★ FIXEDPOWER, A WRITING BLOG FALLING UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF @CAPEHOOD. PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT UNLESS AFFILIATED. ⚠ VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. 21+
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it had been weeks since ghost stepped foot in the warehouse the sevens called home, nights these days spent on the job, working, stalking, killing. it’s the cost of success, of being good at his job, (or at least that's what he tells himself) contracts and contacts almost always hitting his line, keeping him busy. and if he’s completely honest with himself? a part of him likes it that way. he wasn’t built for this… for them. to be regarded and regard others. its been years and still, the care he has for them fits wrong, like a suit that's been tailored for a man different than him, stretched over his body, tight and restrictive. he doesn’t know how to move with it, with the concern that he has for them ⎯ so instead he lets the time pileup. he’s never regretted that more than now. he doesn’t know how any of them have fared in the darkness. is everyone okay? safe? are there any injuries or even worse, casualties? ghost hasn't let himself think about it. he swallows roughly as he lets himself in, morning light barely peeking through the horizon. his body is heavy with emotions he’s sealed up tight and he could almost sink into how it feels to cross the threshold. “anyone home?”
as far as fortresses go, this is the best lucky can do given the short amount of time he had tonight ... and to give himself time to breathe and recover from the wounds he has sustained so far. he was only supposed to be out looking for his father when they attacked, leaving him scrambling for the theater. frankly, the zombies and bat monsters are not much of a challenge for him; what really trips him up is the dark.
it’s so fucking dark. it’s different from the usual nightfall they get—there are no stars and no moon to provide light. the sky seems too far and too vast when he looks up. bad fucking news for him; there’s only so much light he can use without the open sky.
by the flickering light of the theater’s facade, where he is perched like a watchful eye for the next horde, he sees movement. his eyebrows furrow as he tries to make them out. " hey, if you need someplace safe, just run up and come inside! quick! " he shouts. unfortunately, he wasn't the only one looking down at them. in a split second, he reaches a hand out to shoot a beam of pure light at the dark sky which sent down something with a shriek and a wet thud. another bat monster, this one even bigger than the last he took down. the theater facade flickers more aggressively as it tries to supply his light. fuck, this plan is not gonna last long. " or are you here to help? i could use some of that, too. "
it's chaos. pure, unadulterated chaos. everywhere he looks there seems to be monsters, fucked up overgrown bats with horns grotesque and zombies who's rotting flesh somehow withstands even the hardest of hits. it's unlike anything ghost has ever dealt with before, signature of these creatures old, ancient ⎯ he's killed one now, body covered in the residue that lies within their veins, thick black tar dripping from his skin, breath heavy and labored.
he's making his way to his safe house, or trying to anyways, every route, every road that leads to safety, crawling in them. he's lucky that he had a weapon on him when everything went to shit but his luck is running out : the gun and accompanying bullets he had were enough for a shootout, not some apocalypse turned demonic. magazine is exchanged now, last clip entered. he's so caught up that he almost doesn't hear it, the shout from the theater promising refuge getting lost amongst the screams of demons, but thank god he does ⎯ another step forward and he would've run into another horde. it's with unsteady feet that he makes way towards the entrance, theater door nearly ripped off it's hinges in his attempt to enter as the night sky erupts in brightness. just as quickly as he's forced himself in, the door is slammed shut and only then, with something in between him and hell the world has turned to does he let out a breath. and then he's aiming his gun, barrel pointed at the one who led him in. "what the fuck was that, are you that light?" he can't help the distrust, it's instinctive.
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there's a soft rustle of leaves as the wind moves through the air, pale moonlight that's trickling amid branches causing shadows to dance on the sidewalk beneath him. in grand miracle park everything is silent, the only thing you can hear for miles being the nature that surrounds you ⎯ the best of halcyon retired to their beds, alarms set and schedules carefully kept. it's only a certain kind of person who is still awake at this hour, thrill seekers, who have found their place in a club or bar, or somewhere else they can get into trouble, overthinkers, whose pink matter never lets them settle or rest, there are the insomniacs, the creatives, the workaholics ; ghost subscribes to none, his reason for his being awake far more sinister. it lies at his feet now, red, bloodied, and broken, just as requested. fingers are stained as he presses them to the juncture of their neck, little flutter of life barely there, but there nonetheless. tonight's job didn't call for subtlety, made obvious in how he's displayed his target, arms and legs outstretched, body left half dead after a beating. he's even gone further than usual, leaving a little mark to denote it's him who's left this here, though that small detail wasn't for his client, no, that was for one person and one person only. for renaissance. @savioresque. his other half. his opposite. young man who chose good, when he himself chose otherwise. he wasn't sure what started first, him leaving signs for them or them looking for them, but now it's habit. he gets a job he can play with? and he does it just for him, 'find me' whispered for their ears alone. he takes another a minute to double check his handiwork, finger outlining the handprint he's left, before he takes the last step and sends two little words.
🧪 HONESTY SUNDAY. catalyst's truth serum has leaked into halcyon's water supply, and everyone is now compelled to tell the truth for the next twenty-four hours! PLEASE REBLOG THIS POST IF YOU WANT TO BE SENT QUESTIONS FOR YOUR MUSE(S) TO ANSWER HONESTLY.
downtown halcyon is every bit of the superfan's wet dream you'd imagine it to be. there isn't a corner that isn't dedicated to a up and coming hero nor a shop window that isn't selling trailblazer and guidemaster memorabilia. even the pavement isn't spared, sidewalk art installations dedicated to this weeks current top ten etched into the surface. ghost makes sure he looks the part, seven merch of his own stretched over his chest, new year's esque glasses with little versions of tempest's lightning shooting from his eyes in a cartoonish fashion donned. he's here on business, even as he sips out of a refillable souvenir sovereign jug ™ ; stalking, really. object of his client's affection out with their kids, a mobster with an apparent heart a gold. shame to think thing one and thing two might wind up without a father if things were to develop. even bigger shame that his drink has just finished, last remnants of a coke knockoff slurped and swallowed. he's in luck though, there's a coffee shop across the street, one his stalkee entered not too long ago. he makes his way there now, not bothering to wait in line or place an order when he arrives. instead he saunters up to pick up counter, grabs what looks refreshing, some iced coffee concoction being his choice. he reaches for it, fingertips brushing @halcyonsboys's as he grabs it, them going for the same drink. an order that belongs to them, no doubt. "sorry, i think this one is mine."
Carlos Acosta let out a soft sigh as he put down the screwdriver and took a moment to look at the robots. It had needed a few upgrades, and between the AI the suit had and Carlos' omnifabrication? Fixing it up and even giving it a few upgrades had been rather easy. It was still odd to be apart of the greenscreens yet be someone who wields technology and weapons, but Carlos personally thinks a good chunk of problems can be solved with technology. Plus, it has saved quite a few people and helped with evacuating areas when needbe. So Carlos was a big fan of them personally.
He turned around and noticed that someone was in the room. Carlos aka Angel's garage/invention area was public knowledge, and anyone could come here for repairs on just about anything. Which was why he wasn't to surprised, although it was rather late. "You snuck in right as I was about to start locking up," he jokes with a chuckle as he wipes his hands on the garage jumpsuit that he was wearing. "Did you need something fixed?"
if there was one thing you could admire about the business that ghost found himself in, it was the job security that came with it. there was always going be someone wanted dead, and that was because there was always going to be someone wronged. humans are an imperfect creature, mistakes were going to be made. people were going to be mistreated, hurt, betrayed, that was the beauty in mankind, that ability to fuck someone over? to cause someone pain? it was built into the framework. and it was that very framework that kept him employed. tonight it was a husband on his list. dennis wilfred. male. white. 47. ceo of wilfred industries. currently fucking not just his wife but his secretary and nanny too. he was told to make his death look like an accident, a tragic car wreck that escalated to a road rage shooting, all on a backroad with no cameras, no witnesses, and no suspects. it was an easier job than most, if not a little boring. but worst of all? it left a pretty little dent in his porsche. that's how he found himself at angel's garage, he needed repairs. and if he got to size up the hero and see their power up close? well that was only a bonus. "think you could get this dent out for me?" don't mind the blood on his tires.
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kayden breathed out heavily as he watched over the crowd, it was all very...boring. he would have much rather been in the lab than here at a memorial, though he was hoping that he had trained his bored face to look at least a little mournful. the worst part about this was losing their excellent genetic material to be tested on to unlock secrets for future generations.
"you know if there is going to be food at this thing? or drinks? i could go for a drink." he said with a little hum as he scrolled through his phone posting pictures of the memorial and typing something vaguely sad and inspirational.
memorial's back wall finds ghost against it, his presence during the commemoration coinciding with the very definitions of name: barely there, hidden, and on the edge of something living. it wasn't usual for him to come to ceremonies like this, least of all ones held in the name of valor, but today's was something special, today was the memorial for not one, but two heroes ⎯ both members of the esteemed sovereign seven. he almost expected fireworks. canons too. or did those come after the concert? he can observe how loved they were in the people around him despite the performance of it all though, grief stemming from trailblazer and guidemaster's deaths so heavy that it touches almost everything. he recognizes it in how others clutch one another, in how they move, in the soft whispers that are exchanged, sweet nothings of 'i'm so sorry for your loss's and 'i'm here for you's' echoing. funny enough if someone wanted to strike again, and turn two dead sevens into three, this would be the perfect place. everyone distracted, everyone stricken. except for him and perhaps his neighbor of course. eyes flit to the them as they mention sustenance, little hum of humor passing through his lips. "don't tell me you're an emotional eater. grieve too much you might lose your figure."
FULL NAME: ███████████. NICKNAME: ██. DATE OF BIRTH: the 12th of november. AGE: 29. GENDER: cismale. PRONOUNS: he + him. ORIENTATION: bisexual. CLASS: miracle. FIXED POWER: absorption replication. ALIAS: ghost. AFFILIATION: previously, █████. currently, seven deadly sins. YEARS ACTIVE: 2017⎯present. FOLLOWERS: no social media presence found. OCCUPATION: assassin for hire. EDUCATION: high school diploma. though outside of a traditional sense, is knowledgeable in tools of his trade, including but not limited to: disposal of bodies (miracle and otherwise), mastery of most weapons, various fighting styles, plus the information that comes with replicated and absorbed skills. RESIDENCE: currently "lives" in a penthouse suite that overlooks the city, however frequents a simple apartment in a lower income area. he also owns a collection of safehouses all over the world, each equipped with 'resources' should he need them. previously he lived at the ███████ compound, a complex division made by and for the ██████ family.
FATHER: █████████. MOTHER: ██████. (†) SPOUSE: n/a. SIBLINGS: █████████████████████████████████. CHILDREN: none that he knows of. PETS: none.
FACECLAIM: emilio sakraya. HAIR: blackish brown. when it's wet a little curly, when dry carries a little wave. at the moment has an undercut. EYES: dark honey brown. they appear much warmer than he is. HEIGHT: 6'5. WEIGHT: 250 lbs. BUILD: broad and intimidating. stands at a full height of 6'5 and fills out every inch. big hands, big feet, big dick. DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: almost always looks like he's annoyed about something. when working wears a mask, and at the moment thinks it's funny to don ones from horror movies. nobody knows what he looks like without it. CLOTHING: dresses exclusively for comfort. plain white shirts, wife beaters, sweatshirts, sweats and jeans are in a frequent rotation. he likes to wear anything he can move in easily. when required to be more formal, he sticks to button downs and neutral colors. loves blacks, browns & greys. LIKES: gambling, long uninterrupted naps, expensive shades, spicy ramen (specifically buldak with three eggs, sausage, ribs and a little mayo), beer, people watching, cigarettes, cold coffee, dive bars, keeping things neat and in order, money, keepsakes, arguing, fucking. DISLIKES: entitlement, cinnamon gum, low paying jobs, working with others, small talk, heroes that give little to no fight, boredom, when people can't take a joke.
ⓘ everyone knows ghost. the terror of halcyon, the monster who's kill sheet gets longer with each passing day. rumor has it that with enough money he'll take out anyone, no hero, calamity, apex, or civvy spared. what they don't know is the story of how it all started, how a young boy born into a clan of miracles was treated as inferior when he first showed no signs of powe⎯ [....] ACCESS DENIED.
FIXED POWER: ABSORPTION REPLICATION. absorption replication is the ability to absorb and replicate the talents, skills and traits of others. up until recently this has only included the fighting styles and skills that others have, however after recent battles ghost has discovered that he can also replicate the powers that someone has. let it be known that this is new to him and comes with all the kinks a new power would, ie: he doesn't know wtf he's doing. enter chaos.
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