GOD-COMPLEX !

* LOCATIONS ASSOCIATED WITH GUZMÁN.

being one of the key criminal figures in miami, guzman owns or puts money in a variety of establishments ultimately popular with the city’s mutant contigent. not only do they offer a variety of services targeted toward them, but they play a role in guzman’s money laundering schemes and other criminal affairs.

001. LITTLE VENICE BAR.

located in wynwood, this is one of guzman’s favorite venues. frequented by working class mutants for the most part, and criminals almost always, this is a place where they’re allowed to mind their business and drink in peace, even discuss work in a neutral setting. and although it can be intimidating at a surface level, fights break out pretty uncommonly and the crowd is more or less amenable (sans a few exceptions), so it’s as safe as a rich neighborhood as long as you’re not actively looking for trouble. on paper, the place is not owned by andreas (he has put it on someone else’s name), but everyone has it very clear who really owns the bar, and that usually deters them from acting like fools. if that doesn’t stop you, well -- the staff is not above drugging you stupid and dumping you off a pier, so let’s not act badass, shall we? 

amenities include: pool tables, dart boards, music (hope you like latinx music in all its iterations, cause that’s pretty much all you’ll get), all kinds of alcohol, card tables, dominoes, tvs (and all sorts of sports betting), and -- if you have the money for it -- you can even score some cocaine or hypercortisone k* off the bartender (hey, guy has a lie detector skill, so if he asks you if you’re with law enforcement you can’t bullshit him). the food isn’t even bad either. there’s a good variety of puerto rican/venezuelan/mexican fritters. back rooms can be rented out to discuss things in a private setting. 

general look: dim, warm lighting, gritty, with weathered oak bar tops and brick walls, amber painted details, low music always playing, disjointed lively chatter, it’s decently sized too with areas for games (aforementioned pool, cards, etc), eating, and even dancing, though it’s not frequently used for that. 

plotting options: you can have your characters work or take up a job. business with guzman can be discussed here. they can be a regular, or they can be a newcomer. your character can also buy drugs off guzmán through here.

002. DORADO SANDS COMPLEX.

also located in wynwood, it’s a five story apartment complex that services mostly mutants in need of a place to live. rent tends to be quite cheap, meant to give low-income folks a reasonable option, or criminals a discreet enough place to live. sometimes, if you look really desperate, guzmán may even house you for free. he doesn’t really care about rent, because he makes his money off other things, but sometimes, he will ask you for a favor or two -- if you’re not already on his payroll. 

guzmán lives in the top floor, which is reserved only for him and those he sees fit keeping close. this is his official living quarters, though he also counts with a safehouse at an undisclosed location in the city, because he’s a paranoid type like that. 

plotting options: naturally, your character can live here if they’re low on money. guzmán will likely see it as a good enough reason for your character to pay him back in some way. 

003. CRUZ-DIEZ FUNERAL SERVICES.

located in little haiti, it’s exactly as it says on the tin. loved one died? you take them here and let virgilio cruz and marta diez take care of it and prepare a funeral for you. loved one got a second set of arms or scaly skin? no problem at all! they do not discriminate. no matter the cause of death or the unusal anatomy of the deceased, virgilio and marta will work their magic for you, going above and beyond in order to give you and your family a real chance at proper mourning.

alternatively, if a funeral isn’t what you’re looking for, and you’re just looking for a place where to disappear a body safely -- look no further. cruz-diez counts with a morgue and industrial grade incinerators available to you, for a reasonable price. 

this is where guzmán usually dumps those what wrong him, among other things -- turns out dead bodies are a good place where to hide drugs and money. as for your character, though, they have this option if they want a safe and secure place to get rid of some evidence, and not just corpses; documents, clothes, anything goes and everything has a price. 

PLANET X / MULTIMEDIA COMPILATION

She doesn’t start the fight. That fact feels important to hold onto as Guzmán exhales wispy tendrils of smoke and sets his hawk-dark eyes on her. Hana’s chin raises in preparation, defence and defiance two lifelong friends. He’s not quite old enough to be her papá, she doesn’t think, but the distinct feeling that she’s about to be chided makes for far more effort than her actual dad ever mustered. “So,” she drawls in echo, matching his smile with a grin as if this were some sort of game – she’d take this over Monopoly any day of the week. 

The expression wavers, the corners of her mouth pulling downwards into a pout. It’s only then that she tastes blood on her lip and remembers the elbow to face she’d received somewhere between having a drink spilt down her shirt and zapping a stranger with 70,000 volts to the balls. “Baby, please. We both know that what happened here was simply a little misunderstanding. Do I think that the men who work for you are all pigs? Yes. Does that mean they deserve being rendered infertile? Maybe. Is hearing my retelling of what happened the best use of your time? No.” Hana dares to step forward, regarding him thoughtfully, dragging her gaze down his form and up again. “And if that isn’t good enough for you, then best of luck interrogating an interrogator.”

Youth is wasted on the young -- Bernard Shaw had a point when he wrote it. Youth, for Guzmán, had meant mind-boggling poverty. It had meant infinite energy and a surplus of corrosive, oil-thick anger. Cars on fire and broken windows, pilfered money and stolen lives. Days inmersed in loneliness and nothingness and clinging to anything good with his teeth like an emaciated dog's maws clench around bone. A waste of everyone's time had been his early life, but how could he help it? He had not been given any other option, his future laid out before him like the Way of Sorrows before he even had chance to develop a conscious: You will live and you will kill and you will die and the world will stay unchanged and indifferent.

But he lived, didn't he? Told himself the world would change, whether it wanted to or not, and it would have to care whether it wanted to or not. He sees Hana with flat, lupine eyes, and sees himself: a mirror of flesh and bone. Knowing too much yet not nearly enough (not enough about suffering if she thinks herself above it, certainly), and for the span of a second he has half the mind to take her up on the challenge. Let her feel the mollecular wrongness of her words, the sickness he once endured, and is now capable of inflicting. But because he's seeing himself, his mirror, in her -- nonwhite, disenfranchised, alone, but powerful, almost infinitely so -- and because age gives you knowledge and wisdom but it also makes you a little sentimental, he decides against it. Sucks on his teeth and steps forward and meets her fully, studying her pout, the blood on her lip. His eyes on it as a frown deepens.

"You think all men are pigs, but I don’t fault you for that, cariño," he says finally, his voice smooth, his head tilted. His position leading to believe he's only talking to her, yet his voice cuts the air loud and clear. "Let it be clear, however, that I don’t tolerate harassment. This is meant to be a safe enviroment." Nevermind the crime, the gambling, the drugs, the murder taking place in the alley way behind the bar right now. Nevermind any of that. "So I will take you at your word. However, I will advise you to take this to management if it ever occurs again. I can't be dealing with little misunderstandings all the time, or the way you choose to solve them." Laced in the diplomatic tones he's known for, the warning is delivered -- don't give the law any excuse into the bar, into his things. “Is this clear enough for you?”

WHERE: Miami Streets WHEN: March 29, 2020 STATUS: OPEN

It’s hot.

It’s always so damn hot these days. Tierney hates it. hates it enough he sometimes finds himself actually missing Chicago and all of it’s…quirks. Almost. Never enough to consider abandoning ship and moving back though. He owes too much to the Syndicate, too attached to the people in it. Leaving is off the table. But he can imagine the cooler climate without feeling too guilty. It’d probably help if he wore something other than his usual long pants and sleeves but if Tierney is anything, he is a creature of habit. And is entirely unwilling to spend his money on clothes when he can spend it on new parts. He had to leave a lot behind in the move, and he’s determined to restock on everything before he attempts to buy other things. Even if that means he’s been sleeping on a mattress on the floor for the past month.

Which, in hindsight, might be part of the reason he’s in such a foul mood right now. There’s a persistent pain on his right side. Easily diagnosed as an out of place rib head, but it’s a painful reminder that he’s not getting any younger. He played with the idea of tracking down Felix and gives up on it almost as quickly as he came up with it. That’s way more effort than it’s honestly worth. He’s got better things to do.

Like meet with a potential client on one of Miami’s seedier beaches. It’s a simple meeting. Short and sweet, but uneventful. Tierney is expensive and killing housewives because of poor life decisions? Not exactly under his purview. Especially not for little men in tailored suits who spend most of the conversations trying to haggle him to insultingly low prices. He waits until the little man has long left the scene before he pulls his hands out of his pockets and stands up from the wall he’d been leaning on. “Fucking penny pinchers everywhere in Miami.” Chicago might’ve sucked on multiple levels, but at least the clients there knew what they were asking for. “This place gets less and less exciting by the hour.”

Sometimes what’s left unsaid tells you more than what has actually been said; and sometimes, what is said, is uttered in such a way that it essentially opens a door, or at least pulls the curtains from the windows. 

Case in point: the internal cues. The man’s certainly not a local; content makes that quite clear; delivery the sort too dramatic to be a simple change of city; accent -- difficult to place, but not local; midwestern, perhaps northern, maybe deliberately untraceable. Then the external cues: skin tone; the wardrobe, far from weather-savvy; the time: what’s there to do at a beach like this at this time of the night? Drugs, most frequently; murders; exchanges of sensitive information. 

So where does that leave him? Private investigator, maybe. Drug dealer, possibly. Whistleblower for a big company or government agency. Recently transferred pig. Criminal. 

Comfortable in the shadows, Guzmán observes the man quietly and entertains his prejudices. He could be wrong, and it’s not as though he’s infallible. This gentleman could be a perfectly normal, law-abidding citizen. A traveling salesman going through a bad streak, unaware of the seediness of the place in which he’s standing. But here’s the thing: he is seldom wrong. 

And he saw the exchange with the suited man. 

Not much, mind you, and he didn’t hear a thing. But it’s enough to make him feel lucky. 

“Ah, if you find this place unexciting, that just means you’ve not been around long enough,” Guzmán says, stubbing his finished cigarette on the pavement before he replaces it with another one. He tilts the open pack over to the stranger, a wordless offer. How it looks like: harmless enough, he hopes, in his dark grey Henley, his jeans, his off white sneakers. “You’re in Florida. Home of the cranked out white trash and the entitled senior citizens. You’ll find a worthwhile buyer for whatever is it you’re selling.”

 Derek stopped drinking when he joined the Jems. Damien hadn’t been wild on him pumping incendiary cocktails directly into his veins, and at the time Derek had agreed. He’s never been one to purposefully lower his inhibitions; they’ve kept him alive this long, haven’t they? And if only by a thread, well. He’d seen that as just more reason not to pull any reckless shit. Life hasn’t been kind to him, but he’s seen enough of the alternative to know death isn’t any rosier.

Still, the appeal has always been there, lurking in his subconscious like something that prowls, waiting for a weak moment to strike. It’s not fun living in his own brain, with its routines of hyper-vigilance, hyper-control; the awareness that his body is just a cage to something infinitely hungry, something too wild for morality. Something that could burst out of him any time, kill people, raze a city, and it would be his own fault for not being more careful. Careful, cautious Derek, stepping lightly through life, disturbing nothing, leaving no impression on the ground below him. Damien had leashed him well, hadn’t he? Given Derek something to live for. Someone to live up to. Put the fear back in him like his parents had, all those decades ago, when he was just a miserable teen recoiling from human contact, terrified of anything he could hurt.

It had been worth it at the time. If the Jems were not his salvation, they were a convenient sort of deliverance. The gang couldn’t wipe his slate clean, but they had given him a way forward, had him believing some bullshit like he could be better, he could use his powers for a higher cause. He could stop hurting people who didn’t deserve to be hurt. And look where that had gotten him– told off like a schoolboy, his own family about to drop him like so much expired meat. Derek’s been hanging by a thread for weeks waiting for the marching orders he knows are coming, knows by Damien’s tone on the phone and his radio silence over text. Cain had confirmed as much during their fight: Damien isn’t going to want you back after this. And Cain might be an idiot about most things, but he knows their boss. Derek’s had a hard time fooling himself after that. 

The worst part is, he had never seen it coming. He knew kidnapping Lacey was a risk, but he’d done it to help the Jems in a way they couldn’t help themselves. And all he’d gotten from it was the knowledge of just how quickly Damien would be willing to abandon him, assuming Derek’s groveling and begged promises aren’t enough to convince him of his self-control. What a fucking joke. As if Derek hasn’t spent the last ten years holding himself back for Damien’s sake. As if he’s some reckless 20-something snapping at the bit, putting the only goddamn people he cares about into jeopardy for a fun night out torturing the Blackburn kid. 

Thinking about all that was what had gotten Derek into trouble tonight, how he’d ended up wasted for the first time in half a decade, utterly alone in an unfamiliar bar. In a city he joined for a gang that might no longer want him, with everything he knows and built half a country away. A stranger’s blood is on his hands, their shouts and the thud of fists against skin still ringing in his ears. And, to top it all off, some jackass smiling at him like they know each other. Like he has any idea who he’s dealing with. Derek gives the man his best, ghastly grin in return, his own blood smeared across his teeth and down one cheek. His veins are hot with tequila and so much suppressed fire. Derek’s pretty sure he can take him, and if not, who the fuck cares?

“Oh, sweetheart, I’d like to see you try.” Derek flexes his fists on reflex, exhilaration flooding him as they begin to heat.

So that is different. Guzmán hums realizing all too quickly what’s happening. The blood splatter on the man’s cheek, the slurred voice, the dangerous gleam in those eyes -- it should have all propelled Guzmán into action, figuring it out the likeliest outcome that would put an end to the disaster before it begun (Fernández, a security guard behind the agitator, the one with the Glock and the fast draw and the rock skin, the most appealing option -- even if Derek’s brains ruined Guzman’s shirt, it would’ve only taken a quick look in his direction), but instead it ignited within Guzmán the kind of intrigue he doesn’t quell with murder, but with nice conversation. 

And there’s the biggest question to start things off: who is this mutant? And it had to be a mutant. No humans in this bar, no person that doesn’t got a steel skeleton under his skin or a second pair of arms or a weirdness to their thoughts that makes them capable of seeing through walls. He had not seen him before -- he would remember that wildness. It had to be one of the newcomers, and if Andreas could offer a guess devoid of context, he wasn’t all too happy with his new surroundings. 

Derek’s fingers flex and he can tell that is a sort of trigger. He considers, reconsiders -- it seems to take forever but Guzmán’s behavior clicks accordingly in the span of two seconds. “Oh, you. We don’t have to solve this problem with violence,” Guzmán reminds Derek, his tone didactic, his smile subdued. He raises a hand in an universal mitigating gesture, makes it obvious he wants Derek to look at it. “I’d rather we get off on the right foot. You seem like someone who has a problem, and I would like to help. More so, I wouldn’t like to have to shoot you with a dart full of sedatives and mutation-neutralizers. I respect agency above all things.” Neutralizers that were of his own personal design, not to be found anywhere else in the streets. Years as a CIA thrall taught him a thing or two. “Tell me, what do you prefer?”

PLANET X / CHARACTER PARALLELS.

normally, i do not explicitly draw inspiration from popular media characters -- it's more of a vague process, something i notice long after the fact and not at the beginning. however, when i made guzmán, i knew i wanted to write a villain, and since i was writing a superpowered being, i naturally looked at comic books: some iconic villains from the xmen franchise, watchmen -- to round it up, i looked at some morally gray characters from film, because while i want guzman to be evil, and cheerfully so, i also want him to be complex. i want him to be a character you can enjoy reading, even if you consider his actions despicable. or i want him to be a character you can hate, while acknowledging there's layers to what he does.

MAGNETO [MARVEL COMICS]. obviously i'll look at the quintessential antagonist from the x men franchise. notice how i say antagonist, and not villain. i honestly think magneto was right had good reasons to do the things he did. like magneto, i want guzmán to be considered at his best a well intentioned extremist. he genuinely believes mutants are superior and humans have caused too much damage upon mutantkind, because they're afraid they will be left behind as evolution marches on. and like magneto, once he discovered his power, he spent several years of his life studying anything under the sun to help him master it, especially the field of mathematics. he's crafted himself into a dark messiah, convinced the ends justify his means -- a determinator who will stop at nothing until he sees his vision materialized.

APOCALYPSE [MARVEL COMICS] but then there's the side of guzman that's... let's say... a little off his rocker. you may consider his ideas to be rooted in conspiracy given his kind of troubled upbringing. andreas believes mutantkind's rightful place is above humans, yes, but also has an unquestionable god complex. while he playfully may accept being referred to as evil, truthfully he considers himself above such human terms. what he does really enjoy is conflict, constant and unpredictable, and it's in such environment that he thrives: where he can manipulate others into doing his bidding and orchestrate mayhem and uncertainty, in order to portray himself as a much better option -- a fixed point in an ever-shifting landscape, so to speak. 

OZYMANDIAS [WATCHMEN] while apocalypse and magneto are very essential inspirations, i only draw bits and pieces from ozymandias, most notably his affably evil manner of carrying himself, and the prodigious intelligence -- which, although not to ozymandias' level, it's characterized by his ability for great, extensive analysis of the situations that present themselves to him, since there's no way for guzman to reliably use his mutation other than to seriously think about each step he takes with it. he's crazy prepared for most eventualities that may occur, and he has back up plans after back up plans worth of information going on in that brain of his at all times. guzman is a knight templar, and he would kill a few if it meant he would get to save several, and that's pretty much the basis for his problem-solving processes. like ozymandias, he's chasing after a better world -- but is committing atrocity after atrocity in the name of it. 

at his worst, guzman can only be considered someone whose ego and ruthlessness can only be detrimental to his surroundings and the people with whom he associates. 

Avery stood there, the trickle of warm slowly made its way down his profile from a smile cut just above his eyebrow. His jaw was clenched, muscles defining his face further and highlighting the bruises that already began to form. The whole bar had gone quiet and he knew exactly who had just entered the room. It was as if he was frozen in time and space, although he knew that’s not what the other’s power was and he could probably make a run for it if he wanted to. Yet he didn’t. Why? That’s a question he often asked himself but could come up with an answer with. Perhaps it’s why a dog always came back to its master, tail wagging low, even if the dog knew he had done something wrong and there would be repercussions. That’s it. It was loyalty that kept him there, waiting to see what the outcome would be. 

Avery wasn’t afraid. He didn’t flinch when the others were dragged away. No, fear wasn’t a feeling he often felt anymore. He knew how to handle himself and he knew that his mutant instincts would always come through and protect him with some devastating force that he didn’t even want to imagine. The reason he couldn’t meet the other’s eyes was out of respect. Respect for someone who had not only given him a job but also for someone that had helped him get to where he was in life after their parents kicked him and Penelope out. He didn’t trust the smile. He had learnt a very long time ago not to trust his smile, demeanour or tone. Guzmán may project one emotion to cause the other let down their guard whilst the man truly felt something quite opposite. 

Avery loosened his jaw and his mouth twitch whilst he went over what he should say in his head. ‘They stole a bottle from the bar.’ was one reason, ‘They were being disrespectful to the clientele’ was another. “They deserved it.” Avery finally said with confidence, meeting the others gaze now. ‘Look at me when you address me’ was one of the first lessons of respect he had learnt. “I was doing my job, they didn’t take it too well. I’ll handle it better next time.”

IT WAS THE LACK OF FEAR what first drew Guzmán in to the young man, perhaps even more so than his mutation itself. It spoke of a rough, resilient past -- the sort of background that's soaked with anger and set aflame by loss. Because outside of his sister, what did Avery have, really? Outside of it, there's not much yet that could be considered worthwhile -- not a lover nor a home chaining him up to normalcy. Guzmán one day hoped to fill that void with great things, but even he knew to recognize a wistful thought when he saw it. For now, realism; Avery was a good bartender, and that much worked for him. Moreover, he was good at what he did when he was not bartending, and that suited just fine too.

So the room held still while Guzman pondered over Avery's words, his head lightly tilted like a judge settling on a verdict. Looking at the blood dribble down the pale skin, the prideful bearing. Diverting eyes to find that no one outside of O'Brien would dare to meet his gaze for more than one second.

In the end his smile, which had not once left, widened. He clasped his hands together loudly and declared, "Then it's settled, is it not?" It felt like he'd broken the room from an ancient spell. Suddenly people's drinks and the television got a whole lot more interesting than the exchange between Guzmán and Avery. People knew better than to continue prying, so they began to talk amongst themselves about the game from last night, about work, about anything but what had just transpired.

He bridged the distance between Avery and himself and closed a hand around the man's shoulder in a gesture that, from him, seemed paternal. "I never doubted you. I want you to know that," he said, quietly. "This show was more for them than yourself." Tilting his chin toward the patrons, new and old alike -- the new had received a quick lesson on who ran the bar, and the old had received a fresh reminder. And Avery had received something too, but it was best left understated. "Why don't you come with me to my office, eh? I want to talk about your salary, maybe a bonus?" 

* an in-depth look into guzmán.

Set in Stone || Andreas & Luca

Just a slight accent, little disappointing, not that Luca would’ve been able to distinguish where it was from even if she paid more attention, so glad for the help: she smiled. She checked him out while he reached for a slim wire. He seemed friendly enough, handsome too, which probably had a lot to do with why Luca picked him in the first place. She was shallow like that. 

“A charging tower? This city has everything, doesn’t it,” she said with a grin, taking her empty cellphone out of her pocket. She switched to a new one about every week, twice a week when she was feeling like it. She had gotten pretty good at reinstalling her phone and remembering certain phone numbers off the top of her head. Yet, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember her new address. It had too few numbers, she told herself. 

“I’m afraid other than: big building with lots of windows about ten minutes from the beach, I am really shit with city markers. I once got the great advice to ‘know your skyline’ but I’m not one for actually listening to advice.”

She smirked then. “Or maybe I’m doing this on purpose,” she suggested with a wink, walking over to the charging tower. 

THE SMIRK WAS MIRRORED though he doubted their intentions coincided. He wasn’t sure of his intentions for that matter, if there was something behind his good deed of the day beyond that sometimes, he can be good and helpful for no reason. Doubtful, but time would tell on that matter. 

AS SOON AS GUZMÁN WALKS IN shouting turns to whispers, music fades to white noise, and threats choke back into gasps. A disquieting silence engulfs the room, and everyone stops what they’re doing to look at him. Nobody, however, meets his eyes when he glances back at them. Instead, all attention diverts to the back end of the bar, where the more private booths are located, and where three battered patrons stand awaiting for their fate. Behind them, four reasonably sized men stand all too closely, attentive to their every move, watchful for any attempts to escape or resume the brawl. Guzmán slices neatly through the throng that’s parted with his presence and makes a beeline toward them without so much as a second thought, without so much as anger or joy or thrill to be found in his dark, piercing stare.

He stands before them and looks at them for what feels like forever, but it’s most likely just seconds. Stands, smokes, and studies their faces as though he can peel back the skin and the muscle and peek into their brains and read their thoughts as they’re being decoded and flashed through their minds. But unfortunately, that is not the power conferred to him, so in the end he blinks at the huge bouncers behind the agitators and two of them are forcefully dragged farther into the back to disappear into the dim neon-lit hallway. There’s struggle, there’s bargaining, there’s threats -- it all falls on aloof ears as Guzmán merely readjusts his wristwatch and doesn’t care to watch them leave. 

Set in Stone || Andreas & Luca

Location: somewhere in Miami Time: sometime during the day @mutantdios

While during most of her time running away from terrifying Mutant laws, prosecution, and getting other people in danger, Luca had always loved exploring new cities. She had seen parts of London, Madrid, Rome, Barcelona, and a whole assortment of small towns and villages, some of them that didn’t even show up on the maps. 

Then she came to America, to the United States, and her little European-centric brain could not believe how fucking big everything was. 

Currently, on top of being completely taken in by the hugeness of Miami, with its beaches, hot ladies, fancy cars, movie vibes, etc, she also couldn’t fucking believe she forgot to charge her fucking phone. 

And was fucking lost.

“Hi, are you by any chance familiar with this city and maybe in possession of a charger I could use? I would ask for directions to where I live, but I have yet to actually pay attention to the street signs,” she asked the first person to come into her view. A sexy man, and on first view, Luca hoped he had an accent. 

AT THIS POINT GUZMAN WAS NO LONGER SURPRISED by the twists and turns his life subjected him to, and rather than fight against them, he embraced them. Beautiful, colorful, sunny Miami was a of city thousands, not unlike the coastal settlements he’d made his own in his youth. Even if he had not been born here, he felt at home. He moved as though he was one with the scenery, aided all the more so by his years spent there.

So it was always easy to spot the tourists and the outsiders. More often than not, they didn’t know how to pretend to be otherwise.  This one, he noticed before she noticed him, watching the confusion turn to anger turn to resignation on her face while the cigar burned between his fingers. 

ON THE TOPIC OF:

HIS NAME: Much speculation has been given to whether Andreas Guzman was born Andreas Guzman or not, and he’s not about to tell you the answer. But he, in fact, prefers if you would call him X, since that is how he’s known by much of the underworld in Florida. Friends and family and enemies call him Guzman. Nobody calls him Andreas, unless they want to displease him.

THE PANTHEON: Guzman’s organization, comprised entirely of mutants at this point in time. As it was mentioned above, unlike a pyramidal structure where Guzman reigns on top, it’s more of a flat, loose entity, closer to a cartel. He’s still in charge, but outside of his direct orders, it acts mostly independently under the direction of several sub bosses. It wields its most influence in South America and Mexico, with a centralized focus in Florida right now. Allegedly responsible for an outrageous number of assassinations, arsons, and massacres, they have been labeled as an anti-human, pro-mutant terrorist group by the FBI. It’s not widely known that Guzman is responsible for its inception and much of their work, and given his elusive nature, they don’t even know what he looks like.

HIS POWER: Guzman’s mutation is very powerful, yes, but it’s also incredibly difficult to work with and, if he’s not careful, it can be world-breaking. Years of trial and error have allowed him to hone his craft, but the carefulness still remains – it has to. It’s not just luck and likelihood, it’s also how they present themselves. Like a genie and its three wishes, he has to be precise about what he wants to occur, and plan for contingencies in case something gets out of control. On the other hand, it’s a very nifty tool for general mischief-making. He can let loose from time to time and probability meltdowns will take place: glass will shatter, tremors will shake the earth, and cars will crash. Sometimes they will happen without his input, this because the power has a direct connection with his mental status. It’s not pretty to be able to see the probabilities of everything and the millions of path you can possibly take. As such, on the worst days, he’s prone to nightmares, migraines, hallucinations, nosebleeds. He hides all this very well, but sometimes they can be debilitating. He self-medicates.

NARRATION: Guzman is an unreliable narrator. He’s plagued with delusions of grandeur, as a byproduct of his mutation, and many things he says will simply not be true. He knows how to lie. He knows what to say in order to get what he wants. But also, he genuinely believes things that have no grounding in reality. The idea, ultimately, is a gradual revelation of the aspects and bits that are true for Guzman – whenever the interaction allows it.