…with walls and towers were girdled round…

[Rahne Sinclair]

Rahne is briefly distracted by Primer’s reaction to her arrival, a strange combination of the self-control she’s come to associate with her new leader and the hasty attempt to salvage his own pride that she remembers from the puerile way Reverend Craig behaved with her. She dismisses the latter association in an instant, berating herself silently for her faithlessness.

That there are organized “mutants” who oppose her brothers is news to her, though it helps explain some things she has seen on television since her arrival. Apparently they are of no particular importance, however, which is a relief to hear after she allowed the yellow-haired one to slip past her.

> " Anything else to report? "

Her own guilt over her failure drives her first answer, a shamefaced "The boy, Sam – I almost had him, but he escaped me." Then, hastily, she attempts to change the subject "An’ there’s another trail here, fresh as yer own, but ‘tis like a ghost it seems… travels right through walls." She thinks a few moments more but can’t come up with any other news he might be interested in.

[N.P.C]

Getting out of the prison complex has turned out to be more difficult than Merrick had originally expected. The guard armor he’d appropriated made it easier to move around within the cell blocks without being challenged, but it was nearly impossible to get to the surface without being attacked by his fellow inmates, and in the few areas the other guards had secured there was no way he could leave the complex without being challenged.

Not for the first time, he curses the limitations of his power… this would be a lot easier if he could control multiple minds at once, or from a distance. As it is, trying to bluff his way out through the controlled gates is a risk he would rather not take. Better to wait it out down here, pretending to patrol mostly-empty halls for stragglers, and take his opportunity when it – ow!

His ruminations are cut short by a heavy weight smashing into his back, a muscular tail wrapping around his throat, a high-pitched hiccupping laugh. He panics for a moment, desperately trying to get his feet back under him as claws scratch their way through the joints of his borrowed armor, before regaining the presence of mind to grab his furred, weasel-like assailant and hurl him against the nearest wall.

The creature doesn’t speak, but his eyes are eloquent – he has clearly identified Merrick’s superhuman strength as the sign of a fellow mutant, guard-armor notwithstanding. Unfortunate, that… he could have been a useful distraction for the others. Oh, well. He reaches for his rifle as the weasel-guy crouches suspiciously, then forgets the gun as it leaps toward him, preparing to crush the creature’s skull when it foolishly comes within range.

Instead, it is caught in mid-leap by a far-too-familiar spray of icy slush that pins it against the wall, and for a moment Merrick is convinced he’s hallucinating… what are the odds that the same hypothermic brat who put him in this prison in the first place would be here, now?

But, unlikely or not, there he is. (Granted, he doesn’t look quite the same, though it’s hard to identify the difference. Still, there can’t be all that many walking ice-statues in the world…) And while Merrick is well aware that what he ought to do here is maintain his role as rescued guard, he cannot resist the opportunity to avenge himself on one of his captors. So, instead of picking up his rifle again, he drops to the floor in a heap and waits for the ice-boy to come “help” him. Just look into my eyes, boy, and I’ll take care of the rest.

[N.P.C]

As Merrick in the guard’s uniform crumples to the floor a low laugh sounds from the shadowed depths of one of the opened cells and a tall, masculine form takes shape as he slowly moves into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. Under the unforgiving glare of standard government issue illumination he appears to be in his mid-thirties with a harsh nose, large ears, and sunken cheeks and eyes. He’s calm in a way that even the methodic and clever Merrick hasn’t been, though calm is perhaps the wrong word apathetic perhaps fitting better, he barely spares Bob a glance as he moves towards Merrick’s prone form. “Playing possum.” he mutters, seemingly to himself, and reaches out to nudge him lightly with his foot revealing another niggling difference from the other prisoners- he’s wearing thick plastic boots instead of the standard issue shoddy leather and, upon further examination, his jumpsuit is of a slightly different construct, stiffer looking than the others, and he’s also wearing long gloves of the same stiff material. “And why would an upstanding government official, like yourself sir, feel the need to do that?” he goes on, prodding a little harder with his boot but still not to the level of harm.