Another Love Grows Cold (Wrath)

A dust trail dispersed into the ragged evening wind. One solitary road spanned the circumference of Jump City's resident canyon pit. It was perpetually inundated with desert sands, and adjacent to no landscape feature save for an endless expanse of arid wasteland. Where the highway passed between a fissure of sandstone there came a vibrate tune. The only song playing for miles around.


A cargo truck, gearing down for the banked right turning, was on route. The solitary driver inside was so confident in his driving that the motions were muscle memory. His attentions were instead dedicated to mimicking pitch and capturing Garth Brooks' masterpiece.


Keeping rhythm on his steering wheel, the trucker cut ahead to his favourite bit, the timer number etched into memory.


The brakes slammed on heavily. His eighteen wheeler lurching dangerously against preferred momentum. But with a final hiss the vehicle made its stop. Opening his cab-door, the man climbed down and went to inspect the curious obstruction he'd found in his way. His radio droned on behind as he approached the random brick wall ahead. It defied all good sense. With undue hesitation, the trucker drew his hand across its surface, only to discover that the wall was not true brick. In fact it felt metallic.

Without warning the pixels broken sequence, their camouflague retracted so that their colour was once again silver. Like a swarm they engulfed the driver until he fell heavily into a roadside ditch. Having taken a blow to the temple, the trucker did not move. Pixelated feet crunched sand as they moved off their hiding place. Finding the rear compartment, they stopped abruptly waiting for its latches to be undone. A groan sounded as the fastenings loosened and the doors opened.

"Next Valentine's. I'll have a date next Valentine's." Pix told himself as he entered the storage unit.

In the thick of it. A place where reasons often fell to scrutiny. Hindsight struck Pix just as he hefted a crowbar inexpertly to a vacuum sealed container. His career as a digitised highwayman was one born of prideful necessity. There were better more productive ways Hugh knew how to spend his time, only he'd dug himself a hole he'd been forced to hide inside. Popularity often required sacrifice. Keeping up appearances was subject to one's dedication of inventing and maintaining the best world to live in.

It was February fourteenth, and as far as his teammates knew, Hubert Exley was on a date.

Under recollection, Pix recognised how staggeringly clear this lie unveiled his insecurities. To admit to being single, to just say 'no' was beyond his capabilities. It wasn't like his status with the others hinged on them thinking he had a vibrant social calendar, just the galling prospect that they might for a moment dwell on the alternative overrode his common sense. And then worse still was the possibility of being found out. A fear that'd motivated him to spend his day far from any prying eyes. Hijacking cargo was the only productive thing he could think to do in this dust-bowl.

Oh sure hindsight. When you say it like that it sounds dumb. Splinters of plastic flew from the case as his crowbar did its job. Glad to be finished of his exertions, Pix released the iron rod and kicked free the box's housing. The shipping container he was stood inside continued to hum as an electric motor powered the refrigeration unit. Pix stifled a shiver, crouching low to search for treasure.

"Jackpot!" The sprite brandished triumphantly one of his spoils; a 500ml can of which there were four dozen inside each crate. It opened with a satisfying hiss, "To beer! The source of, and solution to, all of life's problems." He was already resigned to his solitude, Pix might as well be accompanied by the traditional lonely man's beverage. Where once stood a walking Minecraft avatar was now its human equivalent, breath suddenly visible as a cold vapour. In his metahuman form, Pix could not drink, forcing him to forego his disguise in favour of liquid refreshment. Wasn't like there was anyone around to catch him out anyway. That was his whole reason for coming out here.

His first swig of hops was spat back out as Hugh received the fright of his life. Who? What? Where? I was alone! The can dropped, spilling its contents all over. Pix fell backwards into the crate he'd just opened, catching himself from falling further via a wall ring for rope restraints. It was as much the shock of discovery than the horror of being seen unmasked. Hubert Exley didn't commit crimes, the HIVE operative Pix did.

If there was any doubt that this stranger would cause him trouble, she was dressed in a peculiar fashion. That was usually an indicator that a person was out of the ordinary. If an all powerful demon overlord put on a sweater-vest he would blend in seamlessly, yet never did this occur to those blessed with the potential to kick butt. Her staff was most concerning. Even if this confrontation was mainly a bluff she was armed. Never underestimate the danger of a weapon in a small person's hands. They were the type most likely to use it.

To benefit, the chances of this stranger knowing or finding out the identity of this face were minimal. Unless you were the government, people were rarely able to track down folk from face alone. Even on nation-wide manhunts the subject of interest could walk into a crowded bar and be pretty sure to walk back out again sans handcuffs.

These rationalisations steadied Hugh, allowing him to recover from his initial surprise. He could now repoiste her accusations with his usual combination of intelligence and wit, "I didn't do it, you can't prove anything!" Unable to counter this logic, the stranger would now apologise and walk off.

((OOC: I know I put 'she' and 'her' but is Cain wearing her mask? And if so, is it hiding her gender like in the tournament?))