10-34 Chicago, Illinois [CVU Political Uprising, Open IC]

"What happened to us?"

We were competent, strong even. We could march against any foe, combine our resources - take on the world. We were concerned with evil on the outside, oppressive regimes and constricting dictators. We never noticed when that corruption started to seep through the cracks in the walls. We couldn't predict when it happened, that instant when the switch just... flipped.

Instead of tender embraces, we welcomed our soldiers back with heated words and gestures. Protests for peace turned into angry weapons for people to enforce what they believed to be right. The 60s and 70s saw incredible progress for the human race. It also foreshadowed immense danger. With these groups rallying for infinitesimal intrusions on social rights, real or otherwise, these slight misdemeanors became louder and louder until those who listened had no choice but to prostrate themselves as if apologizing for a grievous sin.

Those attitudes inflated over time, turning those who bowed down to them into heroes and those strong individuals we once looked up to into villains. Although the vast majority of these rallies were meant to improve something the members saw as immoral or wrong, there were always those who saw a way to impose their visions upon the greater whole. To manipulate the crowds, turn them into a roaring mob.

The seething multitude therefore has to be contained, so that damage to property and lives is mitigated. Even in the case of peaceful rallies, emergency officials have to be present in case of extremist ideals exploding out - for what better place to instigate violence than in a crowded place full of already angry and anxious people? This is the world we live in.

This is the world many are born into.

Where nerves are teetering on the edge of a knife.

Where anything can tip over the balance, and send a rally screaming down into the maddening cacophony of a full blown riot. And it is happening more and more often in the most powerful nation in the world. For it was not in a single day that Rome fell into ruin. And it will not be in a single day that the United States will suffer the same fate. Most egregiously of all, those who will instigate that collapse will be standing over their new creation expecting thunderous applause from the fire and the smoke. When all will be said and done, they will fall upon each other like starving wolves.

In that moment America will disappear. We will become nothing, a smouldering absence of civilization. Perhaps a particularly powerful metahuman will make a claim to the whole, or maybe it will be splintered amongst several such unique individuals. It is a dark future that hurtles towards us, not slowly as it had done when the rallies were mere gatherings in front of the White House or Senate. The campuses left scarred by blood are still haunted by the sounds of the rifles that shed it. They were but a vision of the grim reality we cannot stop - at least not as we are now.

That is why the man once known by another name, a name he threw away, a man named Warsman spoke these words on a public platform in Chicago, Illinois, surrounded by a group of his peers - peers named the Neomarch. His diction enraptured what audience he could draw in, though many ignored him for such outrageous claims. There were other rallies being held in the same city - along the same street. This was intentional, as Warsman had decided long ago that if Neomachy were to survive, it would have to influence its ideals amongst the common masses.

The weak were to be exterminated, those cockroaches that fed from the dung of a previous age that should have eroded long ago - these were the targets he must eliminate. Those worms who decided that certain other groups were either inferior or superior, drawing lines while preaching equality for all. These were not the true warriors of equality. Equality meant fighting for your humanity, an idea buried when the American mindset during the Vietnam War shifted from fighting and containing evil to condemning those who rooted it out as monsters. The My Lai Massacre? Committed by weak-willed fools that should not be lumped into the greater sum of brave soldiers who risked and lost their lives on the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

There will always be weakness in the human race. Preying upon it and making simple gestures to alleviate the pain is paramount to applying salve to a pulsating tumor. To remove it completely, one must cut it out - and sear the wound.

Slash and burn. It is the only way to be certain.

"With great power, comes great responsibility."

... so maybe none of us deserve either.

Some people are human, only human. Some people were born with "more than humanity", be they mutations, or blood from a "superior" race, or whatever. Some had the happy (or less-than-happy) fortune of an accident that empowers them. But whoever they were, they were still human, deep down inside. They had equal rights and equal duties. They had equal needs and, deep down, all sat on an equal level. Just because one person's body was superior didn't make that person any more a person than the next guy.

"What happened to us?"

The man on the podium asked the crowd. Arms folded, a masked stranger watched from a corner as the riot began. Chaos. Anarchy. But, no - not anarchy. They had order, they had a leader. There was no beauty in their chaos. These people were about to put themselves above other people in order to try to make balance. News flash, folks. Humanity doesn't work like that.

Idiots.

The bag over her shoulder was pink and neon-blue, loaded with her own weapons for changing the world. Weapons people couldn't exactly see, the same way people couldn't exactly see her message. Why? Because they were human, and thick-headedness is, sadly, a common human trait. The mask's eyes were relaxed, but its wearer was biting her tongue. They were all idiots, in their funny-colored "uniforms" and their shouting and their inciting the people to riot. The whole lot of them.

"Fight for your humanity."

And here's the biggest idiot of all. The mask-wearing figure adjusted something on her wrist before the turmoil began in earnest. To be fair, it was a great opportunity to do her work, what with the cops being busy with the more violent tendencies of people in the riot. Graffiti was going to be the least concerning form of crime when man turned against man in a self-induced purge like a pack of rabid dogs turning against each other to remove the sickness, unaware that the killers themselves were sick, too. Sick with the incurable disease known as humanity.

This isn't right.

Fighting wasn't the solution. Heroes are going to come and it's going to turn into an enormous fluffing mess. It was a mess she was going to be close to the heart of, of course. The Arachnid Anarchist, as people had started calling her, was most comfortable at the heart of turmoil. And if they attacked her, they'd eat the wet end of a web-slinger and be left for the cops. The cans in the bag clicked together as it was adjusted over the slender shoulders of the Anarchist Artist. She could fight her way out if she had to, but for now, she flicked her wrist. To the human eye it was white; in her own perception it was a really lovely shade of what could only be described as aquamarine. The webbing caught on a building, and she pulled herself above the crowd, above the shouting and writhing bodies.

For now, she had work to do.

@stomatopoda: @kaede_: @thisisgonnahurt:

One of the advantages of being the Dark Celestial host was the fact that Ivana did not have to be physically around for her mind to be. She was more than capable of having her subconsciousness work behind her back, scouring Earth for trouble, and Earth, unlike the realm was filled with violence and corruption, things she could capitalize on. Strands of her subconscious mind entered the onlookers as Warsman was giving his speech. It crept into the darkest recesses of the mind, brought out the vilest of desires, anger and the need to act out in violence, justice, and the feelings not standing up to what one believed in, she appealed to valor and the spirit of nationalism.

“Are you going to let these goons decide how YOU should live your life?” She asked them in their hearts and minds. The people gathered looked at each other, kids, adults, men and women of all ages, they understood, they knew what must happen in order to keep down the growing evil. Ivana did not need to do much of anything, she’d merely unlocked desires and feelings held back, she certainly was not controlling their actions, no.... they were their own. If anyone was to blame, blame the governments and corrupt officials that made them feel the way they did. The common folks were often underestimated, forgotten that nations at the base were made up of these people and if they actually turned, almost nothing could stop them from getting what they wanted, the Neomach’s grasped this truth, they were the crouching tigers and hidden dragons amongst men.

America was a dangerous place, primarily because guns were allowed to be carried, with every few months revealing cases of mass shootings where a single individual could kill up to 50 people in a shootout. Now imagine hundreds of common people all working as one, one out of 20 being armed, and all of a sudden you are faced with a mini army that can prove fatal. Such a force of ordinary people armed with all sorts of things, guns, pepper spray and bets charged into the gathered pockets and crowds of Neomach’s in unison.

Ivana reached into the mind of the Neomach’s leader. “Enjoy the show,” She was aware, aware the Neomach was strong enough to resist a petty uprising, no, she was only providing them an opening, order within chaos, keep the so-called heroes busy, less to get in his way. She smiled to herself as she walked along the academy’s corridor towards her dorm.

@lowlaville:@stomatopoda: @kaede_: @thisisgonnahurt: Well at least they weren't just another white nationalist group as I looked down from my hotel room and into the street watching the gathering crowd thinking and assuming most were just people gathering around to listen. I doubted all of these people completely agreed with this lunatic but I couldn't deny some of his political ideas weren't so bad as they were more misguided trying to use strength as a means of deciding who would be in control. But he was wrong about the application of such strength as a means to wipe out those they felt were weak or as a means to an end to control society. Sometimes the weak grow to become strong and without time they do not reach their potential like myself or that society needed the weak to remind the strong of the hardships that they could face throughout life giving them humility and the will to help them along with life. The strong needed the weak and vice versa without the other both would no longer grow to become strong or to become weak. These thoughts bringing up memories of when I began my adventures how I could barely even use my powers without my armor back then I surely would have died. Or the day my power first emerged after one too many shoves and after too many times someone treated me like garbage the sprinklers and the water fountains came on and the rest is history. Strength cannot be attained automatically it is only gained with time through your own efforts and force of will the weak may become strong and the strong may become weak that is the lesson they should learn.

"Fight for your humanity."

I have but the question is have you because you seem to have lost some yours," Aleenah don't be going out into the streets tonight it might get too ugly out there," and it would be a shame to ruin some of my plans before I reel the person in who killed Maoli as I took a swig of alcohol from a nearby bottle.

"Sounds good to me I'd rather not be around a whole bunch of needlessly crazy and angry humans tonight anyway," fifty-six times I could have killed him today he really has gotten sloppy," So what about you what are you gonna do then while I stay here and watch another one of those romantic comedy's tonight?"

Now that's a real treasure right there every time the main characters fall in love she says " She should have eaten him" but thinking on her question for a moment I decided on an answer," I'm gonna go take a closer look at the political rally." As I grabbed my two daggers and my bottle and began to walk out of the room Aleenah giving me a wave as I left. As I made my way down to the lobby I wondered what kind of events tonight would bring me.

@thisisgonnahurt:

Never during the day. This was a job for Alexander Donn. The man behind the cowl and podium. No one would recognize him. The Ex-President was slightly shorter, sporting a receding hairline and gray hair. He was skinny, but not in an “in shape” type of slim. The real Alexander Donn, the one present without the disguise had jet black hair and a full beard. He was a monster of a man and a brawler. At first glance, one would guess he was a retired veteran. They would be right. More importantly, he was completely unknown. Fingerprints unregistered. His face wasn’t in any database. They called his type “Double-Us” in his line of business. Unclassified and undocumented. Ghosts in the modern age of surveillance.

This ghost was just another face among the people. Masks would show up for this and a fight would inevitably break out. The Neomarch were a group seeking violence under the excuse of purging weakness. Superheroes protected the weak. Vigilantes fought violence with violence. It’s was an unavoidable clash. Donn was there to collect data about the group. Not fight them, not yet. This was too public to assassinate the leader. If he shot him, the masks would swarm him. Under this circumstances and gear, he wasn’t ready to fight off the capes and the entire crowd supporting this movement. Too many variables, too many chaotic outcomes.

Alexander was wearing a brown bulletproof jacket. Underneath it, he had body armor that mostly protected him against blunt force trauma. Nowhere near the level of his real armor, but it would provide him with some padding. Inside the jacket, he kept a small handgun with only six bullets and brass knuckle. Under his belt, he had an army knife and in his hands, he held a wooden baseball bat.

“FIGHT FOR YOUR HUMANITY!” The crowd shouted restlessly.

At that very moment, Alexander had an idea. He joined the crowd of angry protesters. A group like this surfacing was only a matter time. It reminded him of the 50s and the 70s Whenever a new group tried to take the wheel there was always a backlash. This was less on mutants or a specific group, but superpowers and masked culture itself. It had been a recurring issue for decades now. In the midst of the crowd, he elbowed a man in the face holding a sign that said: “HANG THE CAPES” and stole it from him. Donn lifted it over his shoulder.

“Fight for your humanity!” Donn shouted in synchronization with the protesters, a little louder than the other voices. He watched them, imitating the enthusiasm for their cause and scoping out the Warsman,

Before NIght Warden leapt off the rooftop into the fray to subdue the rioters, he tapped a button on his bracers, feeling the Miraculum course through his veins, enhancing his already impressive physiology.

Supra-Man had given him a lot to mull over, it was time to take an even more legal route than his deputization by the Chicago PD and the DSA had allowed.

He would run for the office of Chicago's Police Commissioner, work his way up the ranks, maybe even enter politics.

Jacob would turn costumed heroes into legal operatives, their identities vetted and registered, the rest he would arrest till they wised up.

He could come back to the mantle later, train and pass it onto the Archer or Jessie, work with them, signal to the world that heroes could be operatives of the system too.

For now, he glided down to the fray, using aikido, judo, and wushu to calmly incapacitate any attackers.

Bullets bounced off his armor and superdrugged skin, sometimes even a tiny shove sent thugs sprawling into unconsciousness.

With the super speed provided from his drug and exosuit, he knocked out swaths before they could bat an eye.

It was time to find the ringleader of this charade.

"Daedalus," Warsman off-handedly remarked to a figure to his left. It seemed hunched as an old man, but clattered on a multitude of small leg-like appendages.

It spoke to the rally leader in a hushed tone, and he responded in kind.

"Trace it back to wherever it came from. Make it public news. The people have a right to know that their lives are being toyed with even now,"

As the reactionary groups of angry mobs swarmed around the Neomarch, Warsman ordered his vanguard into a defensive position. They cradled their strange, highly-advanced rifles and stared out into the crowd, intent on keeping silent and steady against the onslaught.

"No more fascists!" They cried in unbroken unison.

"Pigs!" One rang out with an empty bottle, smashing it on the ground in front of a Neomarch member.

The Neolites found themselves drawn towards the growing center of coflict, those newcomers who wanted to prove themselves worthy of the cause. The Neotemplars continued to stay back, one for every hundred Neolite, and they formed the backbone of Warsman's personal entourage.

Pushing beget shoving, words became more heated, and Warsman himself brought out a megaphone so that his own agenda could be heard over the potential cacophony.

"You have all been lied to! This is what they want, the men and women who laud themselves as gods above you - above any of us! Time and again, those who have spoken the truth have been snuffed out not by those they speak against but by the very people they want to inform! Don't - "

Where the gunshot came from no one knew. The Neotemplars were motionless, and many more would have died if they used their rifles. The Neolites were expressly forbidden from bringing firearms to such rallies. Failure to comply would mean expulsion.

Warsman himself kept a pistol in the glove compartment of his truck.

All evidence however pointed towards the encroaching crowds, as the smoke settled from behind the first few ranks. Warsman fell to the floor of his podium, clutching his lower abdomen. His kidney had been ruptured. He could feel it. The bullet made no exit wound on the other side, but instead bounced off his vertebrae and wedged itself elsewhere.

The Neotemplars rushed to their leader's defense, hauling him up on their shoulders and keeping him from further harm. He needed to be evacuated and brought to a hospital.

The Neolites surged forward, spurred on by reckless hate and the fact that their leader had been put into a life or death situation. He preached action over empty words, and now more than ever violence bred even more violence - especially when spurred on by Warsman's fiery rhetoric.

The few hundred gathered here for the Neomarch overwhelmed the now-declining numbers of supposedly anti-Neomachist protesters scattering before the sound of a gunshot and the reaction of those in front of them. It seemed as if they were snapped out of a daze, brought back to sanity and knowledge of fear.

The riot police expecting this to eventually happen immediately responded, shuffling into position and allowing those fleeing in terror to pass. What they received from the Neomarch was nothing short of horrifying.

Hundreds of men and women, with looted weapons and homemade bombs, assaulted the police line with unmitigated force, pounding at the shields and armor where they could find it. The Neomarch had begun its ascension to power, as Warsman's life hung in the balance.

Upon helping the police subdue the miscreants with everything from sleeping gas to high-tech pepper spray, and after rescuing as many civilians as he could from being trampled underfoot, Night Warden retreated back to Chase Chateau and hung up his armor, the Miraculum had worn off by now, and he staggered upstairs fatigued to collapse into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, his resolve was strengthened more than ever to restore order, the costume could be someone else's duty for a while, he would strive to reach to the highest levels of the system to foster prosperity, as a commissioner, mayor, or politician.

There was just the matter of grooming his heir to the mantle of Night Warden...

@thisisgonnahurt:

BLAM!

A gunshot rang out. It was a sign for everyone to start. The crowd screamed, chaos ensued, people trampled on each other like wildebeests. There was no way he was going to catch gunman from this position. From down there, he couldn’t even see where the bullet came from. It was best if he focused on saving the Warsman.

His reputation needs to be destroyed first. He needs to be humiliated. If he died now. He becomes a martyr. People’s ideas outlive them that way. Only when his followers leave, when his thoughts lose power over others, then he dies.

Donn tried to get through the crowd. They all moved in different directions in panic. It was below human. Instinctive. Fight or flight. They flew. They fought The people were cornered animals who knew they were going through the meat grinder, trying to escape any chance they got or kicking back. That what their brains told them.

There was no way he was going to get through this way. Breathing was nearly impossible. He would have to do something else, something harsher. Now he was glad he didn’t wear the suit. Roaring, he smashed the sign into the nearest person’s back, knocking them down. He kept hitting them until the sign broke into two pieces, then he threw it and started using his baseball bat.

Teeth flew, bones cracked, concussions were created. He plowed through every single one of them. Clawing at the crowd. Someone might have confused him for a wild predator. Women. Men. Old. Young. It didn’t matter if they were fighting or trying to escape.

They were in his way.

Donn finally climbed up the stage, his gloves were covered in the blood of others and so was his jacket and baseball bat. Some of his footsoldiers seemed hasty. He dropped the baseball bat and got on his knees, placing his hands behind his head. “I used to be an army medic. WIth his traffic, he’ll never make it to the hospital. If I don’t help him, he’ll die.” He looked at the blood spilling over the ground. “I think it hit his kidney. I need to stop the bleeding. Let me help. Now.”

@thisisgonnahurt:

*Blam!*

Elsewhere in Chiraq

In the center of Chicago stood the second largest skyscraper in the US - The Willis Tower. One of the floors was stripped bare for reconstruction. It was there that CALLSIGN: Odin nested to supervise his operation. His shoulder-long hair darker than the feathers of a raven and his tailored suit as black as Iraqi oil, Odin retracted his binoculars and moved to make his own departure. "Good. Good, disappear. Troyka, status?" Meanwhile, across from the city completely was the Burnham Harbor and at it's end a private facility. Property of a PMC that made Blackwater's tours look like family road trips. They owed this in no small part to reverse-engineering equipment illegally obtained from various crisis points across the globe. But today, one of their storage houses was eerily quiet. It's staff massacred in an expert show of stealth predacity.

@thisisgonnahurt:

The walk to the door of the hotel didn’t last long but when I finally walked out of that door the political rally had changed. With the adherents of the Neomachy and the citizens of Chicago now fighting against each other. I was surprised by the sudden turn of events, to say the least watching as both groups beat and shot each other for a moment not knowing what to do. But that soon changed as I used a nearby puddle of water and manipulated it over a portion of my face and freezing it hiding my identity behind ice and I pulled out my daggers preparing to get to work.

I looked over the situation for a moment whispering a quick,” Damn it,” a massive use of my powers here would stop the riot but would end up injuring the innocent and the guilty alike. So the most I could do was disable the weapons and keep as many people alive as possible. The guns would have to go first as shots went off and went into the Neomachy and protesters alike bleeding out onto the ground from their wounds. Each swing of the dagger as I rushed through the crowd was aimed at cutting through as many guns as possible disabling them and hopefully saving people in the short term at least from being killed instantly buying me time to come up with a more substantial plan.

Guns were still going off around me proving my efforts were not enough leaving me one option as gas began to fall around me. Manipulating the water underneath me in the sewers and with a massive buildup of pressure for a moment the ground shook as some maintained their balance and others fell as the water from below appeared and hovered around me for a moment before pushing it outwards. The odds were that it would send most of them to the ground but it wouldn’t be nearly as damaging as draining or freezing them. As I caught my breath for a moment before trying to disable their weapons again and maybe stop the bleeding of some the surrounding victims.

@lowlaville: @orange_water: @kaede_: @nightwarden17: @thisisgonnahurt: @hound_of_war:

She watched from above; she saw better from a distance. This was people standing up for humanity, fighting a potential tyrant. They were turning on each other, too, and that was alright for a few minutes. This was chaos in its purest form. All it took was a gunshot to remind them of their base roots. They were reacting to violence with violence, not words. There would be no winner.

And that was alright. Fight for your humanity, the now prone man said. He probably wasn't expecting this. Someone from a distance had marked him as a target and shut him up - maybe for good. Note to self. At the end of this, shake that guy's hand.

Another guy was plowing through the turmoil. What's he think he's doing? As it turned out, he was going to the "Warsman's" side. Her eyes turned to the outside of the writhing circle around the podium, to the police line. People fighting alongside the fascists. No, dammit, that's not what you're supposed to be doing. They were caught between a rock and a hard place, these people, and they chose the worse of the two. At least freedom and humanity have room to grow in the democracy. Eventually it'll disintegrate into a more maneuverable form. Fascism doesn't do that. These "Neomarchs" won't do that. They're too structured. It'd be the last hope.

She'd wanted to take advantage of the situation to do a bit of her own rebellion in the form of art, but these people needed a leader. She didn't want to lead them, just sort of nudge them back in the right direction before joining their ranks. She wasn't a leader, but she wasn't a follower, either. A lost, confused, riotous crowd was as anarchic as they came, but the Neomarch was already coming in to call on the human pack instinct, to try to make them accept a leader. And the lost, confused people would be glad for it.

Better me than them.

Besides, the cops were human too. They were "just doing their job", something she didn't always agree with but would have to for today. The Neomarch didn't have to do this, they wanted to. It was for their fanatical ideals. Now, there was nobody saying the Arachnid Artist of Anarchy wasn't a fanatic, but this was too far, even for her. I'm willing to wait. They're not.

Finally the Artist made her move. She dropped towards the ground, flicking her wrist to catch herself on a web now attached to a nearby light post. She landed in the middle of the sandwich, releasing her web and slinging her bag off her shoulder. She crouched in the middle of the chaos and unzipped it, pulling out a shade of what most people perceived as "red". It was far more intricate than that, but it would get the message across, as she turned towards the Neolites and shook the can. Her eyes shone under the mask. Time for a little anarchy.

She wouldn't use her slingers, she wouldn't deal blows unless that's what it came to. She was just another person, another human, fighting for her humanity. Democracy had one thing straight - it was self-evident that all men are created equal. She was determined to prove that she could battle on the level of equality of any of the monsters in front of her. No, not battle. Just fight, brawl, if it came down to it. But even that wasn't needed yet. She got to her feet and pressed her finger on the trigger before making her charge into the fray, intending to at least inhibit those who were leading the brutal attack on the wall of riot police.

Fight for your humanity.

For your freedom.

For anarchy.

@hound_of_war:

For a fleeting second, the Neotemplars held the man at gunpoint for approaching their leader. They lowered their weapons as soon as that fearless man took to his feet, dwarfing all who gathered around him as he drew himself up to his full height. His elephantine limbs moved in terrifying unison and speed, gripping the collar of the disguised Donn's jacket but not hauling him up off his feet or slowing him down in any way. The crimson glimmer of his masked face reflected something deeper than raw hatred in his stomach, or pain in the blown-out kidney he suffered. He huffed and chugged in agony.

"If you have the skills to mend me, then you will do it while I am speaking the truth to the people,"

He unceremoniously let go of Donn's collar, and marched straight towards the podium from where he was sniped - without fear and disregarding all that had transpired before this moment of total and utter anarchy. This was not what was meant for the Neomarch.

He took the microphone in his hand, and spoke clearly in an unbroken mental strand despite the blood seeping from his abdomen. If Donn would find anything as he operated on the leader of the Neomarch, he would see Warsman's burned-red skin barely resembling the epidermis of normal humans. These were the scars of a metahuman battle that claimed his family in the fatalities. He had not been so fortunate.

"Neolites! NEOLITES!" the effort in straining his voice jettisoned some arterial blood as his diaphragm expanded with the power of his words.

The rioting seemed to quiet. Those struck senseless by the so-called "heroes" were cradled by their familiars, loved ones, or friends that had joined them in this crusade the Neomarch promised. And it would deliver. Such was the strength in their leader. They gathered, leaving the refuse of their outburst behind and a large number of very confused riot police in their wake.

Warsman's standing operation to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding would be without anesthesia of any kind; he refused it for the greater whole of respect he felt for the common men and women standing in front of him. His speech would go unblemished, even as he gnashed his teeth through the searing pain.

"You have a right to be reactionary with your violence. It is warranted. It is understandable. But it is leveled against the wrong people. Those riot police? They are merely doing their jobs. Thankless and bloodied for it. Whoever pulled the trigger and tried to end my life? He should have brought more bullets," a laugh.

"But this is not what the Neomarch is. We are not reactionists. That would mean we have allowed others to take action against us. To wrong us first. Have we not already watched the world turn too quickly? Seen too many good men and women die because of the negligence of metahumans? The powers of nuclear weapons in the smallest of gestures, and they would use that power to claim a modicum of responsibility in maintaining our lives for us? Have we not slaved away at the whims of godlike beings for long enough? We are humans, with human blood - human guts!"

He raised his hand he clenched his wound with earlier, revealing the coagulating blood of his own being for all to see.

"We have red blood coursing through our veins, hot blood that boils when we see our children in peril - when we see wrongs going unopposed. The days of human culture are coming to a close. Soon it will be an age where metahumans clash for territory like squabbling animals, where we are but morsels to line their wallets or trophy racks. I say that we are not beasts - we are human! Stand up for what you believe in! Empower laws against negligent metahumans! Bring to light the atrocities committed every day that have become secondary news! Fight for your humanity!"

The roar of the crowd, and the imitation of excellence as a can of red spray paint was passed around. All who could adopted a coat of it on their hands and raised them up high in honor of their leader's blood oath for their lives and future.

The Neomarch was just beginning to gain steam.

@thisisgonnahurt:

What a liar.

Another can of red spray paint lowered, a white-clad figure shouting above the crowd. White eyes perceiving a cacophony of shades in the blood on the Warsman's hand, on the hands of the Neomarch. A figure shouldering its way through the crowd to close in on the podium, to be as close to the Warsman as possible, to have her voice heard. A hand went to her hood and flipped it down, then pulled the mask off her face. to look up at him. She didn't spray her hand, didn't hold it up. Eyes beyond that of any man narrowed up at him. She wanted to speak out, wanted to call out his untruth. He's just a chessmaster, and these are his pawns. She didn't believe that he himself believed a word he was saying.

Metahumans aren't the only ones being reckless. Look at men, ordinary men, otherwise powerless men, standing above the people. Using them, ready to discard them. She knew he wouldn't hear her thoughts, and knew he wouldn't hear her voice above the shout of the people. These people... poor unfortunate souls who couldn't see. Didn't know. This had happened before. Hundreds of times, hundreds of men stood above thousands of people and said the same words in different languages. Laws aren't going to change anything. Arms? Maybe. But look around you. Men like you are exactly the same as the metahumans who get away with the worst destruction because it's for "the good of humanity". Metahumans aren't going to be the only ones fighting over territory. Metahumans are human, too. Look down, Warsman. Look down at me and look. I have the same blood as you. My ancestors sprung up alongside yours in an age before man can remember. At one time, my ancestors fought beside yours. My ancestors were human, like you. My descendants are likely to be human, like you. Men beget metas. Metas beget men. Life turns, the world turns. Somebody always comes out on top of somebody else. The people are always in the middle, if not the bottom. You're fighting for your humanity, not theirs. Not ours. My bones are yours. My blood is yours. Every hair on my head is as human as yours. If you realized that you wouldn't be calling out the metahumans alone. You wouldn't be blaming those of us who fate, chance, or destiny has given power. Power, yes, to rise above. But you have that power too. And you'll use it, when you have the chance.

Order was restored, and she knew she had nothing left here. Her mask was placed back on her head, followed by her hood, as she turned her back to the head of the Neomarch. A tiny "clunk" was inaudible to the crowd as a "red" spray-paint can, crushed under the hand of a passionate metahuman who wanted as much as these people to fight for her humanity. A metahuman who shouldered her way back through the crowd, and would be gone, if none stopped her.

@stomatopoda: @orange_water: @kaede_: @nightwarden17: @thisisgonnahurt: @hound_of_war:

Ivana had now reached her dorm and had settled down on her bed, but she noticed that the people she instigated, they were now on their own. The spell seemed to have been dispelled. She heard him talk.

"Trace it back to wherever it came from. Make it public news. The people have a right to know that their lives are being toyed with even now,"

So, they meant to track her down, did they? It's not that Ivana doubted their ability to do so, and do to that would be welcoming. This riot was going to be fun after all.

Inside the quiet and serenity of her Dorm in Millenium Academy, Ivana took a more proactive stance on meddling with the affairs ongoing in Chicago. A strand of her consciousness searched for a viable host through a sea of heroes, civilians, riot police and the Neomarch engaged in a cacophony of voices, roars, and chaos. Ivana missed this, it was similar to back when she instigated a civil war in Shea. Those were good days.

Ivana came across a mind in a hotel close by, a Naga named Aleenah dressed (disguised) as a human being. Perfect. Her consciousness sank into the Naga's.

Don't let a petty human dictate your actions. Humans are your prey. Ivana assured as she assumed control of Aleenah, replacing Aleenah's mind with her own. Now, the fun could begin. Ivana probed the Naga's mind, acquiring information and memories from her, before dressing up and heading downstairs "I'm pretty sure it's raining outside..." Alinah smiled, grabbing her umbrella before stepping outside.

It did indeed start to rain right at that very moment. A Naga's eccentric ability to initiate a downpour over the city of Chicago. It was November, and the skies were always gray. It was easy to make it rain. Aleenah walked along the sidewalk, avoiding the crowds, but steadily making towards the stage. She was going to have a word with Warsman. Tell him he was making a mistake by trying to seek her out. And if he did not listen, he could always remove the man from the scene entirely.

Walking down the street in nothing more than in a hoodie and some rags as an excuse for clothing, a backpack slung over his shoulder containing his Hitman paraphernalia and suit. He listened any popular musical tunes on Spotify through the earbuds connected to his phones as he trudged along with his hands in his pockets. He was on the move again, more accurately, on the run. His old pad was gone now, riddled now with even more bullets then the bodies of the boys in blue as they tried to crack down on him. He escaped, taking with him a bag filled with weapons, money, drugs, a pack of cigarettes and his tactical spandex suit. Other than that, he had nothing more than the clothes on his back.

Walking down the street, obviously angry at what had happened to him and his "pad", he continued along until he heard gunshots. Then an uproar, a cacophony of yelling and fighting as he walked down the sidewalk. He removed his hood from his scarred head and removed the earbuds, looking to his right as he did so. There he was a pretty much saw a half-hearted flufffest. Civilians fighting some wannabe fascists, while they themselves fought for their leader. Honestly, he didn’t know what was going on and honestly didn’t care all that much. He would have kept walking down if his attention was drawn again by the multitude of costumed heroes that had shown up.

Huh. Maybe this is gonna be more interesting than I thought.

(Let’s stay and watch the blood bath! We should have brought some popcorn though…)

[I'm not so sure. This doesn’t seem like any normal protest. Look at the bodyguards around the ringleader.]

Indeed the Hyper-Sane did and took notice to their weapons and attires, how they stood and how they were cenetred around the leader of this insanity. They weren’t just thugs with an aptitude with deadly firearms, these were trained soldiers, or, at least, looked the part. Hitman’s raised a nonexistents eyebrow and grinned. Maybe he could have little fun, too. Everybody else was; why couldn’t he? Besides, it had been awhile since he had been in a scrap.

*BANG*

Then, he heard the shot. The one that somehow rang louder than all the others. And, in an instant, the Neomarch’s leader, Warsman, fell. Hitman thought he was dead. Seems somebody had enough of his crap. And the Misfit with a Mouth would have walked away, if he hadn’t saw what he did. Warsman got back up. Despite his wound and the catering of his own men, he got back up and preached on. And what he said next really passed Hitman off.

"You have a right to be reactionary with your violence. It is warranted. It is understandable. But it is leveled against the wrong people. Those riot police? They are merely doing their jobs. Thankless and bloodied for it. Whoever pulled the trigger and tried to end my life? He should have brought more bullets," a laugh.

"But this is not what the Neomarch is. We are not reactionists. That would mean we have allowed others to take action against us. To wrong us first. Have we not already watched the world turn too quickly? Seen too many good men and women die because of the negligence of metahumans? The powers of nuclear weapons in the smallest of gestures, and they would use that power to claim a modicum of responsibility in maintaining our lives for us? Have we not slaved away at the whims of godlike beings for long enough? We are humans, with human blood - human guts!"

He raised his hand he clenched his wound with earlier, revealing the coagulating blood of his own being for all to see.

"We have red blood coursing through our veins, hot blood that boils when we see our children in peril - when we see wrongs going unopposed. The days of human culture are coming to a close. Soon it will be an age where metahumans clash for territory like squabbling animals, where we are but morsels to line their wallets or trophy racks. I say that we are not beasts - we are human! Stand up for what you believe in! Empower laws against negligent metahumans! Bring to light the atrocities committed every day that have become secondary news! Fight for your humanity!"

“Screw you, motherfluffer,” the Amateur Anti-Hero declared, his hate for these fascist wannabes growing with every moment, "I don't need you telling me how to do my job."

He ran, looking for place to change, and his eyes rested upon a phone booth. Quickly changing from his civilian clothes to his red costumes took several minutes, all of which more events transpired without his notice, such as the spider kid staring down Warsman or the fact that it started raining without cause or reason. Finally finishing up, opened up the phone booth and ran out in the rain, suing his inhuman strength and agility to leap over the police that were attempting to curb the riot into the fray, straight towards the Neomarch’s now injured leader, unloading bullets from his twin Glocks into all that opposed him, namely the Neolites. Running out of bullets, he placed the guns back into their respective holsters and whipped out his twin katanas, leaving a trail human entrails, limbs, and decapitated heads.

That ashhole just can’t die like the rest of these NPCs. Seriously, how is he still standing?

(Same could be said of you.)

Oh, shut up!

[Why are we even doing this? Let some other meta take care of this.]

You mean those other metas who are half-ashing this? Seriously, Nightwarden left in, like, two posts to sate his drug addiction or whatever. And that spider chick up and left without even laying a finger on him. This is bullshot. Is nobody gonna do a little ash-whuppin'? Ugh. Amateurs.

[We need to get past his bodyguards. Still got a grenade on you?]

Never leave home without one!

Placing both of his blades safely into the guts of another acolyte, Hitman grabbed a grenade from his utility belt. He looked up at the stage and pulled the pin out of the grenade, holding it in his hand as he readied to throw the frag.

“Pineapple surprise!!! Die, batches!!!” Hitman gave his war cry moments before he threw the grenade at the Neotemplars situated near Warsman. His aim was not to kill the Warsman, not yet anyway. Instead, he planned to take out his little posse.

If not halted in its flight towards the Neotemplars, the grenade would land within a few feet of them or so and detonate within moments, dispersing lethal shrapnel among the soldiers. While that was occurring, Hitman would pull his katanas from the dead body of another Neolite and would attempt to make his way up onto the stage and to Warsman, fully prepared to fight any Neotemplars that may or may not be standing.

As he continued upon his destination, Hitman couldn’t resist the chance to have a conservation with the Neomarchy’s leader.

“Hello, Warsy. Can I call you Warsy? Me and my twin sisters of doom would like to have a conversation with you, if ya' don't mind," the Maniacal Merc chuckled, his eyes full of lunacy and insanity as he made his approach.

Jason had already preformed a bit of a test in Chicago not too long ago. So it wasn't difficult to get around pretty quickly. This little...scenario, was one he intended on making considerable use of.

He analyzed the scenario first, merging with the crowd at first, keeping tabs on each time a hero showed up. His Discord armory hidden under his coat and his Particle Beam rifle in pieces behind his back. Every hero, every citizen, every cop, every villain, he had already begun to memorize their movements and learn their weaknesses as the stage-man rattled on. The very first he wanted to get rid of was Orange Water due to his particular powers, but that might mean his first shots wouldn't have enough of an impact. Rather he departed as if in a hurry where the police let him by.

Fools all of them. But this is a great chance to get started. He thought stepping into an alley and lifting his mask and goggles onto his face while removing his jacket to reveal his armory. Here we go.

He grabbed the wall with his left arm and flung himself up grabbing once more to make sure he reached the top of the building particle beam rifle in hand. He took a few steps aiming down and without so much as pausing pulled the trigger sending the atom disrupting high energy beam straight towards the chest of @hitman_ followed almost right after by another aimed at @orange_waters head.

If I can give these "Neomarchists" any sort of hold in Chicago it'll create just a bit of extra conflict, and hopefully increase their influence further. If that happens it's possible they could create enough strife to hurry evolution just a little bit further. If not, ah well, they did just a bit of damage already and even if minor they may effect things to come.

@hitman_: @jason_ford:@thisisgonnahurt: @lowlaville: @hound_of_war: @stomatopoda:

I didn't have time to deal with this stupid crap as I kneeled down next to another victim and using some nearby water to cauterize the bleeding wounds of protesters and members of the Neomachy alike some wished to deny my help or gave me a mean stare as I helped either a protester or the Neomachy. But there was still one answer I didn't know as both sides blamed each other for the violence and I didn't have time to sort out who was at fault here so using the remaining water I gave them makeshift restraints to the ground covering the keeping them in place with icy restraints. All in all of this group several of them had died due to the violence and me moving far too slowly,"In another hour the authorities will sort you out because I don't have time to do it myself." Several yelled back giving excuses, reasons as to why this all happened or just calling me a horrible person in their own way. Don't worry I already know I'm a horrible person...

It did indeed start to rain right at that very moment. A Naga's eccentric ability to initiate a downpour over the city of Chicago. It was November, and the skies were always gray. It was easy to make it rain. Aleenah walked along the sidewalk, avoiding the crowds, but steadily making towards the stage. She was going to have a word with Warsman. Tell him he was making a mistake by trying to seek her out. And if he did not listen, he could always remove the man from the scene entirely.

As I began to walk away from the pacified group the situation suddenly changed again when a raindrop fell on top of my head but it wasn't supposed to rain tonight was it? With that question, I turned my head back towards the hotel room where I had left Aleenah only to now see it was empty and this now becoming a serious problem if she's not found ruining everything and possibly getting herself killed. I scanned the area for any sign of her but I was out of luck she hadn't revealed her true form and thus had blended in with the crowd,"Damn it Aleenah!!!!" But suddenly to make the situation much worse another shot went off not aimed at me but this weapon didn't sound any good to me either.

He grabbed the wall with his left arm and flung himself up grabbing once more to make sure he reached the top of the building particle beam rifle in hand. He took a few steps aiming down and without so much as pausing pulled the trigger sending the atom disrupting high energy beam straight towards the chest of @hitman_ followed almost right after by another aimed at @orange_waters head.

Looking up towards the noise I could barely see the person looking down onto the riot from the rooftops if not for my power to sense the water inside and now outside of his body I wouldn't have noticed but suddenly the shot rang out again as I dived to take cover on the ground. While the bullet or laser zoomed past my head the force and heat were still felt as the ice melted on my face leaving my face slightly burned,"God damn it what the fracking hell!?!!?" For a moment my hand reached up to my face now burned because of an assassins choice of weapon with pain surging through my body as I touched it but it didn't matter my healing factor would take care of it soon enough but now I had to respond and find Aleenah but I can't do that with a sniper shooting at me. But Aleenah's use of her powers had helped me more than I could realize a moment ago having the general area where the sniper was perched I would turn the falling rain into hail hopefully making him retreat for a moment and give me the chance to figure everything else out as I ran through the riot stopping who I could from kill each other and find Aleenah before something stupid happened.

The Neoarch clenched his teeth behind the mask, watching the attempt on his life result in the deaths of many of his followers. The perpetrator assumed a dominant position upon his podium, his platform for change and progress for humanity as a whole. This was truly what the metahuman community wanted for humanity, it would seem. To strangle all forms of different opinion, to turn the voices of the masses into a blood-choked murmur.

"You are doing nothing save proving my point, killer," Warsman grunted through the pain. "The blood of innocent people is on your hands. I know you don't have the empathy for it, but you have paved the way for progress - something you cannot comprehend,"

He ignored all such threats the assassin made, instead moving towards the people that were dismembered or outright killed by the maniac. He bade Daedalus follow him, the strange un-human eyes of the cybernetic wonder recording the carnage for all to see. It was the aftermath of a bomb going off, the shrapnel of a well-timed grenade opening faces and exposing bone. Heads rolling in the streets. Blood clogging the storm drains. With or without the impromptu nephrectomy on the behalf of the man who offered to save his life, he would give a strict command to all who were able to stand: gather the wounded, and take them to safety. The Neotemplars, momentarily rocked by the point-blank explosion brought on by the devastating grenade, were broken - but not worthless yet.

With splintered bones and cracked skin, one even shuffling around without a right arm, they hurried to the mass evacuation efforts as emergency vehicles surrounded the area. The riot had become violent, and ironically the Neomarch were not to blame. It was clear as day the metahumans who had involved themselves perpetrated most if not all of the violence seen today, even if the evidence collected would come to light later. Groups of anti-Neomarch supporters rallied around the ambulances trying desperately to ferry away the wounded to emergency centers. The dead were covered and locked inside of other such vehicles. Of Warsman himself, he turned to the encroaching hordes of barbaric protesters.

The Neomarch survived on violence, and it would recover from this. It was the rule of the political system that the weak ideas of lesser individuals be stamped out. People without the moral fiber to spit in the face of adversity would be forgotten and trampled. His followers were wounded. His flock was in peril, his pack of wolves surrounded by vicious scavengers on the edge of fertile hunting grounds. These were the days the Neomarch would be tested on a level most profoundly like their own doctrine, where it would border on irony and inconvenience that they were unable to fight back most of the time. However, most of the time fighting such battles would be complete and utter folly. A battle is not worth fighting if it is suicidal, unless there is neither an alternative nor a means to turn it in the face of the aggressor.

Luckily, Warsman had plenty of ammunition for the latter such event.

"Remember this day, America," he said to the many cameras he knew would be upon his masked face.

"This is the day your founding fathers wept."

He coiled his fingers around a support pole to the back of a nearby ambulance, and stood upon its textured bumper. Freedom of speech, of expression, all gone and buried because of a few metahumans who wanted to flaunt their skills. These were dark days indeed, but necessary for the growth of humanity. Too long had it been in the dark, cornered into subservience to larger lifeforms with an almost predatory gaze looking down upon them. Polyphemus had gathered Odysseus and his crew in one such cavernous hold, intent on eating them one by one - until the Voyager King himself took out his eye with a fiery branch.

It all came back to basic human survival instinct, to turn injustices upon the perpetrators with interest. It would take some time, but the Neomarch could not have gotten stronger in the bloodbath that became of Chicago.