Midnight and Hellfire

[Wanda Maximoff]

(( OOC: This thread is starting at midnight at the HFC party. The other HFC-party thread is NOT closed, please keep going with social – or anitisocial – RP there. This thread is happening a few hours later, though we'll be posting on both threads simultaneously.))

Emma finally extricates herself from her guests (requiring, at the last, an inelegant memory-edit to cause a particularly intoxicated Hollywood producer to forget his plans for casting her in an upcoming movie) and makes her way down to the sub-basement room where Jason has been setting up the Augmenter.

"’bout time you got down here," the illusionist snarls at her. She ignores his tone, just as she ignores the image he habitually projects of a handsome 18th-century gentleman in white silk – she knows he is her creature, and she knows that he knows she is not fooled by his trickery. She simply gestures imperiously, and he starts affixing his set of input nodes to his forehead as she does the same with hers.

She takes a moment to appreciate the beauty of the device. Ever since she’d discovered the existence of Cerebro she’s been working on her own telepathic augmenter, with the grudging support of the rest of the Circle. After all, they can’t exactly admit to their fears that, Augmented, she could simply dominate the Circle… that would be too much like admitting that she overpowers them. Which she does, of course, but it suits her that they stay unaware of it – their talents are useful.

Admittedly, they would not approve of her plans for it this evening – like most nontelepaths, they think of mental manipulation as a kind of attack, rather than understanding it properly as very efficient communication. They would consider this a violation of the Hellfire Club’s safe-haven policy – but she has no intention of letting them find out. They don’t even know the Augmenter is operational yet, and she’s been careful not to be seen coming here tonight. And her intended manipulations are subtle enough that, with the Augmenter in use, even the X-Men’s new novice telepath will be unable to sense them.

She’s thought of everything… she always does. Of course, sooner or later it will come out; nothing can be kept secret forever. But by then, if her projections are correct, fully forty percent of the guests at their little event will have joined the Hellfire Club, overtly or covertly, and the rest will at least be sympathetic to their aims. And nobody argues with success.

And if it comes out before then… well, there’s a reason she’s involved Jason, and not just because his telepathic illusions are useful for this operation. If all else fails, he will make a convenient scapegoat.

She finishes attaching her input nodes and, at the stroke of midnight precisely, she reaches out mentally to synchronize with her White Rook and guides his power with her own through the circuits of her Augmenter into a diffuse telepathic wave that permeates the ballroom.

Bong… bong… bong… Emma smiles at the chiming of the grandfather clock... a beautifully symbolic touch, and symbolism is important.

Her influence is nothing quite so blatant as behavioral control. Rather, the wave is designed to bypass behavior and conscious thought altogether and touch the ingrained habits, values, and perceptions that form the normally unmanipulable essence of the individual variously referred to as “personality”, “self-image”, and (by the irredeemably sentimental) “soul,” and subtly, permanently, tune it to the Hellfire Club’s way of seeing things.

Bong… bong… bong…

When it all goes wrong, Emma has no idea why. Neither does anyone else… not even Wanda, although her instinctive probability-manipulating defense is ultimately responsible, causing a cascade of unlikely failures in the Augmenter as the wave attempts to touch her mind.

Emma’s later analysis will find mechanical failure, but of so thoroughly implausible a form that she can only conclude sabotage. She will blame Pierce, the electromechanical genius, whose cyborg mind is at least partially resistant to her telepathic probes. And when the attention of the Inner Circle is brought to bear on her, she will blame Wyngarde for the act itself, implanting in his mind memories of covertly using the Augmenter for his own twisted goals. The Inner Circle will change radically once the investigations are over, the White Queen’s status significantly reduced.

But all that is later. Now, implausible mechanical failures in the Augmenter twist the nature of her personality-altering wave, render it at once more superficial and blatant. One after another, guests lacking strong mental defenses find their self-image melting away altogether, and into the resulting vacuum rushes the alternate identities they’ve assumed for the night.

Bong… bong… bong…

The entire process takes no more than seconds. When it’s complete, the ballroom is no longer filled with socialite partygoers playing the parts of various fictional characters. Rather, it is filled with the characters themselves, in unfamiliar bodies. Then the Augmenter overloads altogether, rendering both Emma and Jason unconscious for the moment.

The last few chimes from the grandfather clock in the lobby do not sound in the least bit ominous. There’s no sudden crack of thunder or eerie background music. In fact, there’s no obvious sign at this moment of the chaos that’s about to erupt in the ballroom, other than a sudden silence as everyone stops talking at once.

After living through the resulting chaos, though, nobody in that room will ever again be able to experience sudden lulls in conversation without at least a subconscious twitch of fear.

Bong…
bong…
bong…

(( OOC: OK, here's the deal.

• Anyone who doesn't want to be part of this thread, feel free to have left the building before midnight.
  
• Anyone who stays in the room should either start posting as the character they came dressed as or have some good excuse for resisting the effect -- e.g., not being in costume to begin with, or having good mental defenses.
  
• No fixed posting order... just post as the muse strikes you. When things die down I'll end the thread with no permanent effects (basically the effect will fade away).
  
• There are NO physical changes, only psychological ones. You still have all your normal powers and abilities, though you probably don't know it and might not be able to access them. Conversely, you might be able to use your powers in ways you wouldn't normally be able to that are "in character" for your new char.
  
• Have fun with this... it's a crack!thread, pretty much anything goes.
  
• Usual thread etiquette applies... no g'modding other characters, etc. Also, if you're going to spin off in some direction that might be offensive (explicit sex, wholesale slaughtering other guests, etc.) feel encouraged to start a new thread and clearly label it.
  
• Any other questions, just ask.
  

))

[Bobby Drake]

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

When the grandfather clock starts chiming midnight, Bobby is surprised to realize the party has lasted this long without anybody killing anybody. In fact, he’s actually glad he came.

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

Watching John hang out with Marie and the other students had been… well, actually, it had been weird and awkward and had made him want to run screaming, but in some abstract theoretical way it had been nice. And it was cool to spend some time with him like everything was, well, not normal exactly, it had never been exactly normal, but like it used to be. A reminder that they’d been friends once, before they’d become first enemies and then… well, whatever it is they are, now.

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

And that meeting with Warren and Josh and Ms. Frost was… weird. And creepy. And scary as hell. But productive, maybe? Bobby isn’t sure how psyched he is about working with the Hellfire Club on this, and Josh didn’t seem too psyched about it either, but Warren seemed to know what he was doing, and Ms. Frost seemed willing enough to help out once Bobby’d pointed out that it was only a matter of time before the Brotherhood turned it into a firefight. In retrospect, Bobby isn’t sure that the Hellfire Club’s vision of mutant corporate overlordship is any better in the long run than Magneto’s vision of mutants as the only survivors of some kind of planetwide jihad, but at least their body-count in the short term is lower, and that’s gotta count for something, right?

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

Wrong, he answers himself as he recovers from a wave of mental disorientation – those all-night research sessions in the Batcave are starting to catch up with him. We don’t compromise with evil. That’s what makes us heroes. He’s not sure what got him started woolgathering on the subject, but some things Bruce just knows deep in his soul, and that’s one of them.

It takes him a moment to realize the things he doesn’t know also include where he is and how he got here. It’s some sort of high-society party, clearly, but he’s in the Bat-suit… or, well, no he isn’t. It’s some cheap Spandex knockoff. And all around him other guests are starting to behave… strangely. He moves quickly into a shadowy corner under an elliptical staircase to observe events. He needs to understand what’s happening here before the Batman can take action.

[Warren Worthington III]

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

When the grandfather clock starts chiming midnight, Warren suddenly relaxes, realizing for the first time just how tense he’s been. We made it through the night! Not that he’d really expected otherwise – the Hellfire Club is famous for its safe-haven policy, and there are sound business reasons for it… they take it seriously. These sorts of gatherings bring them the sort of visibility and influence no amount of money can buy.

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

Look at what happened with Emma and Bobby, for example: she was the first person outside the Institute itself willing to help dig into this camp torture business. Of course, she had her own reasons for doing so, and it bothered Warren that he didn’t know what they were… there would be payment for this sooner or later, one way or another. But that’s to be expected in a business arrangement, and it certainly beats pounding people over the head ‘till they die, right?

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

Not that Josh saw it that way. It’s probably just as well that they’d spent some time making out in the coat closet earlier, because judging from the way Josh had reacted when he made the deal with Emma Warren suspects it’ll be a bit of a wait before the next time. Especially since he’d said some things in response that he didn’t really mean, and… well, it didn’t quite merit the title of “their first fight” but it had gotten a little tense.

He’s just worried about me, and Bobby, that’s all, Warren reminds himself. It’s just like the way he freaked when Josh joined the X-Men, which had also caused some tension. And not without cause in both cases: the Hellfire Club is way out of Warren’s league, and the X-Men have a way of dying… but they’ve both been taking risks for mutant rights since before they met, and they both know neither of them is going to stop. His frustration with Josh before was just fatigue and stress talking, and he makes a mental note to talk with him over breakfast the next morning, when they’ve both had a chance to sleep on it.

Bong…
Bong…
Bong…

The Demon shakes Its head to resist whatever strange influence had suborned Its will a moment before, and is almost overcome by nausea at the memory. Love? Forgiveness? Understanding? These things are not in Its nature. It no longer quite remembers what the initial offense was that had caused the irritation, but that does not matter. What matters is that It has been slighted and must exact vengeance.

"VENGEANCE!"

Snarling under its breath it storms across the room, knocking others out of his way with sweeps of his bat-like wings, following the strange mental trail that leads to his target.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Josh is standing in the ballroom, chatting a little distractedly with a Dr. Susan Storm. Apparently, she’s a leading scientist at some big research corporation in New York City. And she specializes in genetics. He’d not thought too much about life after high school, but his natural talent in the field of biology has gotten him thinking a little.

Thanking her for the talk, he turns and looks across the room, spotting a cluster of other students. He begins walking towards them, mentally running over the last hour or so in his brain. Somewhere in the distance, a bell begins to ring, signaling midnight.

Even the thought of it makes him a little upset. He, Warren, and Bobby had met with Emma Frost in her office. Much to Josh’s dismay, Emma had agreed to investigate the mutant containment camps. He had tried to convey his hesitation with the entire deal to Warren over their mental link, but they’d gone through with it anyway.

First off, she just makes me uncomfortable. Secondly, I don’t like the idea of him owing anything to her. Her dubious telepathic ethics only added to his concern.

After they’d left, he’d verbalized his concerns. Warren - already a little tired from the political fencing - had snapped, and he’d responded in kind. Bobby had merely made cat-like motions with his hands and skulked off, flapping his cape.

A slightly sad look crosses his face. I didn’t mean it, Warr. But the fact was, Emma Frost was not a good person to be involved with. It boiled down to his telepathic instinct versus Warren’s political savvy. Could anyone blame Warren that he’d gone with his own gut? I do. She’s… ugh. Sketchy. He tries to shake his foul mood.

Suddenly, a wave of mental energy sweeps across the crowd. Reflexively, Josh contracts his mental shields, as if huddling under a blanket. What the hell was that? At the same moment, he feels a spike of rage over their mental link.

>"VENGEANCE!"

Whaat? Turning, he sees Warren pushing his way through the crowd to him, a totally unrecognizable look on his face. As Warren leaps at him, he extends a hand, halting his boyfriend in midair. What the FUCK is going on? Warren? Warren’s mind was utterly unrecognizable to him at the moment. As he stares, trying to comprehend, another mental assault blasts at his shields. Thrown off, it shatters his shields. Panicked, Josh fights against the energy, failing utterly.

Warren drops to the ground with a thud.

Where am I? Indiana Jones surveys the crowd. Where did all these people come from? It had to be some sort of a visual illusion. He’d accidentally set off a trap in an ancient library. A huge weight had narrowly crushed him, but he’d heard a bestial scream, until he’d been disoriented by whatever it was…

His eyes focus on the creature before him. Shit. Not another one! He backs up, drawing his whip in a single motion, and a sardonic smile crosses his face.

“Got a problem? Go home before you regret it, buster.” He cracks his whip expertly, it twirling around his body impossibly.

[Robin Wesley]

Robin mentally tugs at one of her pumpkin vines. Like little children, they are starting to get ansty. It has been a long night, between socializing and almost getting drenched with a tray full of mixed drinks, but it had been fun. It was also fun to watch the fist-fight between the wives of two rival candidates for the New York gubernatorial race. Too bad that wasn't going to end up on the front page of the next day's newspaper. The Hellfire Club had made sure no one managed to snap any pictures.

She pets the vine around her arm absently, keeping it calm. Her control on them is starting to feel a little slippery, and Robin knows she really should be making her exit soon. Three vines were difficult to control, especially the large pumpkin vine. Stagnating their growth had been a great idea for the party, but hours of it was starting to wipe her out mentally.

The bells start ringing for midnight, and Robin cannot help but feel some relief. No doubt Ms. Munroe would start pressuring Warren and the other Institute students to start heading back towards the limo, right? She starts counting the chimes of grandfather clock.

... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ...

Guests mull about, several grabbing wine glasses in preparation for an impromptu toast to midnight, to Halloween, to ghosts and witches and trick or treaters and costumes and, of course, alcohol.

... 11 ...

Robin looks down on her pumpkin suit, thinking about how nice it will be to finally pull the heavy, awkward costume off once back at the Institute.

... 12

Then there is no more Robin. There is darkness, and a strange hunger, and only the mantra GROW ... GROW ... GROW. From far away, there is a scream, and it should have been familiar, but it is silenced by the mantra. There is only the desire the grow, and flourish, and ... to populate the world with pumpkins. Pumpkins pumpkins pumpkins. It has to grow.

Robin's body goes nearly limp. It reacts to the sudden change of thought quite well, and her limbs are withdrawn into the giant pumpkin costume. The vines which had been wrapped around her are suddenly freed, and all of Robin's plant manipulation abilities are used to the Great Cause: growing. And making pumpkins.

Without control, and with extra energy and power, the vines become monstrous. They crawl across the floor, growing thicker, leafier, denser. Pumpkins grow, mature, and drop from the vine in less than a minute. They tangle around people's feet, wrap up columns, and spread their way across the giant hall.

[Warren Worthington III]

Ah… there he is! It’s not a cogent thought, really, more of an awareness, an orienting reflex around its prey. It crouches, leaps, ready to land and tear and rend and… float in midair?

Unacceptable! It roars its frustration to the firmament, which seems to respond with a wave of energy it perceives only by the way the target is smashed down. It laughs in delight at the taste of pain and panic as it regains its feet.

"At last, mortal… now you are mine!" It approaches more slowly this time, intent on savoring the boy’s fear and pain before feasting on his living flesh.

It doesn’t work out that way. The boy backs away, but not in fear… instead he displays a nearly inhuman confidence. That is… strange. Disorienting. The whip he wields twines around him like a living thing, and all around them both strange vines grow far larger, far faster than is at all natural. They tangle around the Demon’s legs, slowing its progress, before it slashes at them with its wings, hacking its way to freedom.

> " Got a problem? Go home before you regret it, buster. "

The Demon shakes its head like a bewildered bull and snorts. No more distractions, no more reprieves… it is time for the kill. It leaps again, claws extended, savoring the rush of wind past its wings.

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Indy shakes his head for a moment as a something strange ripples through the very back of his conscious mind.

He gets the intense feeling that he should be able to toss him across the room with barely a thought - yet he'd never, ever do anything of the sort. In fact, he has extremely strong feelings for Warren - he loves Warren!

Who the hell is Warren? The odd moment passes, and he refocuses on the task at hand. Dammit.

His moment of indecision costs him the first move. The demon tackles him, and swipes a clawed paw across his chest. Curiously, it appears to have little effect - and several break off! He coughs, the wind knocked out of him.

Fortunately, he still has a grip on his whip - he could have sworn it had sailed out of his hand. Indiana rolls the two of them over and takes a swing at the demon. He then throws himself into a back handspring, landing a few feet away from the monstrosity.

"Hah! Think you can beat me?" Indy lashes out with his whip at the creature. It slices through the air faster than the eye can track.

[Bobby Drake]

Bruce knows there are many more powerful heroes than he is in the world, with superhuman abilities and superior weaponry, even some (admittedly, fewer) with more skill and superior training. Batman will never be the world’s greatest fighter, but he never set out to be.

What he is, is the world’s greatest detective. So before getting involved in the conflicts that are emerging, he observes them… filing facts, looking for patterns, keeping judgment at bay until he has enough data.

He notices Indy’s whip moving in literally impossible patterns, and a back handspring that ought not have worked. He notices the demon’s claws rip off like costume pieces, and normal skin appear when its garment is shredded. He notices that his own uniform and utility belt are mere imitations. He notices the Holloween party decorations. And he begins to form a theory.

On the other hand, the “demon’s” wings do seem real, even if his claws are not, and the vines really are growing at supernatural speeds (although they don’t actually appear hostile).

Something is clearly not right here, and he suspects that the people around him are not the cause, but merely victims. So. Time to root out the cause, then.

He looks carefully around the room for anomalies, and finds them in the hundreds. But what catches his attention is the islands of relatively normal[/i] behavior in the maelstrom of strangeness. For example, the white-haired black woman in an evening gown standing by the exit, who seems to be aware of the strangeness of what is going on. She may know something useful.

He reaches toward his belt for a cable to swing on before remembering it’s not his belt. Well… that makes this more difficult, but not impossible. He moves swiftly and stealthily around the edges of the room towards her location, staying out of the many strange altercations going on around him.

(( OOC: Stormy, dunno if you’re in this thread or not – if not, Bob gets distracted and you’re gone by the time he gets to where you were. ))

[Ororo Munroe]

As the bells toll midnight, Storm is standing near the entrance hall, talking to one or two people. In the space of 20 seconds, all hell breaks loose.

The people she was conversing with change, for lack of a better explanation. One - dressed in plate mail - turns and begins muttering about a damsel in distress. The other - a pirate - pulls out their holstered scimitar and waves it in her face menacingly.

"Excuse me? Is this some kind of joke?" It's not, apparently, as the woman attempts to drive a plastic sword into her gut. Ororo stumbles to the side, and throws out a hand backwards. With a crunch, the woman falls to the ground, no longer a hazard.

"What on Gaia...?" Storm surveys the ballroom with utter wonder. Everywhere, people seem to have turned into the archetypes their costumes represent. Even her students.

Her attention is pulled to Josh and Warren, in the center of the room. Warren bellows something, unhearable over the din, and leaps at Josh, who catches him in a telekinetic grip. Josh is struggling to comphrend, and then he, too, appears to succumb to whatever is affecting everyone. Oh, dear. Warren tackles Josh to the ground with a thud. This could lead to some relationship problems.

Except that it likely wouldn't. This has to be some sort of mind control - the only question is, whose fault is it? Ororo herself is not affected. While she would like to believe it was her own mental toughness, Josh would likely have escaped control better than she.

Hmm. You have no personality that could take over. She was costumeless. Was that the answer? In any case, what was the point of doing this to the guests?

That was an answer she could not see a path to.

Suddenly, what appears to be a ninja drops down in front of her, waving a katana. A real katana, Ororo realizes with a jolt. Rich people... She dodges the first swing, and her eyes cloud over. She flicks out a hand, slapping it across the guest's chest. With a flash, lightning plays across the person's chest, and they fly backwards, hitting the wall.

This is not good. Ororo steps carefully over the pirate and begins to make her way through the room, disabling those who attempt to waylay her.

[Warren Worthington III]

I have you now, mortal! The demon swipes a claw across its prey’s chest, and roars in dismay when, rather than crushing his ribcage and ripping his still-beating heart out of his chest, it feels its own claws being turned and torn while it does little more to its target than tear some fabric.

It stares at its mutilated paw for a moment, wondering why there’s no pain, and its prey flips away, his whip lashing out at its chest. Now there is pain, and the demon looks down for a moment to see its skin has been flayed by the whipstroke, leaving a trail of… human flesh?!? What manner of wizard am I dealing with here?

No matter. Whatever blessed weapons this mortal may be wielding, whatever enchanted armor he hides behind, he cannot stand against Hell incarnate. Feel my rage, mortal, and know at last what you face! The demon doesn’t entirely understand the nature of his psychic connection to this mortal, but doesn’t need to know its nature to use it, sending a wave of pure animal rage over it to hopefully stun, or at least distract, its prey while closing the distance between them, flicking one great bat-wing at the whip to disarm, while the other slaps at his body like a giant’s hand attempting to swat an annoying insect against the wall behind it.

[Bobby Drake]

He comes out of the shadows near the entrance hall, and is promptly attacked by what resembles a medieval knight, though a moment’s careful observation dispels that illusion. It’s an excellent replica, but the man wearing it is not nearly muscular enough to be moving that rapidly in plate mail. No doubt it’s some kind of lightweight plastic, in which case it ought to be easy enough to – right. The would-be cavalier goes flying neatly over Batman’s shoulders and ends up unconscious in a pile of shattered plastic splinters. That’s one.

He returns his attention to the white-haired woman as she dispatches a clumsy katana-wielding ninja with some kind of electrical attack. Good, he thinks. She can take care of herself. The overweight “barbarian” charging at her back with a club is unlikely to prove much of a threat to her, but gives him a useful opportunity to demonstrate his own lack of hostile intent.

The “knight”’s claymore is a lightweight toy, but when thrown it proves adequate to distract the charging club-wielder for a moment. Which is all Batman needs to close the distance between them and subdue him with a roundhouse kick. He’s clumsier than normal, he notes, but apparently whatever force turned his uniform into a mere costume left him with some of his accustomed martial-arts training.

He pauses for a moment to consider that, in connection with the facts he's already accumulated, and realizes he’s missed a rather obvious (though uncomfortable) alternative explanation – that what he and the others are experiencing is not a transformation, but a transmigration of sorts… that somehow, his consciousness has been transferred into another body. Which narrows the potential causal factors considerably… I’m looking for a psychic, or a spiritualist. Perhaps Zatanna can assist… he reaches for his JLA communicator before remembering, yet again, that he is without his accustomed tools. Well… that can wait.

He turns back to the electrical woman, who is beginning to make her way purposefully across the room. "Don’t be alarmed, ma’am… I’m here to help. How much do you know about what’s going on here?"

[Magneto]

Magneto had done well so far this evening, only having one really bad run in so to speak of really. He and Ororo had shared a few words earlier, all because of Wanda but that much was unknown to Magnus as he was still in the dark as far as Wanda's mutant ability went. He know lurked about the back of the party, nodding and conversing with those he knew to be mutants and doing his best to avoid any homo sapiens.

As he walked, he noticed something odd...something out of place, but he wasn't quite sure just what it was yet. Everything was still the same as it had been from the get go, but yet something was missing....what was it? The old man gave a soft sigh as he stopped beside a pillar and watched the goings on, laughing as he watched Sebastian conversing with a bunch of human senators from Washington, totally playing the part of the mutant hating stereotype. While this disgusted Magneto, he also admired how Sebastian manipulated the homo sapiens into actually helping him even if it looked just the opposite.

Dong....Dong.....Dong...

The ringing of the clock caused Magnus to look up, habit really as most of the others did as well. It was midnight and his body felt it, after all, he wasn't a spring chicken anymore and his body just couldn't keep up like it used to do. Stifling a yawn, he shook his head. Something wasn't right....not right at all.

Dong...Dong....Dong....

His head began to swim and he had this sudden urge to play an organ.....no....wait.....he grunted a bit and put his hand to his mask. Just before his new persona took over, Magnus looked up and realized what was finally missing from the party, the one thing which was making him uneasy. "Emma," he muttered just before everything went dark.

Erik looked around, dropping his hand from his mask. Where was he and what was he doing here in front of everyone? What if his face was seen, his horrid face? Stepping backward, Erik fell into the background and shadows, looking around quickly. This wasn't the opera house, just where was he and why was he here?

[Josh Dalton Worthington]

Indy suddenly clutches the side of his skull as a wave of anger cascades through his mind. The demon has to be using his unholy powers to try to frighten me off.

Emboldened at the realization, he pulls back on his whip - only to have it knocked from his grasp. Uh oh. In the same movement, the demon smashes a wing into his chest, flinging him into the wall.

He coughs a little, trying to gather his thoughts. I think I'm in trouble. There's a trickle of blood twining its way down his temple. Indy swipes at it absently. I've gotta get it back!

"Don't you know how to play fair?" He quips at the beast, then uses the distraction to roll forward. Impossibly, his whip meets him halfway.

How did that - never mind. Asking questions was something to do after the battle. Unfortunately, the reacquisition of his whip has taken valuable time, and the creature was already nearly upon him - again!

[Ororo Munroe]

Ororo flings a party guest dressed as an M&M away from her with a well-placed burst of wind, and then turns at a familar voice.

> "Don’t be alarmed, ma’am… I’m here to help. How much do you know about what’s going on here?"

Dear Mother Earth. This was quickly becoming a nightmare. And, presumably, Bobby was utterly convinced that he was Bruce Wayne. She well knew his combat capabilities - she'd trained him. No urge to have to deal with him, then. And who knew whether this mental control would have amplified his fighting abilities? It may not have to. The human mind is extremely open to suggestion. Ororo was merely glad she wasn't tangling with Warren, who appeared utterly convinced he was the spawn of Satan. Young Joshua doesn't appear to be doing well. She winces as he hits the wall particularly hard.

Play along, then. "I'm not certain you'd believe me, Bruce." She inwardly cannot help but be amused at the situation. "Suffice to say that there is a certainly a powerful telepath at the center of this charade!" Aha, perhaps my acting skills have not atrophied as much as I thought. And, really, she was telling the truth.

Kind of.

[Rogue]

As the clock starts to strike, Rogue’s eyes drift over to lock on it from where she’s standing. Her head feels weird, she notes, as the chime of the clock continues, weird in a way that’s very different than her normal headaches – more like…someone trying to get in.

As the last bell rings, she’s dizzy, then…. suddenly she’s not sure what’s going on. Where she is – who she is, because her name doesn’t come to mind. All she knows is that she’s hungry. She knows it’s been too long since she’s fed – far too long. She feels weak.

There’s a cup of something in her hand. It’s red – punch, or blood? No, it’s not the right color for blood – punch, then. She sets it down, fidgeting a moment with the gloves on her hands – they’re uncomfortable, and strange. After a moment’s hesitation, she decides to leave them on, and eyes the room, running her tongue over her fangs for a moment. They don’t feel as sharp as they should, but she doesn’t think about, she’s too distracted.

There were so many people here. All in chaos – no one would miss one out of the group, not for awhile, at least. By then, she could be gone…

It’s so tempting, and she’s so hungry…

Reaching out, she snags the arm of a nearby man, who’s dressed in some space-age costume, and drags him towards a corner easily, even as he talks at her in some unknown language. His skin is green – painted? She doesn’t know, but she assumes it will not matter.

She pushes the panicking man against the wall, and leans in – but as her skin makes contact with his, something happens. Suddenly he slumps unconscious against her, and there’s memories…not hers – his. They’re in her head, and…it hurts.

She shoves him away, all but flinging him with her superior strength – which is still here, oddly – and clutches at her head with a cry in a voice she doesn’t recognize. She has some kind of odd accent. But that’s not important, at the moment, because suddenly she has the green-man’s voice in her mind, and he’s speaking, and others are speaking, and she feels like she’s going to throw up, but she’s still so hungry…

Someone else moves past, and she lunges at them. Not all of them can have this curse, right? She’ll be able to feed off of one of them, because it can’t be everyone. She doesn’t think for a moment that the problem could be within herself.

(Person she grabs is open, whoever wants t'get grabbed it shall be.)