#starcstarter

“And that is why I hope this planned charitable event will help to foster relations between vigilantes, heroes and the everyday citizens of this city that has been so welcoming to me and my cause. Thank you.” Chou nodded softly as the assembled crowd applauded. 

He didn’t usually try and book out such large spaces as the city park, but the turnout had been decent and announcing he planned on throwing a charity gala deserved as wide an audience as possible.  

Stepping down from the podium he walked towards the crowd, happy to speak to all. “I do hope you don’t think my adding that small gala announcement to my usual speech was somewhat crass.” he chuckled quietly, “But it does seem to have got people talking.” 

Jono had experienced true fear on a number of occasions. Some instances were easier to handle than others, easier to ignore the worry and doubt and strings of terror that came with mutant life — that came with his too-obvious disfigurement.

He had never experienced anything like this before, something so wholly chaotic that he couldn’t tell that it wasn’t real. That it wasn’t happening. He could hear their voices — his peers, his teammates, his past relationships and people he knew in passing. He could hear them cry out to him, blaming him for their pain and suffering. His own thoughts were drowned out, his voice having been suffocated by their cries of anguish and terror. They were hurting, because of him, and they honed in on that, letting him know that he had destroyed their lives with the very essence of what he was — fire.

Around him, and away from the absolute fear that gripped him, came destruction. Jono was lucky in the sense that those near him turned tail to hide the minute his fire ate through his bindings; there would be no civilian causalities, thank the maker, but the bodega he had settled in front of to strum away some of his anxieties experienced the brunt of it. It burned and its structure started to collapse; the surrounding storefronts started to go as well, their posters and windows melting, cracking, from the force of the kinetic flame.

Water droplets were pulled from the air to nourish and bring back to life a section of garden plants that were overwhelmingly droopy - and maybe even a little crispy. They looked horrible and no one in the neighborhood seemed to do anything about it for a week now; she wouldn’t have intervened seeing as it wasn’t part of the District, but the flowers looked parched and pleading for something, so she had to oblige.

The first thought that came to mind was that - she had a headache. It was head splitting, from ear to ear, and it certainly didn’t help with whatever the hell her current situation was. She wasn’t home, that’s for sure, and she definitely wasn’t in the same warehouse-esque type of building, either. It looked more like a school, from what she could gather through the headache turned migraine, but none of that really mattered right now because where the hell was she?

Panic started to ensnare her. She stumbled quickly out of the halls, her fabricated body glitching as she hurried past bewildered students and sidewalk enthusiasts. With quick blinks, Frankie clumsily tried to find a quieter, less crowded space to gain some sort of bearings. She didn’t know how long she’d been in there, and she couldn’t tell - there was nothing but light, blinding and bright.

A heavy glitch ripped through her when she bumped into someone; it was getting harder to breathe as she ushered out a slew of apologies as she hurried away towards what looked like a railing of some kind. As she drew nearer, she could see the ocean. With her grip heavy, Frankie willed herself to take in a deep breath of salt air and try to ease herself from the shock that threatened to take over - except there was no salt air, nothing but a memory of a breath and simulated tears that rolled down her cheeks and fell into nothingness.

She needed to know something, at least, so through the haze Frankie turned to the nearest living soul and through a broken, and quiet, sob, she asked, “what... year is it?”