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[Reserved for Mayu, Ink, Suds rp]

http://www.gaiaonline.com/guilds/viewtopic.php?t=2891369

The lull of a boxcar train rumbling down the tracks soothes its stow away passengers. Moonlight pours in through the knots and cracks in the old wooden plank walls, dancing shadows across the floor. Two people lie asleep in each others arms, their bodies entangled to press their clothed figures as close together as possible. Their breathing is in unison, her head resting at his heart. He runs his fingers through her silky black hair, stroking her delicately with restrained passion.

"Stormcloud," he murmurs into her ear, smoothing hair that falls across her cheek. She opens her eyes, fluttering her dark lashes, inquisitively moving up to his shoulders. He smiles faintly, kissing her brow. In response she lets out a soft noise and hugs hum closer by the chest, running a hand across the front of his tattered shirt.

"It could be like this always," he whispers, running a hand down the groove of her spine. He can feel her flinch beneath his touch and draws his hand back, slightly discouraged by her reaction.

"You always make promises, Ink," she says scornfully, though she is no less affectionate toward him in saying so. The train's consistent movement helps to settle her against his body once more. She shuts her dark eyes as his unshaven chin grazes her cheek. "And I haven't seen anything but disappointment come from them."

The baby Legend watches this with disgust, wrinkling his nose even in his sleep. His thin body curls up suddenly, growing stiff in this fetal position, his eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids. His muscles contract and he shakes violently, letting out a sharp whine just as his body grows still again. And with one final shudder and an exhale of breath, Ink slips away from the physical world, leaving behind the empty vessel of a body in his cupboard bed.

His eyes flutter open, appearing yellow in the moonlight of the boxcar. He can hear voices close by, faint murmurs of voices. Rubbing an eye tiredly, he pulls himself up into a sitting position, knowing that the higher he is the better his view is as the watcher. And no one can surprise and attack him if he can see everything first. The absence of his soul companion, Suds, doesn't seem to faze him at all.

The smell of the boxcar is pungent and musty, and this is what the baby Legend notices first. He screws up his face in disdain and nearly sneezes, had he not hear the murmur of voices below. He pushes off of his bottom and, from where he balances now on his stomach up atop cargo boxes, strains his developing eyes to make out the scene below.

"Disappointment?" a male voice echoes, sounding slightly hurt. Baby Ink twists his head to the side, straining his ear to hear the conversation better. He can't rely much on his underdeveloped eyes in such conditions, but his hearing is more than adequate for doing this sort of spying.

Below, the man with the silvery-blonde hair moves away from his companion, but he doesn't stray too far. He seems to be controlling himself outwardly from showing any signs of his confusion and anguish, but this doesn't extend well to his voice. It holds a slight Irish dialect, and is deep and rough. "Don't you notice th' difference?" he asks quietly, tenderly. He speaks softer, causing baby Ink to clutch the side of his cargo box to be able to lean in close enough to catch his words. "I'm not th' same. I'm only here.. for you."

The woman at his side lets out a soft noise and pulls him into an embrace, where they lie with their foreheads touching for a couple long moments. The baby Legend grows bored of this inactivity and rests his chin on the edge of the cargo box, glaring down at the man and woman beneath him as if to convey his disapproval. Neither have noticed him, however. He has to keep himself from screaming out his boredom, knowing this never helps in this sort of situation, but thankfully he doesn't have too much longer to wait out this dull scene. Someone moves below, and again the baby Legend peers intently over the edge of the box.

Tucking jet black hair behind her ears, the woman next grazes her fingers across the other's defined cheekbones. He closes his eyes at this touch and leans slightly into it. "I know," she whispers, and the shine on her cheek alerts Ink that she has been crying. Up above, he raises a questioning eyebrow. What did the man say to make her cry? Did he miss something?

The man brushes her tears away with his thumb before he moves to sit up on his elbow. "I wish things were so diff'rent," he murmurs bitterly, turning his gaze away from her. "I'd change it all if I could." She nuzzles against his collar and slides a hand around the base of his neck as a way of comforting him, but if this works at all, baby Ink cannot tell. He squints, completely confused by the situation. If he suffers prolonged confusion, the baby Legend often converts that energy into pent up frustration, but this time around, bewilderment actually sets in to calm him. This is most unusual, of course.

"Don't say that," she sobs into the man's collar, feeling around with her free hand for the man's wrist. Finding it, she curls her small fingers around it and slides her hand into his, giving it an urgent squeeze. "Please, Ink, don't say that.."

He closes his eyes in a pained look, resting his chin on her head. "Why? Because i' s'true, that I'm ac'shuly fekkin useless a' the one thing I want to work?"

Above, baby Ink tenses up considerably. The name the woman used sent chills under his skin in a sort of strange familiarity. Ink.. just like in his dreams. He'd used it before to refer to himself, and it seemed to fit all too well. His face falls into a pout, much less interested in the scene below, but more so on the dreams that have plagued him for weeks. On.. this Ink fellow.

The woman insistently shakes her head, black hair falling here and there. "Don't say that, don't say that!" she sobs, growing hysterical. He slides his hand out of hers, and this only turns her tears silent. Black makeup runs beneath her eyes when she cranes her neck up to see what her companion is up to.

Rummaging in his black overcoat, the man fishes out a large silver coin, which he holds between his fingers. The woman uses her sleeve to blot at her moist eyes, sliding ever closer to her companion. Even baby Ink from his high perch can see the shared deviant expression that the two people suddenly reveal when the coin comes into play.

The man turns it over in his hand with a distant grin, examining both sides. He tosses it up and palms it swiftly, shooting his companion a look unreadable to anyone but her. She pries open his fingers eagerly, and both peer down at the coin.

"Tails," she announces with a giggle. Forcefully pushing his arm aside, she throws herself on him in a sweet kiss, her cheeks still glistening from the tears. Ink seems mildly surprised by her eagerness, but eases himself into the embrace in no time, the coin quickly forgotten. He leans into her kiss and opens his hand by mistake, the coin slipping out and clinking across the wooden boxcar floor, out of sight and mind of the lip locked couple.

But baby Ink isn't so easily distracted. He observes this strange ritual with confusion, not yet making his presence known; he is curious and out of his element, putting him in a bad position. Instead, his attention is turned to the coin, watching it intently, wonderingly, as it rolls away. A sudden desire builds in him, a compulsion for him to chase after this symbolic coin. Pushing up off of his stomach, the baby Legend carefully climbs down the stack of cargo boxes one by one.

His underdeveloped strength matched with the constant movement of the train make this a tall feat, but soon enough his tiny bare feet touch down on the boxcar floor. He mindfully keeps his guard up and scans the immediate vicinity for the coin's whereabouts.

It's a regular silver quarter, but of course he hasn't seen anything like it before, having lived in the confined space of the Legend Headquarters for the majority of his existence. A pure, entrancing interest overcomes him, and in it he finds himself anew with infant fascination for the unfamiliar. It's an exhilarating feeling for the baby whose dreams have forced him to grow up too quickly, to have the chance to feel his own age freely.

Turning it over in his tiny hands, baby Ink examines every ridge and detail of the silver coin. There is something magical and significant held within its cool metal, something in this ordinary coin that he has not figured out the mystery of.

He just manages to tuck the coin safely away in his jacket pocket when the train's peaceful lull is disrupted. A horrible screech explodes against the tracks and is followed by an abrupt halt of the boxcar. The baby Legend is easily tossed against the wall, letting out a cry on impact. Similarly, the other two occupants of the boxcar crash against the cargo with a meld of curses and shouts in a language Ink doesn't recognize.

Baby Ink is curled up feet away from his adult self and his companion, but neither one has taken notice to him yet. Scrunching his eyes closed in pain, he picks himself up very slowly, hissing as he notes the pain in his elbow. It must have received most of the impact from the crash, for it hurts him to put any pressure on said elbow. Tears cloud his now-maroon eyes and he hugs his arm preciously against his chest with a tight frown.

There is movement nearby, and Ink raises his eyes in time to witness the on going turn of events. The man named Ink holds the black haired woman close in a mixture of fear and a protective instinct of that which he loves. She too clutches onto him like he requires his ongoing presence just to continue living.

"It stopped," she hisses quickly, fear evident in her voice. Baby Ink slowly lets his arm return to his side, taking a few cautious steps forward. The moonlight pours in from outside through the cracks in the uneven planks of wood, though the light now is stationary. It shimmers off of the baby Legend's white-blonde hair as he creeps ever closer.

Without warning, the heavy boxcar door is slid open with an alarming scraping noise. Baby Ink jumps in surprise, his now-brown eyes wide at first, but they narrow within a few seconds in anger. He doesn't enjoy being scared, for any reason, and certainly not for a stupid reason like a door opening.

But, as he soon discovers, it is what the door reveals that will scare him.

Clad in skin tight, blood red, skimpy clothing is a woman that makes even baby Ink stiffen up in fright. She stands with an air of authority, a gloved hand on her accentuated hip. Baby Ink almost doesn't notice that the man a few feet away is suffering the same reaction in an almost identical way; a compressed fear, buried by a frustrated, obvious contempt.

And her voice..

"Well, well," she sneers, stepping a Stiletto heel up on the ledge of the cargo door. "I seem to have found your little hiding place, you filthy fugitives." Even in speech does she relay such sensual qualities as lust and, at the same time, obvious revulsion.

Baby Ink glares at her, even after realizing she hasn't noticed him yet. He remains as still as he can be on his developing legs, swaying only gently on the sidelines. No, the woman seems to be addressing only the adult Ink and his companion, and with a lot of hatred at that. She narrows her dark eyes, the moonlight haloing her in an eerie glow, and raises a gloved hand.

"You sleezy b***h!" the silver-haired Ink shouts. He swiftly moves a hand to his jacket pocket, and baby Ink catches a glimpse of a shiny silver gun, before he falls onto his back, making horrible choking noises. The woman scrambles to his aid with a gaping expression, smoothing his silver hair and checking his neck and chest for any sort of injury. Nothing is visible. She turns over, looking accusingly and pointedly at the woman, her hands still feeling over her companion's neck.

"Was machst Du da für Scheiße?" she demands harshly in a tongue foreign to the baby Legend.

The woman grins maliciously in response, her outstretched hand clenched into a fist. She relaxes her fingers, and the man breathes in sharply. His female friend checks him over again, her eyes revealing her concern, yet displaying a level of relief at the same time. She helps to pull him upright again, leaning his head on her shoulder and smoothing out his shiny silver hair, reassuring him almost inaudibly in the same tongue as she spoke in before.

"Pandora!"

A foggy mess, like a smudge in the air, forms in front of the intertwined adults. The visual sharpens eventually, and from little particles form the body of a young man with green hair. Baby Ink cannot see his face, but his telltale rugged attire and unruly hair strike a nerve, his face falling into a creased scowl. Whoever he is, something tells him he isn't a welcomed sight for baby Ink to be greeting.

He stands tall, casting a shadow down on those he shields, the man and woman. Although baby Ink notices the little detail of the young man's quivering hands, the newcomer holds strong and defiantly stands his ground against the wicked woman.

"Leave them be, Pandora." It's the same voice as before, only made stronger and firmer by the actual presence of the young man with green hair. Ink brings his sleeve to his mouth without breaking eye contact, chewing the cuff of his shirt. "They are not your concern, so you must not interfere."

The woman barks out a laugh, causing the black haired woman to jump slightly. She clutches her companion's head against her shoulder with increased ferocity. "Mind your place," Pandora sneers, tossing over her shoulder a lock of red-tinted black hair that shimmers in the moonlight. "You hold no authority over me, child. I am the law maker!"

The young man shrinks slightly, but does not otherwise look as if he'll back down from this battle. "Then follow the laws forged by you and the rest of the Council and do not interfere with those under my charge." He waves a hand absently at the man with silver hair. "He is my client. So I will ask again, Pandora," he says boldly, tilting his chin upwards, "that you mind your business and conduct yourself elsewhere."

Silence falls with the last word from the young man's mouth. Even though the moonlight is behind this Pandora woman and casts her in shadows, even baby Ink can see her face harden suddenly with hatred. She drops her hand slowly to her waist, and looks as if she's about to say something, when suddenly she turns her dark eyes toward Ink in the shadows.

Shock replaces hatred, which is faster replaced with a smug, understanding smile of rouged lips. Baby Ink locks up in fright, something that has rarely happened and will prove to be a rare occurrence in the Legend. Fear isn't easy to come by, but in this moment, he feels nothing but its blinding rush, its chilling fingers up his spine, and its weight on his feet that prevents him from potential escape. He has allowed himself to be discovered through his own mistake. Should've hid. Should've still been on the crates, had it not been for the stupid coin in his pocket. Shouldn't even be here in the first place, wherever here is.

His fragile knees buckle under his weight. His pale lashes flutter rapidly against his cheeks, fighting a hopeless battle against a sudden bout of sleepiness. Light blue eyes roll back into his head and darkness prevails.

Darkness is broken with the sound of a ticking wall clock. Ink's icy blue eyes blink rapidly and squeeze into narrow slits as a streetlight's glow irritates them through a window. He hisses softly, rubbing them with his small fisted hands, and groggily pushes himself into a upright position.

The new surroundings surprise him. He rests atop the comforter of a soft bed in a quaintly decorated girl's room. It seems someone took every stereotype relative to little girls and tossed it into this room; every shade of pink is represented, to his horror, and the frills, dolls, and ribbons seem endless. The window, complete with a white wooden window seat, is framed in extravagant layers of pink and white laced fabric. Even the floor isn't left untouched; a rug that islands the bed has some sort of repeating pattern of shades of pink and white and red. The sight makes Ink nauseous by just laying eyes on it. Instead, he gives a full body shudder, sprawling back onto an overstuffed white pillow with a hissed curse.

It is as his tiny frame rebounds off the pillow that he is suddenly aware of the presence of another person at his side. He clutches the laced edges of the pillow with his tiny hands and pulls himself to his right, where his senses tell him there is someone in close proximity. He isn't quite prepared for what he's about to see, something of a personal angel of memory and heartache.

Her skin is a soft peach tone lush with faint freckles. Her cheeks are lightly and naturally flushed and lend her a beautiful glow. Blonde hair frames her face and rests in wavy locks on her shoulders. Her lips are barely parted, but are full and moist. Her breathing is calm, rhythmic, and soundless, her chest rising and falling methodically. She looks very much at peace in her state of dreaming.

And yet, Ink is compelled to disturb her serenity. In a tender moment, his tiny fingers stroke her cheek with gentleness new to him, their skin barely grazing in contact.

Though light as the touch is, it still slips the girl out of her state of dreaming. Her light lashes flutter against her cheeks and suddenly her blue eyes are made visible. Her calm breathing is converted into a stifled yawn, and she turns onto her side, blinking sleep away. A surprised but delighted smile crosses her face when she first takes in the baby lying at her side.

"I had the most lovely dream," she whispers beautifully to him, pushing the fluffy comforter off of her torso. "Mummy was working in her garden, and you and I were up in the treehouse.."

She sighs, a sudden mournful element striking her eyes. Ink clutches the pillow even harder as his chest aches for her all so suddenly; it's a new thing for him to be empathetic toward another's grief.

"I could even smell everything," her whispering continues. She closes her eyes briefly, hiding her grief, but Ink's heartache isn't yet relieved. "I really believed I was back home.."

Ink gently places his tiny hand atop the girl's in a soft attempt at comfort. The girl's blue eyes are restored their innocence and purity, and the ache in Ink's chest lessens. She slides closer to him in the bed and her lips draw into a distant smile. He is suddenly aware of his rough breathing pattern, attempting to slow it to match her calmer, quieter one. She giggles softly, noticing his efforts, and touches his tiny nose with the tip of her finger. He goes cross-eyed just watching her, and her smile grows wider and more genuine at his silly attentiveness.

"Of course," she muses, playing with his fair blonde hair, "You were always older than me, so this is different!" She giggles again, and the baby smiles. Actually, genuinely smiles. Another first for baby Ink has come to him in these strange, barely familiar places, but there is not a soul to bare witness to these triumphs. It is unlikely there ever will be again.

She opens her mouth as if she'll speak again, but a loud disruption from the lower level causes her to draw her hand back and close her mouth. Worry washes over her disposition, and she wiggles herself upright in the bed, biting her lip with anxious glances at the door. There is another sound, not quite the same as the previous, before the loud, distorted murmur of voices can be heard. The girl pulls herself closer to Ink for comfort's sake, and against her side he can feel her frail trembling.

Ink wishes he can speak words that comfort her, even though he barely knows the young blonde child he now hugs tightly. He opens his mouth, finding no words in his limited vocabulary that could possibly help the situation. What a time for the cat to steal his tongue. The pair jolts in unison as an uproar of sound suddenly blasts beneath them; objects shatter and frantic, angry voices clash.

The girl falls forward, hugging her knees to her chest and weeping into her nightgown. Ink sprawls backwards despite himself, clasping his ears, biting back a wail. The sounds scrape at him, grate on his eardrums in comparison to the gentle, soothing voice of the girl he had so serenely laid with moments before. Someone's heavy footsteps up the stairs, growing ever louder, draw the girl's cries to a hiccupping halt. She and Ink look to the door in unison as the steps stop and the doorknob twists.

Ink didn't even realize he was holding his breath until it hisses out between his tiny teeth. The man that steps into the room has silver hair to his chin, a sharp nose, and visible cheekbones. It takes no more than a second for the baby named Ink to make the connection; he is the same man from the train. He stands tall, poised even, as if expecting to be met with resistance. Instead, the girl lets out a different sound; Ink recognizes it as a cry of unexpected delight. She tosses back the sheets, crawling eagerly across her bed with a bright smile stretching her face. Her blonde hair catches the street's lamplight as well as unshed tears that brim her enchanting eyes; both Inks experience an identical moment of speechless admiration, though neither notices this.

"You came for me!" she cries in the same voice she had gained when the adult Ink made his unexpected entrance. He gives himself a shake to clear his distracting thoughts, and drinks in her words eagerly, stepping forward to meet her halfway.

Something crashes again downstairs. The younger occupants of the room jump in fright, while the man at the door, the one known to the baby as Ink, glances over his shoulder wearily. Dark circles cut under his eyes, and his clothes are crinkled and in need of a washing and ironing, baby Ink barely registers. He is more interested in what he spots peeking out of the man's jacket pocket, the unmistakable handle of a gun. The baby's now-brown eyes narrow, and he falls forward on the palms of his hands, crawling forward not unlike the girl had, toward the pair at the end of the bed.

Taking the girl in his arms, the man doesn't see baby Ink at first glance. He holds her preciously to his chest, closing his eyes as her silky hair grazes his unshaven face soothingly. He drinks in her ever-familiar smell and a pang of satisfaction strikes his expression for a brief time. It is when he opens his now-green eyes flicker down to lock with now-orange ones, however, that everything changes.

Time seems to slow. The man named Ink inhales sharply, his tired eyes widening in renewed awareness, and he retreats a step from the bed, clutching the girl preciously to his self as if she would be taken from him if he let go. Baby Ink's face falls into a frown is disgust and disapproval; surely, he couldn't believe that, with his size, he would be capable of such a thing. His eyes narrow up at the familiar intruder and he smacks his lips in annoyance. Treating him like he's diseased, too! Really now..

Words fail the man, though baby Ink can see his jaw muscles twitch and his lip quiver in case he could recover his lost words. Instead, the man repositions his hand at the girl's shoulder blade to support her upper body, whispering a line of curses, some familiar to Ink and some that he memorizes for future use. Looking faintly impressed, the baby Legend pulls himself up onto his knees, buffing himself up as much as he can with his small stature. If there's something he already fears in me, he thinks with smugness melting over his expression, then I'll give him more to be properly afraid of.

He can't shake the slight rise in his throat, though, after seeing the gun. This man isn't the lovesick, harmless man he'd watched bear his soul in the train; this man is armed, intelligent, and alert, despite seeming bedraggled. If his presence didn't make baby Ink uneasy, something tells him he'd probably like the man.

".. The ********?" the man whispers harshly, staring at baby Ink with a meld of disbelief and confusion. It seems that's the best he can come up with to ask when his duplicate, albeit smaller and younger duplicate, is staring him in the face. Intelligence doesn't seem to grace either of the Inks in the heat of the moment, a trait that would likely lead to painful realizations in both their lives. Nonetheless, the adult Ink is consumed by the moment, and as a result, whatever the source of the ruckus downstairs is slips his mind for the time being. This will prove to be a dire mistake.

The blonde child breaks away from her rescuer's shoulder, looking to him questioningly, her blue eyes soaking in every detail of his face. "What's wrong, Kevvy?" she asks in a gentle tone, her small hands tracing the line of his cheekbone as if to memorize the structure.

His expression immediately softens under her touch. Baby Ink rolls his eyes and emits a gagging noise at how soft and spellbound the man gets under the influence of the blonde girl; he seems to have forgotten that she had the same effect on him not ten minutes before.

"It's nothing, Phoebe, child," he reassures her, brushing his coarse fingers lovingly through her silky hair. He steals a glance back at Ink on the bed, and this time, the girl named Phoebe follows his line of sight, her concern replaced with a cheerful demeanour.

"Him?" Phoebe giggles softly, joining her arms loosely around the man's neck while comfortably adjusting to see baby Ink from this new angle. "I don't know where he came from, but he's really nice! And he reminds me of-"

The unmistakable explosion of a firing gun stuns the blonde child into silence, driving fear into all three hearts of the room's occupants for differing reasons. The man's eyes widen, and he bolts for the door almost immediately, ignoring the protests of the girl in his arms and leaving Ink behind on the bed, forgotten. Another shot is fired before the man reaches the bottom of the stairs, judging from the sound of his heavy boots on the hardwood and the smashing of what used to be a window by a stray bullet.

Blood rushes to baby Ink's face as the anger of being left behind flushes his cheeks. He clenches his fists at his side and lets out a growl, one that whistles through his baby teeth. How dare they leave me behind?! he thinks saucily, glaring at the empty doorway. He shakes out of building anger, but this is broken by another gunshot and louder shouts. Crawling to the edge of the bed near the window, following the sounds, he strains his ear to try and decipher the speech; they are too far away, it seems, as he only catches a handful of words here and there.

Someone screams; it sounds like an older woman. Narrowing his eyes warily, he decides it might be best if he stay out of this. From the sound of it, this is not a fight he wants to make his own, especially not in his current, constraining position, namely that of being a small child. Instead, he looks to the window, the same direction where, below, the battle rages. Someone slams open the front door, which ricochets against the outside panelling of the house. Ink brushes back stray blonde hair from in front of his now-red eyes, determining that the window will do nicely for observing what's going on down below.

Careful not to fall off the bed outright, the blonde baby approaches the edge of the bed with impatient caution, sliding his legs over first and then the rest of his slight frame. He grips the comforter and pulls it with him as he slides down, his eyes closed all the while as he prepares for the fall and impact. He thuds onto the bedroom floor, opening one eye as he waits for any potential pains, and when there isn't any, he opens the other and pulls himself into a crawl in one fluid, determined movement.

The next obstacle isn't as easy a feat as his first. Glaring up at the height of the window seat, he considers his options on how to climb it. The knobs are round and small, suggesting they can't hold much weight without risking breaking off, but he is a light baby, not without credit to the lack of substantial food he consumed that aided in somewhat stunted growth.

Moving onto his knees, Ink tests the closest knob by pushing on it to help bring him to his feet. It withstands his weight without budging, and to this Ink smiles. Moving stealthily up the window seat's drawers, Ink quickly manages to span the height of the compartment while putting the knobs to good use much like a rock climber would knot holes. Suffering only mild setbacks, namely a slip or two, Ink reaches up to find not another knob beneath his fingers but the soft, albeit girly, material of the window seat's cushion.

The entire cushion slips forward and hangs halfway over the edge, blocking the light from the streetlamps. Thinking quickly, Ink pushes the cushion the rest of the way off the seat; it flies over his head and onto the bedroom floor. Another obstacle overcome, but not without precious time wasted. He can hear voices more clearly now, shouting back and forth with the occasional choice curses. Grunting softly, he heaves himself up with what little strength his underdeveloped arms can provide, pulling the rest of his body up by swinging his knees after him. He brushes his sore hands off absently and crawls to the window, putting a hand to the glass to find it surprisingly cool and relieving. Straining his eyes to see down below, it seems he's just in time to catch sight of the unfolding events.

A balding man stumbles out first, shaking considerably with his arms outstretched, both hands supporting a handgun pointed at someone yet unseen to Ink from this angle. He walks backwards unevenly, his expression hardened with hatred and fear. He is dressed in a thin white wife-beater and boxer shorts, which somewhat explains his shaking; the ground outside is blanketed with at least twenty centimetres of snow, and he is sorely underdressed for the brisk weather. Another barefoot step backwards, and two new figures come into view.

The first Ink recognizes immediately, having stared at her silky black hair for most of the train fiasco. He catches only a glimpse of her flushed face before the second person, a woman aged and weathered just like the man and dressed in a nightgown as if she had just hopped out of bed. For all Ink knows, that could very well be the case. The older woman holds a firm grip on the one referred to once as Stormcloud, shoving her forward at the point of her husband's gun.

Ink presses his nose against the glass, his warm breath fogging the window and catching the streetlamp's light. His eye flicker back and forth vigorously in attempt to discern the mouth movements of the ones below. He hears muffled nothings of what words they fiercely exchange, and this frustrates him, but it is the presence of the gun that soothes him, while, in the same breath, manages to set him on edge. The device is a symbol of power, and without it in his own grasp, it is a threat instead of a tool of his own means. His fingers curl against the glass touched by Jack Frost as they start to sting, but the child doesn't let this distract him from the events that unfold below.

The Stormcloud woman tugs viciously away from the elderly woman, but surprisingly remains in her grasp. Her hair tosses wildly across her shoulder, and Ink notices a glimmer of something ferocious in her eyes, like a caged animal at the mercy of its trainer. He admires this trait, this primal instinctive reaction, and he smiles faintly. He tenses up, however, at the sight of the man - presumably a father figure, judging purely by the lines and wrinkles on his face - c**k the gun as a further threat.

Something moves that Ink catches out of the corner of his eye. He turns in time to see the silver-haired man slipping out the side door with the girl still in his arms.

Ink curses softly, wishing he had the ability to look two ways at once. Looking between the divided action, he stops on the little girl he'd taken up bed with just minutes before this erupted. Her golden hair is unmistakably beautiful against the light, soaking it up graciously. She clings to the man as if life itself will end if she tears away. Resting her chin on the man's shoulder, her bright blue eyes turn and gaze momentarily directly up at the window baby Ink is watching from.

He draws back from the window in a chill of fright, feeling utterly exposed. How did she know he was there? Did she even see him, or had she just a feeling that he would be likely to observe? His mouth pulls into a frown, but he shakes his head, tossing white-blonde hair around in an attempt to rid himself of this state he hates so much. I'm in complete control of myself - always, he insists silently, his jaw stiff, as his self-reassurance falls flat in his heart.

He returns to watching in time to see the man swing open the back door of a black sedan. Phoebe mournfully pulls away from her rescuer - or kidnapper, Ink can't be sure of which, having guessed that the panicked woman and man are her parents. He steps in front of her, blocking most of her off from Ink's line of vision, to his displeasure. It seems he instructed her on what to do or perhaps informed her of his actions, for she reluctantly lies down across the back seat and clasps her hands over her ears. Ink cocks his head, confused as to why now the man has decided to leave the one he has treated like a precious treasure he uncovered.

Ink watches as the one who shares his name shuts the car door and bolts around the side of the house. Silently he's thankful that the window allows him such a broad view, to be able to see everything unfold in front of him. In the following few minutes, he's not so sure.

The three continue bickering, but it seems that it hasn't done the black haired woman any good. She has been placed on her knees, held down by the older woman, who seems to possess remarkable strength beneath her flannel nightgown. Although Stormcloud struggles against the forces keeping her captive, she remains in place, staring up at the man with hatred seething off her body. The man has regained his composure and stands tall over her with the gun held more confidently in her face.

"LET HER GO," someone roars, loud enough to be heard distinctly by baby Ink. It seems adult Ink has finally arrived on scene, and judging by the identical hate in his eyes, he won't allow himself to be as easily caged as his companion from the train.

Even baby Ink is surprised as how malicious the man with the silver hair can be. Was he not the same who was dumbstruck by the sight of a baby? Ink sits back on his feet, wary of staying too close to the window. He saw the weapon concealed in the man's coat, and if there is to be gunfire, he would rather not suffer a casualty of a stray bullet. His curiosity grows overwhelming, however, and he leans in just a little closer.

The man says something else, too quiet for Ink to hear. It drives the older man back a step or two, and his shakes have visibly returned. He squeezes the handle of his gun without pulling on the trigger, finding some sort of perverse comfort in having it. Moonlight glimmers off the man's bald patch, and he shouts out his retort to the silver man's threat. His wife's hand tightens around the base of Stormcloud's neck, causing her to cry out.

The older couple are too dim-witted and inexperienced to notice it, but Ink catches sight of it right away. The man named Ink effortlessly produces the gun from his coat pocket into his right hand, sliding it up at eye level in one fluid movement. The world is dark, save for the lone streetlamp, but even from above, Ink can make out the twitch of the man's jaw and the fear that engulfs the couple at first sight of the opposing gun. Apparently, they weren't expecting to be challenged, or even matched, and this, it seems, was a very fatal presumption.

Growling something, adult Ink extends his hand, anticipating being handed something. Neither of his foes move, instead stare stupefied at the devil of a man in front of them. They are right to do so, especially if, in their quaint little world, they have never experienced a situation such as this, having been sheltered from the real troubles of the world. But it is also true that the man in front of them appears so fierce, so threatening, that his normal appearance seems to adapt to suit this change. He waits with the patience of a ticking bomb, hand still outstretched.

Finally, he snaps his hand shut and draws it back, hissing out words that appear to slice brutally through the couple with every breath, as they flinch and twist in inaudible horror. The woman doesn't seem to be affected in the same way, suggesting that it isn't a spell that the man is shouting, but she, at the same time, does not appear pleased at the turn of events. She begins to slide out from the grasp of her captor, though the mother of Phoebe still stands firmly on her ankle, keeping her in place.

Ink is once again pressed intently against the window. This has turned out to be quite the show after all for him. He tries to soak up every detail, watching adult Ink's hand, his eyes, his companion's now-free hands, and both guns most especially. The tiniest movement, and he is on it like a leech. Living and breathing this tense situation, he is already turning over in his head the many conclusions that the battle could resolve to encapsulate.

It happens almost too fast for Ink to follow. He caught the slight signal that the silver-haired villain shot his escaping companion, but in turn, almost misses what happens next. They move in unison, coordinated as if they have practiced and executed these motions before, like orchestrating a dance sequence, only with a lot more violence and a lot less charm. The black haired woman turns her ankle over, and as her captor turns in reaction, lays a blow to the back of her kneecaps with her freed foot. She rolls to the side, dodging even before the elder hits the ground.

And this is his cue. As expected, the father moves in reaction to his wife's cry of pain, swinging his gun-loaded hand wildly at the moving target on the ground, not yet firing a shot. He won't manage to, either. Silent as the wind, a bullet collides with the flat of the man's hand, jerking the entire limb enough to toss the gun away into the bushes. Crimson pours from the mutilated hand, and he screams horrifically his pain filled reaction loud enough for Ink to hear quite clearly. But just the same second, the sound is gone.

His body collapses on the ground next to his wife, who immediately crawls to his aid. The black haired woman sprints to the vehicle, sparing one glance over her shoulder she is soon to regret. Adult Ink stands, still poised with his gun just below eye-level, watching as the snow beneath the man soaks pink with blood. He had fired two well aimed shots; one at the man's hand, and one that crushed the man's main neck artery.

It is the newly-widowed woman's shrieks that pull Ink out of his stupor. Tucking his gun out of sight, he turns on his heel and calmly, but quickly, retreats back to the car. Sirens wail in the distance; no doubt, with that amount of noise, more than one neighbour had thought to call in the scene long before the murder. The vehicle starts up, and Ink catches one last sight of that gold-yellow hair before the car dissolves into darkness. He swallows sharply, crawling backwards from the window, suddenly overcome by another state of being that feels alien to him.

A sickening feeling takes hold of Ink's stomach, one that simulates something like acid spilling out and leeching through his veins. He doubles over as the pain grows unbearable. His vision falters and grows blurry, as if his eyes have been clouded over by an unseen chemical. His jaw clenches, making it difficult for the small child to breathe, let alone cry out about the excruciating anguish he endures.

All other thoughts are annihilated. His only reality becomes the pain, that which consumes him now from head to toe with symptoms all varying from the root, the torment in his gut. Tears spill from his eyes, and instead of salty relief, they bring a stinging sensation on their passage down his cheeks. A thought meekly crosses his mind, faint and barely comprehensible, that at this time he wishes that there would be someone he could call out for, someone to hold him and murmur assuring phrases in his ear, or just, perhaps, someone who would love him.

But that thought, too, is strangled by this unforeseen torture, forgotten instantly. The last reserves of Ink's energy are eaten greedily, and with a shudder, his body falls limp, his mind slips away.

[Thread RP]

What's this? It appears your Legend has been kidnapped!
They're nowhere to be found, but there is a note left behind-

Your child will be returned to you when our examination is through.
We approximate 24 hours to be the time necessary.

To find out what's happening in this metaplot piece and RP your Legend's part, please click here.
PS- 24 hours ic time, from their kidnapping to their return. The time to RP it out will depend on the group.

[Metaplot RP: Stepping through the door]