[Arthur Rachade]

So we must have a prescription to die when death is our physician.

-William Shakespeare

A red Ford F-150 pulled up in front of the trailer. The driver switched off the engine and leaned back in his seat and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel thoughtfully. The driver had black hair perfectly combed in place and wore a tan blazer with a blue button-down shirt, white pants, and brown shoes. The outfit screamed elegance and expense, and there was not a wrinkle on it.

The inside of the truck was immaculately clean as well. It was a stick shift, several years old but kept in excellent repair. It had cost sixty thousand dollars when new and was one of Arthur's cheaper vehicles. The inside was done in leather, taken from cows raised at high altitudes so no flies would mar their skin. On the seat next to Arthur was the kind of carrier you take a cake in, with four latches along the side and a handle on the top. In the back seat of the truck was a brown sack chained shut and padlocked. As Arthur watched the doorway of the trailer, the sack shifted slightly and made a noise that might have been a groan. Arthur glanced at the sack in the rearview mirror, and, when no other movement or noise came from it, picked up the cake carrier and got out of the car. Standing on the gravel outside the trailer, he took a moment to look around and slowly shook his head. This was not the right place for someone like Evelyn Winters.

Carrier in hand, he went to the door of the trailer and rang the bell.

“Hello, Ms. Winters. My name is Arthur. I'd very much like to speak with you.”



Evelyn Winters

[Evelyn Winters]

Evelyn was deeply ingrained in her work. While she’d regained most of her possessions during her prison escape, she’d lost quite a few blades she held near and dear to her heart. She was in the process of remaking them. She’d already finished forging one. She’d carefully shaped the metal, engraving serrations into the tip of the blade. It wasn’t particularly long - perhaps four inches in length - but the hilt was hefty (adding another two inches or so), and the metal was thick. This was not a throwing knife. It was intended for melee only, but it would be extremely effective at its purpose. She was sitting at her grinding wheel, focusing intensely on sharpening this blade to perfection.

She might not have noticed the approaching vehicle had Cat not jumped down from his perch hissing loudly, hair on end, ears back, his new robotic tail rising up and separating into three sharp, separate, metallic prongs. It had taken some time for Cat to get used to his new tail after he’d lost his old one, but he got the hang of it rather quickly, despite its unusual added function. Like Evelyn, he was an incredibly smart creature.

Immediately, her muscles tensed. She grabbed the hilt of her unfinished blade and fetched another from the stock in her cybernetic leg - it was small, simple, but incredibly effective for throwing. She stood up and assumed her fighter’s stance, ready for the worst. She had made the unfortunate discovery that she could be defeated. Twice. She didn’t plan on it happening again.

She didn’t approach the window, but from where she was standing, she could just barely see through the blinds. Cat let out a low growl as she watched a rather debonair looking man advance toward the trailer, cake carrier in hand. He paused, then approached the door and rang the bell. Winters. Her mind went into a cold panic. This trailer had been hidden for years. How did he know she was here?

She remained stiff in her fighter’s stance, waiting to see what he would do next. But nearly a minute passed, and the man - Arthur, he said his name was - didn’t make a move. Well, if he wasn’t going to do anything, she would. She couldn’t have people knowing about her hideout.

Body tense and ready for a fight, she opened the door. Cat let out yet another hiss, his tails stiff, razor sharp ends pointed toward the mysterious man. She’d opened the door with intent to kill him, but, against all instinct, she paused. It did not appear this man was intending to hurt her. Still, she remained vigilant. Swiftly and immediately, she pressed the melee knife against Arthur's throat, and held the smaller one back, ready to throw. ”Tell me why I shouldn’t bury my blade into your jugular,” she said, features expressionless, voice monotone.

Arthur Rachade

[Arthur Rachade]

He'd obviously expected something of a violent response, given who he was dealing with. As she threatened him with the knife a smile danced on the edge's of Arthur's lips. There was a fire there, something raw and untamed, something that intrigued him. Like much of the country, he had heard of Evelyn Winters following her capture and spectacular trial. He had regarded her sentencing as a tragedy, though it was, of course, the end to which many of their kind came. Arthur had pondered his end at times, and had more or less come to the conclusion that he wouldn't permit himself to be taken alive. But that was for the future. For now there was the joy of killing, the beautiful embrace of death, the game of staying one step ahead of the authorities. When news came out that Evelyn Winters had escaped, a certain idea had presented itself to him. He had done nothing directly, but his contacts in law enforcement had allowed him to keep an eye on the issue. And now, at last, he was here. Arthur stared into Evelyn Winters' eyes, and smiled.

The blade at his neck didn't worry him. He kept his body constantly covered in a thin, transparent layer of his polymer, hardened and secure against most kinds of small arms fire. The knife, he felt confident, would simply slide off. And of course, if he'd wanted to kill her it would have been surpassingly simple: A spear from his finger into her brain would do it.

Yet that was not his goal today. “Reasons not to kill me. Hmm.” He paused a moment, as if considering her question, then slowly, in as non-threatening a manner as possible, he brought the cake carrier up. He opened the carrier.

Inside was a human head. The skin was the color of turkey skin after it has been baked in the oven. It was hairless, the mouth gaping open where a plum had stuffed inside, as with a medieval boar's head. The eyes were gone, replaced by cherries, and the head sat on a bed of greens: lettuce, parsley, spinach, spring mix.

“Well... I brought lunch.”

Evelyn Winters

[Evelyn Winters]

She didn’t like his confidence. It was clear her blades didn’t scare him, and it irked her to no end. It occurred to her that Arthur might be a metahuman. Seemed likely. Your average human would be much less cavalier about approaching Evelyn given her reputation (at least, she hoped so). Still, there was a saying about assumptions that her brother liked to bring up and then promptly ignore, so she didn’t come to any conclusions without proper evidence.

Evelyn watched his hands very carefully as he slowly opened the cake carrier. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but a cooked human head was pretty low on that list. However, once her eyes caught sight of it, they didn’t let go. Her pupils dilated, her interest clear. The culinary concoction was a sight to behold. Not to mention, it smelled gorgeous. Her sense of smell was somewhat damaged, her nose having been broken several times over, but even so, the scent was intoxicating. Even Cat seemed interested, taking a break from his hissing and growling to sniff the air originating from the severed head.

”That is a very good reason,” she said. She felt her guards lowering, but they were far from disappearing.

She stepped aside, lowering the throwing knife, though she kept the other one pressed against his neck. ”Come in,” she said simply. ”But first.” She pressed the blade she held against his neck ever so slightly into his skin to see what would happen. Evelyn’s scientific nature got the best of her. She had to know if this man had some power to prevent her from harming him.

Arthur Rachade

[Arthur Rachade]

There was always a certain relief that came with realizing you were not alone. The knowledge that another person was with you, was like you, that they understood you on some primal level- that you no longer had to conceal part of yourself- that was the sweetest possible thing. And for those like him and like Evelyn, it was a realization that came around far too rarely.

So he had expected the recognition, and he had expected the interest. But he hadn't expected the increased pressure on his neck. The very slightest of waverings came passed over his face. Had he misjudged her? Was she too far wrapped in bloodthirst to pay recognition to a peer? She couldn't hurt him, of course, but if she planned to try- no, that wasn't it at all. The expression on her face wasn't anger, or passion, or even the cold flatness of a murder committed to ward off boredom (something he was certainly familiar with). It was, instead- curiousity.

The smile returned to his face. The knife's blade slid across his neck as it would across metal. Slowly he raised the hand that was not holding the carrier, making a fist. He focused, and blood-red polymer began forming along his forearm, shining, smooth, as if he had dipped his arm in latex. He made two spikes extend about twelve inches from his knuckles, and from the middle of his forearm a tendril extended with the shape of a small hand on the end of it. Slowly this tendril extended to touch Evelyn's wrist, gently pushing the knife away from Arthur's neck.

“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” he asked, voice slightly amused. He held his tendril on her wrist, and held his eyes on her, just for a moment before retracting his polymer. In seconds it had vanished, with no evidence it had ever been present.

“I can make it any color I wish,” he said. “Including transparent. If I cover my skin with, I don't leave fingerprints, I don't drop DNA, and I have a shield against small guns... or knives, as the case may be.”

Inclining his head towards the door, he said, “May I come in? There many things I want to discuss with you.”

Evelyn Winters

[Evelyn Winters]

”Right,” she said quietly as her blade slid off his neck as if it were made of metal. Of course he was a metahuman. It seemed like every person she met nowadays was a metahuman. And as far as she knew, she had no way to hurt him. It was a difficult fact to accept, but one that had become easier to digest with time and experience. That certainly didn’t mean she was okay with being more or less helpless. Far, far, far, far from it. But she’d also come to accept that she, in comparison to metahumans, was the underdog. She just had to find a way to get the upper hand, if need be. Though it seemed Arthur had no intention of harming her. Still, it was good to have a contingency plan.

She studied him for a moment longer. There was something about him, something...familiar. Something that, of all things, reminded her of her brother. His eyes. When he looked at her, his pupils didn’t move. There was no empathy behind those eyes. Axel, of course, had empathy for Evelyn, but not for anyone else. She observed, when studying his countenance while he socialized with others, that his pupils remained static while the pupils of others would contract and dilate in accordance with his perceived emotions. Axel had confirmed that her pupils behaved similarly. And now, she was seeing the same thing in Arthur. How intriguing.

She watched closely as Arthur demonstrated his powers. As his tendrils touched her scarred wrist, she violently recoiled her arm, a flash of panic screaming in her mind, exploding in her chest. “Do not touch me,” she said, managing to maintain her monotone, though the speed of her voice picked up ever so slightly. Were his flesh capable of being penetrated, Arthur would have had a blade perforated far into his spleen.

Dropping her weapons to her side - though keeping them tight in her fists, muscles tense - her eyes scanned the man in front of her. ”I did,” she replied, voice even. She listened as he listed off his abilities. He was not lying; she could tell (unless being about to perfectly mask his body language was one of his abilities). This contingency plan would be difficult to formulate, but she’d come up with one eventually. She always did (unless she ran into things foolishly and underprepared, but she’d learned her lesson in that regard; her overconfidence had waned greatly since her incident in San Francisco). Who knows; perhaps she could use his powers to her advantage. He certainly seemed to be on her side.

She eyed the rather delicious looking head, admiring its beauty. Cat had once again begun hissing and growling, but Arthur had not yet entered his territory, so he had not yet attacked. She stepped aside. ”You can come in,” she said. She looked down at the small, ferocious animal she’d shared her life with for the past couple years. ”Cat,” she said, a suggestion in her tone, far from the monotone she’d used to communicate with Arthur. Cat hummed a low growl in annoyance and slunk back into the trailer.

The trailer in question was busy, compact. Half eaten taxidermied animals hung from the walls and stood on top of shelves and counters. They were all gifts Cat had laid at Evelyn’s feet. She’d decided to make the best of them. There was a large workstation which contained a myriad of tools, small robotics, and blades of all shapes and sizes in various states of completion. There were cans of beans stacked in the corner. A half eaten can was sitting by her workstation, plastic fork dug into its contents. There was a bathroom, a sink, some cabinets, and finally, a small bed - hard mattress, rough sheets. She didn’t mind the discomfort. It wasn’t like she got much sleep anyway.

”I’m afraid there’s not much space to place our lunch,” she said, just a hint of jest in her voice. She found herself surprisingly comfortable around Arthur (though when you factored in her comfort levels around most other people, that really wasn't saying much).

Arthur Rachade

[Arthur Rachade]

He could sense her discomfort instinctively, even as he admired her ironclad control of herself and her reactions. Only very slight changes to the voice, a small dilation of her pupils, the smallest tightening around the eyes, betrayed her deeper concern. He didn't blame her. She was used to being the strongest person in the room- in any room. Being so easily outclassed by him must be disconcerting for her. But it was no shame to be outclassed by him when he outclassed so many. He almost shook his head in amusement. What a woman.

He withdrew his tendril immediately at her admonition not to touch. “My apologies, Miss Winters.” It vanished into his skin, entirely invisible now. A moment later he followed her inside.

He had been expecting something dirty, something primitive, but this... this went beyond what he had imagined. A dingy, filthy place, lacking even basic comforts. She had been living here? It spoke to how far she had fallen that he would find her in a place like this. Only the workbench and tools on one wall hinted that the occupant of this trailer was more than a failure. Which he knew very well she was not. Oh, she most definitely was not.

He stood for a moment after she had joked about not having a place to put their food, looking around with a sad smile on his face. He took it all in, and then he looked at her again. His smile had become secretive now, hinting at laughter just behind his eyes. Not laughter at her, of course. Laughter at the absurdity of the situation, at finding someone like Evelyn winters in this dump. Like finding a diamond in a dog dropping.

“You've certainly changed your living conditions lately,” he said, turning to Evelyn again. “Do you like it? Or would you prefer somewhere else? Say... a penthouse in New York? Or a mansion in Beverly Hills? Or perhaps a thousand year old castle in Germany?” Now his smile was wide, showing teeth. The smile of a tiger. “I could make that happen, if you wanted.”

Evelyn Winters