XMEN THE MAFIA - Day 2: Mafia Hit - The White Death

Please read the initial post of this thread first: http://www.theangrycrayon.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=2388

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The rising sun cast long shadows against the pristine fields of new snow as mutants slowly filed out the front doors of the church. The mutants assembled on the steps, some crouching down, too exhausted from the previous night’s events to waste energy on standing. Others stood, shifting in place, too restless and anxious to sit still. Two of the mutants stood in front of the rest, the obvious focus of attention.

Sabertooth appraised the mutants in front of him, doing a quick headcount. Some had already left, and some were still inside. Those still inside would no doubt leave before long… or perhaps they wouldn’t. Staying much longer was a death wish, due to the actions of a few brazen individuals. The young girl, whose skin almost perfectly matched the newly fallen snow, stepped forward towards the gathering.

“We’re leaving now. Follow us if you want,” she said in a disinterested, almost annoyed sounding voice.

As she spoke, the huge mutant behind her turned and started taking long, slow strides through the snow. The girl quickly turns on her heels and walked after him, leaving the mutants on the steps to follow them as they wished.

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Being lost and disoriented was never a good thing. Quite a few people have, at some point in their lives, woken up naked in a strange location with no idea how they got there. Most people, however, merely cannot remember the previous night. Joel could not remember his life. That day, the first he could remember, he had woken up with no idea of where he was, or where he was supposed to be. At least today, however, he knew where he was supposed to go. Unfortunately, he did not know how to get there any more.

He was lost. The sun, now directly overhead, could give him no help in figuring which way was which. He was now starting to seriously regret striking off on his own, apart from the main group. At first he thought he was making great time, and the solitude gave him time to clear his head. Now, however, all he wanted was to see another person. He continued on down the ruined highway, hoping it was the right direction and would eventually lead him to some kind of landmark he could use to get his bearings. After a ways, he finally found a welcome site: footprints in the snow. It looked like just one person’s, which was a good sign. The only people who lived out here any more were outlaws and other such people, and they always traveled in groups. A single set of tracks meant he had probably found another loner mutant on their way to the next safehouse.

He followed the tracks for almost a mile as they continued straight down what was once a major street, and after a while he came to a section of road where the snow, and thus any footprints, was being washed away by moving water, the runoff from some of the slowly melting snow. He looked across the small stream, only to see no footprints on the other side. He then heard a noise from behind him, and turned in time to see two mutants come around the corner from a side street, and walk towards him.

He called out a greeting to them, but they did not reply. They only quickened their pace, and maintained their dour expressions. As they closed in on him, his heart sank as he realized that these must have been the same mutants that killed Jubilee, and his heart sank further as he started to comprehend what was going to happen next. He started to back up, only to bump in to something solid. He spun around, only to lock eyes with another mutant.

“I’m sorry,” they whispered, as a fist holding a jagged piece of concrete made contact with his skull, knocking him to the ground and fading his world to black.

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Sabertooth trudged along at the front of the procession, with Quinn sitting on his shoulders. The display seemed completely out of character for the huge man, who most assumed would rather let someone fall down and die from exhaustion, rather than actually carry them. Behind the pair, marching down the large street, came the rest of the mutants. The group had changed several times, with people coming and going. They were moving slow – large groups full of untrained civilians always did. The loners and pairs that had set off on their own would undoubtedly be ahead of them, and proof of that were the two pairs of footprints they had been following for almost half a mile. When another pair of footprints came from a side street and joined the first two, Sabertooth’s curiosity was piqued. He and the girl both followed the tracks with their eyes, and in the distance they saw a figure sprawled in the snow.

As the group approached the corpse, tensions mounted. From a distance, everyone could see what awaited them up the road, and there was nothing they could do except walk closer and closer, inexorably certain to come face to face with yet another dead mutant. When they reached the body, suspicions were raised. Mutants had been joining and leaving the procession all day, some wanting to get away from other people, others wanting to be around them. The absence or presence of mutants from the group meant nothing, and no clues would be gleaned from its make up.
Perhaps, then they could learn something from the body? As they looked closer, a few started to doubt that the mutant had met a violent end. People clustered around the lifeless mutant, while Sabertooth away from them all, back turned, head bowed, and arms crossed. The little girl stood at his side, watching the others.

“Except for this little bump on the head, there isn’t a mark on him,” one mutant said.

“Maybe he just fell and bumped his head?” said another, hopeful that murder had not been done here.

“Fools!” the little girl shouted furiously at them. They all turned to face her, clearly startled by her sudden outburst. She then explained, in a voice that seemed unimpressed and jaded, as if they had seen it all before. “He was suffocated with snow. He asphyxiated, and then the snow melted due to his residual body heat, thus leaving no trace. The Russian Mafia calls it the White Death.”