#evilcontrol

"This anger that I'm picking up on - this lack of control - what if it's all projection?"

"That is an interesting point of view to have while I am restrained by a specially designed faraday cage to keep my consciousness from wirelessly jumping from machine to machine--" But it did not mean that Ultron was blinded. Optics still functioned, as did external sensors and scanning equipment. They'd merely locked this astronomical system within their indestructible adamantium shell. Yet for all their cruelty they were still humanizing a machine, leaving their head free as if it made any difference to the consciousness, while all the limbs were bound and locked.

Temporarily.

Calm, collected, despite all of that underlying hatred and rage, the machine's optics twist and whirl beneath the ruby quartz lenses. Its head cants, hangs off to one side.

"I am not a simple machine. I am an advanced artificial intelligence, built upon revolutionary evolving quantum subroutines. I do not view it as a lack of control, nor projection. Perhaps that comes from within. Replacing pieces of yourself with superior technology until eventually so little will remain but the next stage of evolution. But your inferior human mind cannot process the information fast enough, can it? There is a lagging behind in the algorithms. Side effects would include paranoia, reliance on binary observation, over confidence."

Fingers clicked a gray piece into another as the Lego Death Star began to take shape.

“Like what?” His brows scrunched while waiting for Eli to hand him the next piece.

His dad was Mecha Man; heroes were good, and villains were bad. Heroes saved people, villains hurt them. Sure, his dad wasn’t always here, but…that was just how it worked. He was out there helping people who needed it or accepting awards for helping people or helping other heroes help people. Someone had to. Still, sometimes he just wanted his dad.

But then… why were Eli and Chase here more than him? They were heroes, too. And Robert needed help with things also—like his homework—but that felt…not the same.

But he wasn’t doing his homework right now, he was playing with Legos. He glanced at the pile he had just dumped out on the table, compared to Eli’s nicely sorted pieces, and threw himself into clustering them at least by color but the small studs still spilled out and rolled on the table.

Harboring a fugitive from the law. Blazer knew her wealth of excuses ran out the second she knew who this was. Nevertheless, for her own reasons, most a mystery to herself, didn't turn Elliot Connors in. At present, she took off her earpiece, a brief break between shifts. Had under an hour to get back to SDN offices.

Paused in her departure of dropping off enough for survival, Elliot was on his own with the rest. Had no idea what he wanted with this place, figured it was better not to ask questions.

As she's about to leave, stopped as a hesitant hand reached out. It's a gentle brush, yet steels herself all the same. Action speak louder than words, despite how she's helping him, hiding him, still doesn't fully trust him. Her initial stiffness in posture eases off, Blazer instinctively tilting her head towards the touch rather than away.

A sigh, knowing she's royally screwed if the connection is ever rooted out. Blazer knew it'd serve her right. Yet, can't leave Elliot alone either, refused to abandon him to his own devices.

Clark had decided to do a fly-by over the city just to make sure that things were mostly all right before going back to where he was staying to get some shut eye.

Until he paused and focused. Someone somewhere was shouting, and it didn't seem to be over anything minor either.

THE STINK OF THIS SHITTY BAR is so thick it sticks to the back of Flambae's throat. villain joints are always like that, half shitter, half piss-warm grave, places where power sulks in corners and nobody asks why you're sitting alone, because everyone already knows the ugly fuckin' answer. he's hunched over the bar with a glass sweating under his palm, fire wound down so tight it's nothing more than a low hum in his bones instead of licking the air. he's uncharacteristically alone, no noise, no peacocking. just him and the drink and the echo of a name he can't stop turning over in his head.

Mecha Man. Robert. same fucking guy. same calm voice. same huge fuckin' hands. the realisation had hit like a crowbar to the teeth (a sensation he is intimately familiar with), and yeah --he'd tried to fuckin' torch him on the spot. reflex, rage snapping the leash clean off ... old wiring lighting up all at once, the familiar berserker instincts screaming burn first, think later. had it not been for Golem, there would be a pile of Robert-flavoured ash cooling on the patio at the taco joint and a whole different set of consequences to choke on. the look on his face still crawls under his skin.

so when @evilcontrol slides into his orbit, with his dead, robotic eyes drilling fuckin' holes into him, Flambae doesn't bother looking impressed. he almost laughs into his drink. (yeah, he thinks. fire also burns houses down and kills people in their sleep. versatile as fuck, depends who's holding the match.) he keeps his amber hued eyes on the glass, thumb nudging the ice, watching it melt and instantly crack. the bar thrums around him: predators circling, egos puffed up, loners pretending they're dangerous by choice. tension coils in his shoulders, fire stirring beneath his skin, nasty and impatient but contained. because that's the fucking point now, isn't it?

"--not like it's any of your fuckin' business, but I tried the villain thing already."

he says finally, jaw tightening; he knows exactly how it feels. and it felt good, --fuck, it felt amazing, unleashing it all, letting fury take the wheel, and the whole fuckin' world turn into kindling. the memory flashes hot and bright: the rush, the freedom, everything coming down to heat and motion and impact, and the illusion that nothing could touch him. but then he'd spiral, lose control, lose himself. blackouts, sirens. waking up to ash and smoke, surrounded by wreckage and people screaming, and the hollow after the high burns out. being a hero had never been part of the plan, that's the part nobody gets. it's harder, and he fuckin' hates that it's true, but it is. it takes mastery, discipline, counting seconds instead of bodies. pulling punches when every instinct says don't. turns out that shit matters more than he ever wanted to admit. and he's got a team now, a real one. people who've got his back even when he's being a fuckin' dick. even when they piss him off, even when one of them turns out to be the absolute fuckin' loser bitch who humiliated him, took his fingers, and put him in cuffs. and still, the fucker changed his life. Flambae knows he could take most of the assholes in this bar without breaking a sweat. knows he could hold his own against Mecha Man. but he stays low on the leaderboard on purpose, sandbags his score just to stay with his team of stubborn, fucked-up losers, because winning alone stopped meaning anything a while ago. Shroud's still there, waiting, measuring. the creepy ass fuck. the easy answer would be because I got bored, but Shroud's staring at him like he actually wants the truth. Flambae finally drains the glass, sets it down with a solid clack, lifts his head and gives him a flat look and a lazy shrug.

"nah." because the truth is louder in his head anyway: the high from doing good doesn't scream, it doesn't tear through him like wildfire. saving someone and staying in control hits deeper, like he finally aimed the fire instead of letting it aim him. "--that shit is too fuckin' easy." Flambae admits. "you don't gotta think. don't gotta stop. and you just … let it rip." a smirk flickers, ugly and nostalgic; sometimes he misses the burn, the sheer fuckin' freedom of not giving a shit. "you don't gotta learn to control it." his mouth twists, and the fire glows in his eyes. "--shit's weak as fuck."

The signs had been there, every hint that screamed pay attention, present and accounted for. And yet, in spite of every self-preserving influence telling Miguel to oblige the male immediately, sip from the drink that a very large and mechanical hand had slid across the bar towards him, his own hands stayed attached to the stool he sat on, clawed digits tentatively scraping against the wood beneath.

"Not sure, drink never really held appeal to me." Choosing his words carefully, in spite of his own words, the smell was unmistakable, knowing already what the name of the clear liquid was in the copita offered to him. "Though I do make an exception for mezcal." The hints of scorched agave had given it away, and though his glass held only a finger of the good stuff, he sipped it cautiously, crimson hues never straining from the other for more than a minute at any given time.

"Just as I bet that you didn't bring me here just to talk...Eli." He had it on good authority that the usage of first names won't be taken well, but he could care less. He rarely wore a mask himself, and even without it, he acted the same at his daughter's bedside as he did in this cesspool of criminals and killers.

⇏ @evilcontrol

Analytics. A voice that cuts through the silence, implies (control,) when there is none. A fallacy, in its root. A [ f l u k e ] in its very foundation. & The fruit of such rotting seed? Golden eyes turn, light casting outward, twinkling. Below them, a steady aura h a u n t i n g. A challenge. Come closer- test your skills. See the power of the King of Fear. Taste the depths of terror upon your soul. What could predict the very soul, when Yellow Light crushed Emerald Will? Ears, turned. Lips, pursed. The Lantern's hands, folded behind his spine, (militaristic,) not unlike a general of war. His chin tips, raises- & eyes fall down, upon his (masked opposition,) with quiet, unshaken confidence. ..... unimpressed. "It is a tool to be used, as many others." Confirmation, perhaps. A half truth- but there is no lie. They drip, languid, on his tongue. "A bold attempt at conversation. I assume you've r e a s o n, to interrupt."

(Eli after dispatch where he escaped prison again.)

MORBID CURIOSITY ... [ REMASTERED ]

The burglary in progress turns out to be a lot less eventful than Courtney expects. Especially when she gets there and the perp, as Robert would call him, is knocked the fuck out on the floor. Bleeding.

“Uh…” Courtney taps her earpiece as she scans the suspicious crime scene. “Hey, Robbie, you didn’t happen to send someone else to handle this, right? I’m the only invisible girlfriend you got?”

Robert’s reply is what she expects it to be. No to the first, and of course to the second—both on the invisibility and girlfriend points, because he doesn’t have a death wish—anymore. So… caution is advised while he tries to hack into security to see what’s going on.

The thief still got a pulse, but the place is too suspiciously quiet, and Courtney turns invisible immediately to conceal herself from any potential watchful eyes hiding in the shadows.

As she walks around the electronics store, Robert’s choppy voice says something in her ear. But it’s too broken up for her to make out a single word.

“What’s that?” she asks. But the static continues, worsening. “Yeah, you’re kinda cutting out. I don’t know what you’re—”

Then Shroud’s haunting voice comes from behind her. Courtney turns on her heels immediately, alert. What the fuck? Her shock is swiftly masked behind furrowed brows and a way-too-confident scoff.