The crystal Villain's head snapped downward as the grenade bounced, whirling around to watch it sail out into the Sharkmen. At that precise moment the blasters stopped their incessant attack, dropping to the ground with a clatter. With visible relief, some of the Sharkmen bent down to pick up the renegade weapons while one of them watched the grenade roll out of the darkness with widening eyes. It barely had time to open its mouth before...
Where six live Sharmen had stood now only one mortally wounded mutant remained, leaning against the wall of the tunnel and panting audibly, a dark red sheen coating most of its body. The rest of the Sharkmen were, quite literally, strewn across the tunnel in pieces that, apart from the smell of burnt fish, would have been impossible to recognize as Sharkmen.
The Villain spun back around, only for his head to meet a large piece of metal with an enormous chime. The magnaboard retreated for an instant, only to build up momentum for another assault. With warning this time, he threw up an arm to shield himself, but took a step backwards anyway. The clanging of metal hitting crystal continued as Loadstone pressed his attack, splitting the magnaboard in half to smash into him from two sides. In actuality, Loadstone's attacks were merely more of an annoyance than actually effective, but the teen's sole focus was on repelling the flying pieces of metal, leaving him open to an attack from one of the others.
OOC: To be honest, I've been having a hard time figuring out what to do without Skyra, since he's the only one who really stands any chance of taking him down. (Vacuum style).
After a few minutes practicing with his new sword, Adrian wrapped both sword and gauntlet in the balled-up scarf and stuffed them under the bed. He sat down and reread the letter, soaking in all the finer details he had glossed over before, and sifted through the hazy encounter with the memoriapath. The Dorchester? He'd heard that name before...it was a particularly lavish hotel in London, unless he was completely mistaken. If his stay was already paid for, where had that money come from? His own bank account? Or had it not been paid for, but everyone manipulated into thinking it was?
"This is too complicated," he muttered to himself, then blinked at the sound of his own voice. It hadn't occurred to him yet to actually say anything, but it was only common sense that his voice wouldn't be the one he was used to. No, it was the British accent that startled him - he hadn't been British before this memory transfer, so to speak with a natural English accent was a bit jarring.
He started talking out loud to himself, testing out a variety of sounds and syllables and finding a good number of them foreign to his ears. After a few minutes he started chuckling to himself, the outright laughing at how stupid he sounded, saying all sorts of strange things just to hear his own voice.
When the laughing stopped, reality settled over him like an icy sheet. He didn't have a cent to his name, no means of supporting himself, little idea where he was and ultimately no plans to speak of. He had no clue where to find the man he was looking for, no readily available method of transportation, only three days in which to find some sort of shelter to live in, and he was losing what little optimism he'd had to begin with.
Who could he go to? The League? Never. Even if he had been on good terms with them, he had no intention of letting anyone know who he truly was - the shame of what had been done to him forced him to keep his identity a secret, no matter what. The League was known to use psychics to evaluate some of their questionable applicants, and even if he trusted what the memoriapath had said about shielding his mind from psychics, the last thing he wanted was someone poking around in his brain.
There really weren't many other choices. The only other thought he had was if he could make it to Chicago...No. He crushed that thought as soon as it began. No sane man went to the Debtmaster unless he had no other choice. Not that he could see any other...
Realistically, there was no chance of him settling down with a job and an apartment in London, so he didn't even bother considering it. The only option left to him was selling his sword to a local crime lord until he had enough money for a plane ticket out of England, or outright stealing the money and fleeing the country. Neither prospect appealed to him, but it would be worth checking around and seeing what sort of underworld this city hosted...
[font="'times new roman', times, serif;"][color=#008000;]~ Rumpelstiltskin[/color][/font]