I think I am here.

Red walked around a bit, hesitantly putting his hands behind his back like he’d see some professionals do when they were walking. He was safe. He still had his red bandana in his pocket, and his shotgun was in a holster covered by the cloak. But outwardly, he looked different. Would anyone recognise him? They hadn’t known him that long anyway. His ex-gang had.

Three men were scratching their heads outside the tavern. “This is where we’re supposed to find a gang?” One of them asked, a young man. He had a concealed coinpouch by his side, though he was no coinshot. “Jarret hardly gets things wrong when he’s tapping,” an older man said. “Just his luck.” He paused, happy about his pun for a second while the first man shrugged and entered, and the two others followed. There were all types of people here, in all types of clothing, drinking drinks they’d never seen before. “Ay’ Pell,” the younger man said to the third person in the group, who was looking around with dark circles under his eyes. “Maybe you can finally find a girlfriend here, eh?” Though they came for a purpose and were only here to hunt one man, that didn’t stop them from throwing banter around. “Says you,” Prowling Pell said with a tired grin. It was ironic seeing fatigue on the face of Pell, a bronze Ferring of all things. He was probably storing, stockpiling for when he’d need wakefulness for large stretches. They arrived at the counter and looked towards the bartender. “Hey,” The young man said. “We were looking for some sort of new and upcoming gang here, and we were told to look here, is there anything you could tell us?”

But I think the 5th Heightening is another option we haven’t considered yet.

“Now, to see if people recognise me,” Redatrick said, walking towards Bella. “Do you think she’ll notice?” When he finally arrived to Bella, he tried his best to cover up his Roughs accent and pushed his glasses up. “Hello, madame,” he said. Would she notice him? If she did, there was no chance his friends wouldn’t.

It took a while for Redatrick to notice the boy was stabbed, with some sort of railroad spike? With multiple spikes. But... he wasn’t dead. Or bleeding, for that matter. Redatrick was going to suggest a doctor, but the kid had said it couldn’t be changed. And one thing was for certain, he was not a Faceless Immortal. Maybe an attempt to replicate one? Was that even possible? “That’s... not good,” he found himself saying. His glasses slid to his nose, and he pushed them up again. “Should we go back to the gang?”

As Lusk was talking to the 20 year old woman about why she didn’t have alcohol somebody appeared to recognise her. “Freedom?” Lusk asked. “Isn’t she a little kid?” Why anyone would mistake a 20 year old for a young child was behind him.

Redatrick leaned against the doorframe, in thought. Bloody magics. For him, experimenting meant Jarret trying to predict how loud his victims would scream, but here, it was this? “They can...” He didn’t know how to put it, so he just gestured to Mike. “They can change you like that?” Suddenly the passion against the people in the Alleyverse seemed to make sense. “I didn’t know it was possible to do that.” How would they even do that?

Rithmatics and Soulcasting. You could literally soulcast chalk designs on the floor instantly. Soulcast a Taylor defense out of no where, form many chalklings incredibly quickly, just soulcast them instantly. A line of Vigor/Revocation rapid fire? Rithmatics’ greatest weakness is time. When you can soulcast instant designs, it’s amazing. Given to Joel, of course, because let’s be honest, he deserves this.

“Cheers,” Lusk said, taking a sip from the drink. It was good. Maybe he shouldn’t have been drinking, what with the liver failure. He made himself a bit younger, in his late twenties. He could handle the drink much better. He turned to the woman again and sipped his drink. “Then, why would you be in a bar, of all places?” He resisted the urge to say more, the psychology of his age pushing on him.

“Sounds good,” Lusk said, putting an eighth of a bead of Atium down. “Good?” He noticed the woman looking at him from the corner of his vision, and turned to face her. He looked at her drink. “Bit of an odd thing to drink at a bar. Afraid of alcohol?”

Jarret and Mickey nodded walked off, the former fiddling with another coin, but the man with the weapon stayed. “Thank you,” He said. “And if we ever find out your lying -” “Cam!” Jarret called. “You coming or not?” Cameron glared, but jogged off to his partners, and they left the hospital, meeting up with the others.

“I think I am,” Lusk said. “How is it made?”

Yeah, when I asked Bard and he clarified there was no mistake, I think I became that Jackie Chan meme for a second.

As the sheild got blocked Max immediately dismissed it and resummoned it again. He moved to try a different attack when he saw Althea bleeding and paused. He tried his best, tried to Riot alertness and focus so she could push past the pain. He was no Soother, he couldn’t dull any emotion, but he could try his best to counter it. All okay? He asked and took a step back from Seb, waiting for an attack.

“What’s the most complicated one to make, then?”

Lusk pushed open the door gently and limped inside the bar. Drinks had never been his passion, though the situation at Oasis had been particularly stressful on husband old heart, and so he’d come here. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. He tapped Atium to a age where he wasn’t so fragile and sat next to a woman who looked about twenty years old. ( @Silva) “What’s your least favourite drink to make?” He asked the bartender. He would order that, just for kicks. ( @Invocation)

Sethramir appeared in Max’s hands, a glowing white sword. He began to run forward. As he ran, he focused on one person. A normal person in the crossfire. He Rioted them, Rioted happiness and joy and everything else. Spren began to form around them like a cloud, feeding on all of the emotion. Suddenly, the cloud of emotion spren he’d generated was massive, like a smokescree, and Max jumped through it to try and swing at Seth on the other side.

Redatrick looked at Mike with surprise and shook his head. “No,” he said. “If I was, I wouldn’t be worried about people chasnung me.” He moved his old pile of clothes to a corner and stood by the door. “And besides, I thought you were the Immortal one. You can shapeshift, disguise, but for some reason you say you haven’t been to Scadrial.”

“We can find it,” Jarret said, thinking about taking another coin out to fiddle with, but he didn’t want to give the old man any ideas. “Does this other gang have a name we can use?”

“Ghostbloods?” Jarret asked. “That some sort of street gang or something?” So it was either that or another gang. “We can split up,” the man with the weapon said. “Send us for the Ghostbloods, send Pell, Sam and Knife-eyes for the other gang.” Mickey nodded, and turned to the old man. “How would we get in contact with these gangs?”

Max had been into motion, trying to get people out of the immediate area when Altheahad elsecalled them all away. Now he could focus on the fight. Looking towards Sebastian and the man attaching Devaan he extended a hand towards each of them and tried to flood them with emotions. He didn’t know his mentally unstable each of them were, but he corninues, trying to Riot fear, pain, uselessness.

Redatrick nodded. It was hard to replace a bond forged over years, but he’d have to let go. Holding onto the past, especially with his ex-gang, would only end up with him dead. And already, he’d found someone he could somewhat trust in Mike. “That’s good to hear,” he said. “And the Bella person, she seems nice too, though how she does her theatrics is beyond me.” He’d seen plays where fire was used, but no one had hidden the contraptions so well.

The smiling man, Jarret, followed his gaze to the coin, which he now realised he’d been holding. So, apparently currency was the same here. And bribery still went. He quickly pocketed the coin. “What are you doing, Jarret?” Mickey asked, readjusting his black and gold cowboy hat. “He wants my coin.” “Then it give it.” “It’s my lucky coin!” “Scrap the rust, you don’t need a coin for luck.” Jarret glared, then took the coin out of his pocket and set it down. It was an ordinary silver boxing. “You should probably know,” the man with the weapon said, crossing his arms. “We don’t like being cheated.”