Falling Down (TWS)

The city streets sped by in a blur through the car window. Unfamiliar faces blended together until they no longer appeared human. I must have just been zoning out at that point, because I didn't even hear the gunfire. A hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. It was the man in the passenger seat. I hadn't the time to learn his name yet. He shoved a gun into my chest, one of the new war machine guns. The last world war had ended before they shipped out, named after the man "Thompson".

I'd never shot a gun before. But my life was different now, it was far too late to go back. I rolled down the window, squeezed my head out of the gap and returned fire at the police.

Before I had emptied the clip the car behind swerved violently, crashing into a wall. With the coast clear, the driver got back on track, heading straight for the target. A bank.

The car, still peppered with several bullet holes, pulled up just outside the front entrance. The job required speed, not stealth. We all opened the doors and walked straight through the doors like everything was a regular morning.

"Hands in the air or we open fire! We're after cash, not murder!"

All I had to do was follow orders, maybe carry some money back. In the worst scenario, be the fall guy. I had nothing to lose anyway.

"Not bad shooting,uh..." the man that handed me the machine gun approached me. He must be trying to remember the name I never gave him.

I abandoned my old name already. I gotta come up with something else, something suiting for a man recently adopted into the Mafia.

SpoilerShow

Superheroes, or at least powers, with crime. Mafia crime. In 50's Chicago. Pretty sure that's not been done before. Maybe with a hint of Noir.

Jimmy the Fish?

Bonaventure Black.

Slippy Jim.

> Vic 'the Slick' Monroe

> "Typewriter".

> Vic 'the Slick' Monroe

"It's Vic. Vic Monroe", I decide on something simple, deciding that trying to make up my own nickname this early without having earned it would be both silly and pretentious.

I begin to move amongst the terrified crowd, indifferent to their fear. I'm not planning on killing anyone today, if I can help it. The man who asked my name plus another begin to take money and valuables from the hostages. The last beckons me over, and we take care of the cashiers. He dumps a pre-prepared bag for the money while I cover him with the gun. I don't even know how much ammo it carries, showing just how inexperienced I am. But I remember the revolver tucked away under my coat, the last old friend I had. I knew it was reliable from our long history together.

Three minutes in and we're almost ready to get away. We don't bother with the safe, there's no need to get greedy, or stupid. They won't open it for us, and we don't have the gear or time for that kind of job. We each shoulder a load of the loot and make for the door.

But just as we try to leave, someone bars our path. Tall, wearing a hat and scarf, and seemingly massive in stature. A thick padded overcoat makes them indistinguishable, and not even our raised guns make them flinch.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get out of our way."

I follow the others' lead, pointing my gun at them. The stranger just stands there.
I can tell our leader is nervous, the cops would arrive soon and surround the bank, nor do we know of a back door. He swallows his nerve and opens fire.

A volley of bullets slam into their torso. They don't even flinch.
Something in my stomach drops. I'd heard the rumours, never thinking them to be true.
The rumour of an unknown bulletproof vigilante that could withstand as much damage as a Sherman tank. It seemed impossible, but there they were, stopping them from leaving.

They stride forward, not threatened by our now meagre looking weapons. We each open fire, walking backwards by reflex. I wonder just what the hell their next move is, wondering if this was the end.

But then I notice that my gun has stopped spitting bullets. That's when something struck out at my foot. I feel weightless just before falling backwards.

And then it all went dark.

Wake up.

>Expository flashback?

>Have bad dreams.

Turn on a flashlight!

>Expository flashback?

A perfect moment to, I imagine. But there isn't much to tell. But a man has to start somewhere, so I'll just assume my own consciousness is a stranger and describe the status quo to them.

Three months ago Chicago became Ground Zero for a new viral outbreak, but unlike anything the government could have prepared for. There were no quarantines, no panic, and not a single symptom for several days.

But the people infected knew. Something had caused mass restructuring of their DNA without them even noticing. Some, like me, experienced minor forms of amnesia, namely regarding names.
But the profit was to die for. I imagine the hulking coat that blocked our path was one of these individuals. A power that made them bulletproof, and that's not even one of the amazing powers. I'd like to know what they're doing, broadcasting their existence to the world. Too dangerous for my tastes, I plan to keep my head down regarding these new super people. I wanted to get into a business, a dirty one, where people could keep secrets for that same reason.

But one thing a stranger in my head would ask is: If you have amnesia, then you have a gift, so what is it?

Truth be told I don't rightly know myself yet. I guess I'm just a late bloomer, so to speak. But I've never shown any signs of my new power revealing itself.

But now is as good a time as ever, if it's listening...

Wake up.

When I come to, it's already dark. That or I just can't see. My body is squished into some small area, and something heavy is pressing down on me. The floor is rumbling, and I can hear traffic. So I'm probably in a car, but it doesn't seem like a boot. My head is pounding, and I feel groggy. I try to flex my hands, which are bound behind my back. Perfect.

If this is how cops take armed and dangerous criminals away then I've been duped. Something isn't right.

I try to twist my body, and one of the heavy things pressing on me slips and rolls over my head. Peeking out from a small gap I can see it was one of the money satchels from the bank. This just got a bit more strange.

As I begin to pile up some suspicious the car comes to a stop. The car engine cuts out and I finally notice that I can't hear any other traffic. The driver steps out, not bothering to close their door, and opens the one by my head.

The bag on my head slips out and falls out of the door. I squint in the light to see who was standing over me, and an inconveniently remember-able fedora strikes fear into my gut.


"Mornin'" Says an eerily Texan girl. It didn't add up at first, with my head upside down and all, but after a few seconds I realised that the voice came from under the hat.

The largely built but oddly feminine sounding girl drags me out of the car with ease, throwing me down into what appears to be an abandoned warehouse.

My head begins to go fuzzy, I have to do something, things that I'm supposed to do in order to escape this kinda thing, but nothing springs to mind.

Little help, Stranger?

Cast your eye around for anything that might help. It's a warehouse, there must be stuff in it. Maybe. Even if it's abandoned and all.

Cast your eye around for anything that might help. It's a warehouse, there must be stuff in it. Maybe. Even if it's abandoned and all.

I cast my eye around, trying to find the exit, or at least something that looks useful. Sadly, most of the warehouse is bathed in darkness, the only light seeping inside is through the vehicle entrance that the car came through. That exit is thoroughly blocked by the woman's imposing size, so unless I suddenly have the power to break handcuffs and see in the dark, it wouldn't seem likely that escape was possible.

"Seems like we got here a tad too early. I expected a bit more resistance from yer little gang, bucko, especially you."

I manage to flip onto my back and stare at my captor. She's sitting on the bonnet of the car, which I could recognise by model.A Chrysler Town & Country Newport. Sleek, efficient, and a hell of a lot more aerodynamic than the other 'boxes on wheels' that counted as wagons.

"So, ya'll just gonna stay like that, or would you like the talk with me for a bit? Gotta have some questions trussed up like a pig and shoved into a car like that. I'm bein' generous and letting you escape the cops an' all, so humour me pal."

Ask her questions. The basic stuff. Who-what-when-where-why.

"I-I didn't do nothin'! (Aside from robbing a bank and all.)"

>"Who are you" and "what do you want from me" come to mind.

>Ask her why she was expecting anything from you, specifically.

>"Who are you" and "what do you want from me" come to mind.

"Fine, I'll bite. Who are you and what do you want from me."

"Hmm," she replied, "Well, not goin' to give you my real name partner, but I have a few nicknames. I guess my favourite one is Iron Misha. I got that from a Russian, and it caught on.

"As for your second question, it's not what I want, I'm just... a courier of sorts. But what I do know is that you've got a secret pal, something they really want to know more about."

Okay, now I can panic. Somebody heard about my amnesia then, that or there's another way to track whatever we are. I try to discern from her that might give me a hint, but she was the same as before. She was taking off her hat and scarf, and as she moved onto her overcoat noticed something.

When her shoulders were free from the coat, I could tell that somehow, she had became shorter. Not enough that I could say that the coat was what caused the height difference. She had a layer of some grey material covering her clothes, and I could recognise the marks left by gunfire.

"So not only are you bulletproof, but you shrink too. You're full of surprises lady."

"Well actually buster I'm not bulletproof. What my ability is, see, is being able to change my muscle density. I'm taking suggestions for catchy name for that by the way.

"What I'm wearing is, uhh, well it's got some technical term but all I know of it is it stops bullets. Mostly. So no, when you done shot me I wasn't unharmed. I got bruises in more places than I'd like to mention. But that alone wouldn't stop me getting killed, it's not that effective, it just stops the bullet piercing into my body. That's where my power comes up. I get bigger and tougher. Not really a girls best trait, so I prefer to keep covered up. You follow?"


This woman is strange. Misha? Muscle Density? Not that I'm very good with nicknames. But someone wants me for my power, a power even I don't know about. Guess I should help her out first, maybe trick her into getting these cuffs off.

Start off by telling the truth. She's being friendly, and you're not gonna get anywhere by being uncooperative. Tell her that you might have a power, but you've got no idea what it is, so you really can't give her an answer on that.

Ask her if she's got any other questions that you might be able to answer.

Well, if you tell them you don't have a power, they might decide you're useless -- and that might not be good.

If you tell them you don't know what your power is, they'll know that you don't know how to use it to fight -- and that might not be good.

I say you refuse to tell them for now what your power is, but don't let on that you don't know it either.

As for Iron Misha -- ask her if she really is the bulletproof vigilante people have been talking about, and ask her what a Texas gal is doing up here in _____.

Start off by telling the truth. She's being friendly, and you're not gonna get anywhere by being uncooperative. Tell her that you might have a power, but you've got no idea what it is, so you really can't give her an answer on that.

Ask her if she's got any other questions that you might be able to answer.

Well, if you tell them you don't have a power, they might decide you're useless -- and that might not be good.

If you tell them you don't know what your power is, they'll know that you don't know how to use it to fight -- and that might not be good.

I say you refuse to tell them for now what your power is, but don't let on that you don't know it either.

As for Iron Misha -- ask her if she really is the bulletproof vigilante people have been talking about, and ask her what a Texas gal is doing up here in _____.

Great, not only am I in a desperate pinch, but now the imaginary voices in my head are contradicting each other. I've got nothing better to do than comply with my own whimsy, so I might as well start this list of questions.


"Look, I like you. You seem like a neat broad an' all. But I've got no idea what your clients are expecting from me. I'm just a dishonest crook, skin flesh bone, all that jazz. There's nothing special about me!

I mean sure there's a chance that I just don't know about it, but you'd think I'd have noticed by now."

Misha doesn't even react. She just continues staring outside, waiting for something. I've got nothing left to try, so I resign myself to my fate.

"Can you at least tell me if this is going to be painful?"

Nothing. Although perhaps not knowing is for the best.

"I've heard rumours about a walking tank-like person showing up at crime scenes. That's you, right?"

She nods in response but still won't turn round. With nothing else to say, I close my eyes and wait for whatever was going to happen to happen.



-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
~Perspective Swap~


I was left with no alternative but to ignore the man in the black suit. He didn't even think to give me his name, so he can just sit there until the group gets her.

Speaking of, I wonder what's keeping them. Not that I know who they are, they left that detail to the Voices. I sure hate being kept out of the loop, just causes too much annoyance.

I should probably recheck the plan just in case. Stop the cops chasing the black car, check. Infiltrate the heist and deal with the crooks. Capture the one in the brown trench coat, or was it an overcoat? He was the only one in brown so I got him. Better be him, I'm not taking out a police van for these guys. That's an extra thousand for sure.

Then go to the warehouse, wait for the Voices to make a list of current members of the Power Holders (Name pending my ass, it's a stupid name. At least they said the Voices were also giving a new name) who will show up eventually.

But not a peep out of those weird little voices. Getting a little impatient here.

Another 30 minutes and I'll ransack the place and leave. Yeah, sounds good.

SpoilerShow

In case my terrible writing has driven too many people away, this is the start of well, any chance for reader input. I have left it very, very specific to this point strictly to get this thing somewhere I can control, but now the brakes are off.

Imagination will be needed. Got a cast to fill.

Group name: The Empowered.

Members:
The Conductor: Able to make music play near him. He can choose the song and volume. Useful as a distraction or signal, or he can just turn the volume all the way up for offensive purposes.
Torment: Has the ability to make someone else feel whatever pain he's feeling. He prefers to attack by using this power and then inflicting harm on himself to make his victim share it.
Blink: Becomes invisible and intangible whenever he closes his eyes.

Where's "Typewriter"? His ability to stow all KINDS of STUFF away in the POCKETS of a TRENCH COAT will help when your car is INEVITABLY SEARCHED.

What? They can't all be crazy combat powers.

There's Chameleanne, who can change her appearance at will.
And don't forget Jack Frost, who they say can flash-freeze anything he touches.