming lipstick-smeared smile is all it takes from the costume-clad arrival to put the man at ease. "Evenin', ma'am," Bernard greeted, his western drawl as evident as his polite demeanor. "Just in time. Looks like you'll be the last 'fore we close down shop." "Oh? Well that's good!" mimed the woman in faux surprise, her eyebrows sinking in halfhearted relief. But as quickly as the costumed lass' smile had appeased the lone armed guard, it twisted and contorted itself into a sinister grin; one of malice and hate, driven by bitter passions and grim forebearance as she spoke. "Very good..."