Bogeyman

@agent_sarah_castillo: @detective_whitaker: @_fissure_: @closure: @evander_slade:

For all the terror, the dread and the sensation of hopelessness his extranormal presence cast, it was the Stranger's visage, the cocktail of colors he wore and the cracked, runny layer of white clown makeup on his face that were his greatest weapons in psychological warfare. His green hair stringy and unkempt, his eyes black and featureless like dark tunnels designed to unsettle as his gaze, unblinking and unemotional, fell only on the man he dubbed "Chief", Evander Slade. One arm stretched beyond the limits of human biology, squeezing the life out of one of the Force's officers like a boa constrictor with it's prey, the Connoisseur simply stared, doing all he could to exploit the power of existential affirmation.

Doing all he could for the Chief to stare back into the eyes of he who sought to murder his colleague, for the Chief to meet his gaze and find no recognition of separateness or humanity, for him to find no face and no person, to shake his identity and strip away his sense of control. The makeup, the thick black rims round his eyes, the sloppily painted Glasgow smile that stretched from ear to ear, they were made in design. To form a mask. One that'd work with his esoteric presence and conjure unsettling terror in the minds of those who stared back at him. The Connoisseur's expression was blank, empty and numb, communicating and leaving his intentions, be they good or not, ambiguous. The brains of those who stared into his eyes wouldn't know how to react. They'd grow unsure as to which response best fit the stimuli the eyes fed them. Some parts of their brains would respond with fear, while others won't - and their brains would not why.

Here, now, as the Stranger held the Chief's gaze, he sought not to instill the typical fear response, no. Instead, the Connoisseur sought to instill feelings of uneasiness, of terror. For between the mountains of safety and danger, lied a valley of creepiness where the limits of trust and knowledge and security are simply not quite clear.

BLAM!

A car had been driven into him, it's bumper crashing hard into his torso and laying waste to his ribs courtesy of a quick-thinking detective's driving. With every breath, every single expansion of his lungs, the Connoisseur's chest was swarmed with hot grip of pain. His ribs were broken and his toe had been shot by the Chief moments prior. He'd lost his big toe, stripped of his balance and his ability to move normally. And now? His ribs were broken, his breathing was impaired, and his lungs and heart were more vulnerable to blunt force trauma. And as the car sped, it's engine roaring, the Stranger was on the verge of being run over. But he was quick to act, using his complete control over his own physiology to freely manipulate his own body structure, molding himself into a paper thin and flat monstrosity that slid under the car as it sped away. The concrete pavement on his back, he'd finally noticed it. His arm was no longer coiled round his victim and the Force'd been given a moment of reprieve.

Contorting and twisting his own body, the sound of creaking wood following his grotesque machinations of his own body as he lengthened his legs and arms and shrunk his torso, moving it's vital organs to elsewhere on his body. Resembling something of a makeshift spider, he was slow, lumbering forward, his long legs keeping him at a freakish 13 feet tall. He was bruised and bleeding, yet his eyes never left the Chief's. The car collision had dealt him more damage than he'd expected. If he was to continue, he could not revert to his previous humanoid body structure. One leg limped as he dragged himself forward, the Connoisseur's expression never changing as he focused on one word his foe had echoed time and again in their conflict. "Clown", he rasped, "Funny you mention that, Chief. Yeah... yeah I'm dressed as a clown. I have the makeup on", he deadpanned, "And yet, what kind of clown makes people feel miserable? Clowns, they're meant to elicit joy. I suppose you could say I don't make any sense".

"But see.. I do. I, Chief.. am a reflection of all of you. Of how truly ******* insane humanity is", the Stranger asserted, the pitch of his voice never wavering, his raspy monotone ever-present. "Humanity has a cognitive bias", he continued, drawing closer, "Illusory superiority. You like to think so highly of your positive qualities but you never acknowledge your negative ones. No.. of course you're the center of creation, of course the world revolves around you but... our negative qualities are always there. That darkness in the corner of our psyches. That part of you that wishes you could throw away the badge, steal from a bank and never be held accountable. That part of you that secretly wishes you could cheat on your wife and never be found out.. yeah. We all have it. But we don't acknowledge it. We.. reject an intrinsic part of ourselves and create these incomplete psychological apparatuses held back by what you all call morals", he almost grinned.

"But you and your potpourri of pathetic over there, you all take it a step further. You throw on badges and make a living out of defending these morals. You reinforce the status quo of people thinking only of their positive qualities. I may look like a clown, Chief.. but I recognize that the presence of injustice means there is no justice. That having to create laws and law enforcement to enforce them means there are no morals. Humanity, your society.. is just a ******* joke. And yet.. here you stand, staring down the barrel of a gun in the name of all that is good. That to me, Chief, is a clown". Ah but just then, a shock-wave rippled through the air, cutting all tension and all dread as it shattered the glass on buildings, shook windows, made the ground tremble and violently blasted the Stranger across the battlefield with an explosion of heat and sound. He was injured now. His body littered with open wounds and broken bones. He could not continue.

"I"LL KILL YOU!", he heard roared at him by an emerald she-beast. Groggy yet his features still held in earnest, the Connoisseur deadpanned, "Would you be surprised if I said you won't?", he asked, struggling to his feet, his long legs trembling before, in a last ditch effort, he spun round, flinging chunks of his own flesh in the form of large albino leeches that'd latch onto the flesh of every Force officer in the battlefield and suck out their bodily fluids, leaving dried and dead husks in their wake. But he could do nothing more, now in his condition, not as his legs could barely support him. Blood dripping, his respiratory system failing, the Connoisseur again altered his body structure, shrinking and thinning himself as he slid through the grates of a storm drain, escaping.

@detective_whitaker: @evander_slade: @special_agent_crews: @agent_sarah_castillo

Even as more Force agents arrived and seized the perimeter, the Connoisseur's expression remained empty, his face devoid of any visible reaction. Shoulders hanging forward, his back slouched, his dark eyes glancing at every single one of them, he all but ignored the demands made of him. BLAM! The gunshot echoed all about and the bullet tore through the air and into his big toe. Blood splattered on the concrete pavement, and the pain swarmed hot through his entire leg. Very nearly dropped to a single knee, the Stranger chuckled, his voice raspy as he once more gazed upon his foes, "Heh.. if you ask me, "Spread the word" is a poor choice of last words. But it's far from the dumbest shit you've done today", he deadpanned.

The Connoisseur's presence thickened, strengthening the haunting and traumatic sensation it cast. It was a misunderstood effect, a power that did not attack the mind or soul but consumed the deepest parts of one's emotional self. It fed off of the positive emotions of those around him, leaving the atmosphere cold and dead. And as he stood, toe wounded, his balance lost and his dark blood splattered about, an overpowering sensation of dread and hopelessness crept into the atmosphere and sought to extinguish every positive emotion from those present and maim the resolves of even the strongest of wills. He wanted them inert and dead inside, completely devoid of courage and the will to fight. But their leader, the man who dared open fire on him, oh him he wanted dead.

His arm shot out, extending to unnatural lengths from every joint. He sought to wrap his arm tight round the man's body, to coil around him like a boa constrictor does it's prey. One, two, three coils, the Connoisseur would not suffocate with his constriction, but shut off blood flow and oxygen needed by vital organs like the heart and brain. He would tighten, seek to interrupt blood flow and overwhelm the officer's normal blood pressure and circulation. His artery pressure'd drop while his vein pressure'd rise and his blood vessels'd close. He'd constrict and constrict till the heart no longer wielded the strength to pump against the pressure.. and the blood flow'd stop. The Stranger waited for no sign of success or failure, his other arm shooting out, stretching beyond what was normal as it sought to coil round the three officers who'd arrived.

To coil round them and command his cells to release a cruel digestive fluid, one that'd secrete through his skin and threaten to consume his foes by digesting their cells, all while daring to constrict them till their hearts stopped. "I hope they kids're watching at home, watching champions of man's illusory superiority suffer. Watching their idols drop as I play the role of Abraham... ah what. A. Rush", he rasped.

@cutthroatbitch: @evander_slade: @closure: @special_agent_crews: @detective_whitaker: @assassinatrix: @the_ghostshell:

There was a silence in the air, one that hung as thick as the psychoactive haze that'd taken the city hostage. Keeping his shoulders bowed and his back somewhat hunched, the Connoisseur's gaze pierced through the psychedelic mist, his unblinking eyes like endless dark tunnels as they held the veteran officer's silhouette in view. Motionless, and his pale features devoid of emotion, the Stranger's presence, the effect of his very existence, began to seep out his pores, darkening the atmosphere and making it grow cold. Frost steadily covered the walls of buildings around them, and the air misted when they breathed. And those around him would be forced to experience a haunting and all too traumatic sensation as his presence threatened to feed off of them.

Threatened to sap their emotional selves dry of their positive emotions. The officer whose hand reached for his pistol and commanded that he submit to a man-made law would feel depression probing at the borders of his being. The Connoisseur's presence thickened, casting an overwhelming sensation of dread and hopelessness that did it's damnest to break the officer's will, to bend his sanity, contort his emotions with dread and latch onto his psyche, to mangle it, to make him feel as though he will never know or feel joy and cheer again, to break him and leave a catatonic emotionally inept husk in it's wake. "Hrm.. you're one hell of a cop aren't you?", the Connoisseur rasped, his tone serious and monotone, his expression static, "Staring down the barrel of a gun and spewing that officer of the law bullsh*t.., and you're not even high out of your mind", he paused, "Unlike everyone else", the Connoisseur commended mockingly.

"Well, you're definitely on the ball today, guy. If you were a dog, I'd scratch your belly. And I don't think a "well done" will suffice. So I'm going to kill you, and record it so I can fall asleep to it every night", he deadpanned. Extending his arm, the sound of creaking of wood echoing as it extended from every joint, growing abnormally long until his palm covered the mouth of the officer's pistol, the Stranger goaded, "Go on. Shoot. I can't handle it, I'm a big boy". He was waiting. Waiting for a bullet to break into his palm and for his diseased blood to splatter on any patch of the officer's skin. His blood, it was a twisted and perverted concoction, one that carried a physical corruption. A sickness that killed within days without treatment. A sickness that broke the body with bouts of excruciating pain. That violently pushed the bones out against the skin.

That decayed the body, eroding the skin and breaking down organs into swollen sacs of rotting black puss. It'd emaciate the body and strip away the victim's sense of self while their eyes disappeared, leaving behind empty sockets covered in folds of blackened and rotting skin. All with a drop of his blood on the skin of another. All he'd need was his blood, wet on a victim's clothes for it to seep through the fabric and touch the skin underneath. It was what he craved. And as he stood, grinding his yellow hell-hound teeth, the Connoisseur asked, almost genuinely, "Where's the rest of your squad? I'm running on an empty stomach", he confessed, entirely serious.

@_grifter_: @closure: @special_agent_crews: @assassinatrix: @cutthroatbitch: @agent_sarah_castillo: @evander_slade: @the_ghostshell:

Atop the building, his curly toed shoes on the rooftop's edge, the Connoisseur cast his gaze below, his eyes thickly rimmed in black, unblinking as he waited for the passage of Kaede's truck. Explosive containers of 5-MeO-DMT, a powerful psychoactive agent, hid in every street corner and by the sides of buildings. And their remote detonator? In the Connoisseur's firm grasp as he stood silent, the air around him misting, and the atmosphere darkening and growing gloomy as though all sources of light had given way to airborne dread. His presence, it stretched across buildings, blanketing them and leeching off the positive emotions of those within them until they became no more than emotionally inert husks.

Cruel that he dried the emotional reserves of others and wore a sloppy red grin, one painted over a Glasgow smile that stretched from his mouth to his ears. Soon his ears perked, the distant sound of a speeding truck drawing his gaze to Kaede as she carved a path of destruction in her wake. He sense her, her emotional faculties, oh how she enjoyed the mayhem she wrought. Holding his features in earnest as he caught sight of the 21st century Amazon clinging to the side of a truck. Bringing his mobile radio to his lips, he alerted Kaede, rasping in his characteristic deadpan, "You know, if you want my personal opinion.. you don't seem to be having as much fun as the big b*tch hanging from the side of your truck". Instructing her to slip her gas mask on, the Connoisseur's thumb pressed down hard on the remote detonator and in street corner after street corner, there were chains of explosions, each one blasting copious amounts of gaseous 5-MeO-DMT into the air until clouds and a visible haze of the psychoactive agent hung thick in the atmosphere.

The gas'd seep in through the ventilation systems of his enemies' vehicles, and if breathed in, warp their worlds with shifts in perspective, psychoactive visuals, and the sensation of being sat on by an elephant. It'd heckle their brain chemistry and lure them into spending hours barely conscious and wondering "Why?" at the whims of the universe, all while the sky folds into itself and a light bulb explains the virtues of a good education. It would deal no direct harm to his foes, but to those it afflicted, 5-MeO-DMT would fling them into an incredibly vulnerable state, long enough for the Connoisseur to send his message. His legs extended at the joints, the sound of creaking wood echoing as he stretched his legs, extending them as he stepped into the streets below. Returning to his usual length, the Connoisseur strode onto the road, stopping firm in it's middle, and waiting for the arrival of the Force.

@closure: @evander_slade: @assassinatrix (And anyone who'd like to jump in)

There were rumblings, of a new breed of law enforcement, whose resources and ideology were tailored towards the threat of the metahuman. The Force. They enlisted all manner of people. Former officers of the law, soldiers, and even vigilantes and costumed heroes. They were the upholders of justice in a world that'd lost it's way, the guardians of a moral code that'd long since been the backbone of Western ethics. And they sickened him. Draped in a purple overcoat, his green and unkempt hair like wisps and strings, he strode forward, his shoulders bowed and his chin out and down. Mankind was mad, diseased by illusory superiority, by a cognitive bias to focus only on their positive qualities and rarely, if ever, acknowledge their negative ones.

And vigilantes, superheroes, and men and women like the Force, they were among society's worst. They believed themselves to be greater than they actually were. Theirs was an illusory superiority so strong they now upheld laws and moral codes that were false, social constructs used by man only to conceal the darker and more twisted aspects of their psyche. They were unhealthy, they refused a fundamental aspect of themselves, the darkness within, "The part of you that wishes you could rob a bank and get away with it. The part of you that wishes you could strangle your boss for humiliating you in front of your coworkers.. it's the darkest part of you. And the realest part of you", but a part humanity often neglects, robbing them of the chance to make their minds a complete and healthy psychic apparatus, one with the totality of their psyche.

Atop the building rooftop, the atmosphere grew dark and cold with his presence. The air misted, frost covered the ground and walls, and a haunting and traumatic sensation hung all about. His presence was strange. It leeched off the emotional self of others, sapping them dry of their positive emotions and leaving them with nothing but dread, as though they'd never feel cheerful again. The cracked and runny layer of white makeup seemed permanent, as though it were actually his skin, skin that had never reacted to the sun. His features held in earnest, he brought his high-powered binoculars to his eyes and gazed upon Station Phoenix from afar. "Hrm... there're two things I can't stand. Illusory superiority and a horrible fashion sense. No coincidence that heroes have both", he rasped, his gravely voice drowning out his sardonic wit. "Kaede...", he began, speaking into a portable radio, "Draw them out".

Feel better soon, bella.

I don't even know how she came across Marit Larsen because that is absolutely not her type of music, LMAO.

Done with all my posts. Not behind on anything.

Pecoraro Residence

The irony scent of blood hung thick in the air. The atmosphere was repugnant, and blood splattered the walls from which expensive French Renaissance portraits had fallen. Tables had been turned over, chairs broken, mirrors shattered as bloodied shards of glass were scatted across the tiled floor. The dead bodies of armed gangsters littered a room where red velvet-covered sofas and chairs had been torn and punctured. And in the midst of the chaos, as though he was an agent of it, the Connoisseur stood, his dapper Alexander McQueen ensemble stained with the blood of the victims of his homicidal spree. Bullet holes had left his shirt punctured, yet as he strode forward, the gunshot wounds on his pale, tattooed flesh began to heal.

Blood dripped from the diamond grills on his teeth, fresh from ripping out the artery from a gangster's neck. Slowly, he strode forward, his right hand holding the 'Bona-Fide Stud', a heavily customized handgun with a purple-finished slide and gold-plated frame. Gold inlaid engravings beautified the sides of it's frame and slide with textured ivory grip slabs stylized with a rose. His blue eyes seemed paler and empty, his features wearing an expression of a man emotionally detached from the crime he was committing. He didn't move with the peacocking swagger and brash cockiness of the wealth-absorbed mob boss he'd built his reputation as. Instead, his every movement was predatory, his pores oozing a quality of dread, his unique appearance telling not of a man who fashioned his own image and style... but of a subhuman killer whose abnormal body imagery tugged the mind of spectating eyes between the valleys of uncertainty and fear and into the depths of creepiness.

The soles of his designer Italian shoes clattered along the tiles, casting an uneasy presence in the air, and a feeling of inevitability for his one surviving victim; Bronson 'Pretty Boy' Pecoraro. Aged like fine wine and blessed with chiseled features that left women swooning, Bronson Pecoraro was a rival mob boss, one intent on disrupting the Mad Kingpin's plans to seize control of Gothic City. Based in California, he was not difficult to find. And now the man who'd risen to the top of the criminal underworld was semi-conscious in a corner, his back against the wall, his features bruised and bloodied, and his eyes swollen shut. "C-Con... we.. we *groan*.. we can work this out. You don't gotta pull the trigger man.. lemme help you out.. lemme-", ah but Bronson's words were cut short, the pain was unbearable, he couldn't help but groan as the agony dug into his bones.

"Shit... that looks like it hurts a lot. Are you alright?", the Connoisseur asked, his concern almost seeming genuine, "Course you not...", he chuckled lowly, "How can a fool ever be alright? In their mind a fool's all messed the f*** up. That's why you got a fool tryin'a tell the feds some shit about me when I was already a stock stealin' m******** before he even graduated from stealin' from gram-gram's purse", the Mad Kingpin paused. "Con, listen buddy... you're.. you're stressed okay? That ain't what happened that-", once more, Bronson was cut off, but by the Connoisseur this time. He took aim with his gun and his tone grew whimsical as he spoke in song, invoking the lyrics of the hook to a favorite hip hop song of his.

"In the ciiity of big dreams and bright lights.."
"Well what'cha see is what'cha get so m********** look twice"
"Hard times, just tryn'a get by"
"I remembah a night when I was tryn'a get high"
"So much stress.."

BLAM! He'd shot him. A fin-stabilized hypersonic dart through the brain, and he was dead.

@antidoll:

As neon lights flickered about threatening to suck any and everyone into frantic seizures, the Connoisseur's blood red lips sucked on the end of a Montecristo No. 2 Cuban cigar, blowing a cloud of rich smoke into air that smelled of strong liquor and the body glitter of strippers. "Another drink, boss?", Dwayne asked, turning round to face the Mad G, his dark eyes gazing upon him from behind the dark lenses of his indoor sunglasses. Arms held at his sides, Dwayne was among the Connoisseur's most loyal thugs. Dressed in an Ermenegildo Zegna ensemble that clung to his towering and hulking frame, and a thick beard that left him as generic as every bald-headed man with a beard, Dwayne's defining trait was his loyalty... and fear of the Connoisseur.

"What?", the Billion Dollar Boss began, scowling in disgust, his stark blue eyes meeting Dwayne's, "WHAT!!? You know who I am? You talkin' to the Hublot wearin', Montecristo smokin', free market healthcare robbin', fund f*****, Quicksilver ridin', politician ownin' son of a gun! Pour me a f***** drink for I pop you like I pop my collar", he demanded, seething through his grills, the deranged tics of a volatile sociopath marring his pale and tattooed features. And as Dwayne complied, pouring the Connoisseur a glass of Johnnie Walker's Blue Label, the Dirtiest Player In The Game exhaled and with a switch.. his demeanor shifted and welcomed his swaggering cockiness once more. And as he sat in wait for the Antidoll sisters, the Connoisseur drowned himself in alcohol, burdening his immune system with preventing the death of his liver, something his genes were well adapted for.

Finally, accompanied by their entourage, the Antidoll sisters had arrived, their presence vibrant and wild. "You're goddamn right it's that sexy import. But it's no import! That whip is one of a kind, paid by me to be made for me so I can run over the next lame dressed in a rubber bat costume while sniffin' coke off the steering wheel", he cackled, "Oh shit..", wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, his laughter dying down as he met the offered fist with his own. After offering a seat, the Connoisseur began, "Gothic will rebuild! Gothic will rise again! Gothic will be this and that, we've all heard the PBS specials from all the altruists and oh so good hearted philanthropists but let's look at the f****** facts. That shithole'll always be a criminal hub. I mean, f***, it's not even rebuilt yet and we're already plannin' on how to take over! Don Corleone and I already rolled out our resources to "help" rebuild it and put our boys in the local government!".

"You want presence, I want influence. You be my eyes and ears in the streets. You, Don Corleone and I will do business with one another. Scratchin' your back while you scratch ours. We collect percentages from your rackets and shit, and we free any of your boys who are in prison. Matter of fact, your boys won't even be goin' to prison! BUT!", the Connoisseur emphasized, "One thing must be crystal f***** clear. We're in this game together. So we're playin' it smart. We got our boys in high places but I don't eveeeer wanna get a call from anyone tellin' me they couldn't do nothin' to keep my assets from bein' frozen. So while we'll be pullin' the strings of these laws for ya, Don Corleone and I are gonna need you to make sure your boys don't get arrested too often. But seein' how it's Gothic and there's like.... what... three cops there? You'll have to worry more about bat costumes than law enforcement".