You Can Hide, But You Can't Run

[Tom Harriman]

Tom folded his arms across his chest: stern, and somehow teacherly. His words came out as a subtle challenge, though there was plenty of healthy derision in his tone too.

"You tell me," he said with a faint shrug. "You're the one whose been dicking around with his powers all night; are you quick enough to get this done in time? Is that just laziness doing the talking, as usual?"

He let the accusation hang in the air for just a moment, shaking his head ever so slightly. "If you can't be arsed to clean this up, then other people are going to have to. People who haven't ever done anything to you, and don't deserve to be cleaning up your mess."

His eyebrows rose, adding to his disapproval and accusation. "And how do you think they're going to work out what store all this stuff belongs to? What kind of clue might, I don't know, label which store they came from?"

[José Luis Flores]

"Dude, I took the clothes off of most of them. And switched some around on others. I went through half the damn stores in this place to find them all."

He bit into the power bar and chewed, hungry and tired enough to not care that the thing had the consistency of wet chalk.

"I promise man, I won't do it again. I mean, if you see this sorta thing again, you'll know it was me, right, and I'll have a bunch of shit to deal with that I just don't wanna deal with. Let's just leave this and get outta here."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom wasn't giving up that easily.

"Then I suggest you put some of that apparent creativity and imagination of yours to work," he said with a shrug, dismissing José's concerns entirely. "Otherwise -"

A little threat crept into his voice. "Otherwise, maybe I can't be bothered to deal with the security tape. I know for a fact that I've done a better job of obscuring my identity than you have. Plus -" He pointed off over his shoulder. "- that camera up there must've got a pretty good shot of your face by now."

Sarcasm danced around on his tongue. "You do know how to erase the recordings on closed-circuit cameras, don't you?"

[José Luis Flores]

"Pfffffffft," José responded. "I ain't stupid. Dumb sometimes, reckless, lazy and whatever, but not stupid. It hasn't gotten anything on me."

He crossed his arms. The mall, the cops, no one had anything on him. Except Harriman, and the dude wasn't budging. If his mom found out, there'd not be much she could do, but he didn't want to get kicked out.

"They're gonna find out anyway, man," he said, picking up a mannequin and disappearing. He reappeared and turned back. "Some of 'em will be in the wrong places, wrong clothes and shit, it doesn't make no difference."

He grumbled and disappeared again with two mannequins and some clothing. The power bar had helped, but what he really needed was a Red Bull or energy drink.

[Tom Harriman]

As José shot around the room faster than Tom's eyes or brain could process, the former teacher allowed himself a faint ghost of a smile. José had been right most of the way along: someone would probably notice that things had been rearranged, or the odd bit of damage; they'd almost certainly notice that the security cameras were wiped, which would almost definately get the police involved.

He was also right that they didn't have enough on him to make a positive ID - contrary to what television attested, local forensics teams seldom had the kind of software and budget for high-tech facial recognition. Even if they did, malls like this didn't have the budget for security cameras with enough detail for it to be a worry. Worst case, there'd be some blurry images or sketchy photo-fits circulating around the place; not enough to land either of them in trouble.

But that wasn't what the exercise had been about. Shaking José enough to rattle out that promise; kicking him in the ass enough to get him to start clearing up his own mess; that was what Tom had really been after. So, the self-satisfied smile was allowed to stay.

Wordlessly he turned, and clomped off on booted feet towards the security office to keep up his end of the bargain.

[José Luis Flores]

José ended up being lazy, as time wore on. A mannequin wearing an Old Navy sweater ended up in the Aeropostale entranceway; the mannequin that had been Hector was dumped unceremoniously in a corner in JC Penny's, a pair of panties hanging off the male mannequin's arm.

He reappeared in the foyer with only a few minutes to spare.

"Happy?" he asked, entering into his third wind, the point where he had passed the point of exhaustion without passing out and was now able to think and process things. He gestured around the now neater foyer.

The first thing he'd thought was that he should have booked it as soon as the arrow had flown. Even if Harriman had destroyed the diorama, he had neither the ability nor the time to put all of them back. A lesser victory, but at least he would have gotten a good night's sleep and remained anonymous. Now his high school physics teacher had blackmail on him.

[Tom Harriman]

"Not particularly," Tom grunted, his arms folding across his chest.

It certainly looked less like an army of Autons had descended upon the place, that was for sure. Things were a long way from being as they should, but at least it looked like the hijinks had been performed by 'normal' youths screwing around, rather than the temporally impossible display from before that rather loudly screamed: "Mutant!"

He let out a sigh. "Come on," he muttered, nodding his head towards the side entrance that they'd both used. "Lets get the hell out of here."

[José Luis Flores]

"Yeah," the teen replied, studiously ignoring the scene around him. He looked around, and stuck his hands in his pockets, frowning and feeling the bags under his eyes get heavier. Once more, he allowed Tom to lead the way.

"So what's up with the whole patrolling the streets thing?" he asked, barely restraining himself from making another comment about his former teacher's get-up. "Heroes don't really exist, man."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom arched an eyebrow as they escaped into the sidestreet. "What a very un-American thing to say," he countered with a sidelong glance.

His attention briefly turned to the doorway that José had busted his way through. Unfortunately it had been opened with brute force rather than intelligence - Tom shouldn't have been so surprised, really - and there wasn't much he could do about it with his limited time and paltry carpentry skills.

Returning to his feet, his gaze swept the rooftops, regaining his bearings. The sky above was uncomfortably light; no convenient shadows for him to lurk in, or overhead darkness to disguise his leaping from building to building. Logic pointed out that he should have snatched a couple of souvenirs from the mall to help him look a little more normal for the journey home; but that would have defeated the point of his anti-crime lecture somewhat.

His attention turned back to José. "Listen -"

He sighed. "I know you're not big on asking for help, José. Or on thinking you need it, for that matter. But despite what you may think, whole world isn't against you. Not all of it, anyway."

He tried to offer a look that was understanding and encouraging, but not pushy. That turned out to be a much harder mix of emotions to convey than he had expected. "I work for a company downtown called Treadstone Industries. We're studying the powers of mutants like you and me; trying to work out what they're doing, and how they actually work."

He shrugged. "If you ever want to test your limits, or suss out how it is that you do what you do in an environment that is a little less... felonous? You know where to find me."

[José Luis Flores]

"Man, as awesome as teleporting or whatever the hell it is I do is, I'd rather not even have it," the seventeen year old said, wondering how the door had gotten busted. Harriman looked serious. José shifted on his feet and nodded.

"Yeah, sure," he said, taking the man's last words as a dismissal. "Maybe."

He disappeared, concentrating on his room in his home. The room formed itself out of the watercolors that surrounded him whenever he used whatever freaking mutation he'd gotten, and he barely had time to take off his sweater and gloves before he collapsed on his bed into sweet, sweet oblivion.

[Orcus]

From the shadows a few paces further inside the building, a black-clad figure watched in silence. Like the Archer he had been drawn into the mall by curiosity; but unlike him, there was no benevolence in his intentions towards the Boy.

Alas, there was no familiarity either - all he had to work with was a name that was painfully common in this part of the world. The Archer's efforts to erase the security footage would no doubt complicate matters as well - that could have proven quite useful in determining the identity of the mysterious prankster who moved with such haste.

He watched wordlessly while the Boy disappeared, and as the Archer drudged away, trying his utmost to remain concealed in an outfit that was clearly designed at night. That was an objective with which the man in black could empathise; but he didn't sympathise. It was an obstacle that he had through effort and training overcome; there was no excuse for the Archer not to do the same.

For an idle moment, he considered following the Archer, but a sound behind him made him turn.

Wide-eyed, the security guard stared at the figure he stumbled upon. He continued to stare as the smoothly-drawn katana impaled itself through his chest, and as he fell backwards onto the floor, a steadily growing pool of his own blood forming beneath him.

Orcus sighed, dropping into a crouch and tugging out a corner of the guard's shirt with a gloved hand to wipe clean his blade. It was such a shame to have to resort to such things - littering was such a terrible affliction that had stricken the world of late. He could only hope that the Archer and the Boy were as meticulous about leaving no trace behind as he was.

[Shield]

"Well... at least this one's a lot cleaner than the last one."

Detective Lorrance Duquesne crouched beside the security guard's body, just to the side of the darkening smear of blood that was now dried and caked at the edges. The alley was already cordoned off at both ends by strips of yellow crime tape and cruisers with flashing lights, but the investigation was only minutes old. With both anti-mutant hate crimes and mutant supremacist bullshit at an all-time high, the MCU was getting stretched thin these days, and ordinarily the LAPD waited until there was material evidence of mutant involvement, or as the Chief said, "genuinely real freaky shit," before calling in Captain Stern's special squad. But after the last crime scene involving a medieval weapon, Duke had received the call immediately.

A kid whose face Duquesne didn't recognize stepped up with a clipboard in hand. "I can tell you what we've got, sir, but it's not much," he said. "Victim's name is Quintin Escovito. Twenty-nine, works six AM to four. His manager went looking for him when he hadn't clocked in this morning."

Duke nodded and, with a hand wrapped in a latex glove, gently pulled the edge of the guard's shirt from the blood wound. "What do we have on the security cameras?"

The kid shook his head. "Nothing, sir."

"There's no cameras covering this alley?"

"No, sir, I mean there's nothing. The video's been wiped. Out here and in the store. We're pulling up other sources in the mall to see if we can get anything."

Duke sighed. "Nothing's ever easy in this job. This was a sword all right. One wound, a stabbing motion through the front of the chest, straight through the heart, and out the back. It takes experience to know how to miss the sternum and the ribcage like that."

He looked up at the kid, who was scribbling more notes on his clipboard. "Is there any genetic record on Mr. Escovito?"

"Uh - well, he's not a registered mutant, sir."

"I want you to check his blood for the X-gene." Duke ran a hand over the dome of his head, which was already prickling with sweat in the early morning heat. "I've got a feeling he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it doesn't hurt to be thorough."

[John Jackson]

While Duquesne investigated the body by the side-street fire escape, Detective John Jackson had made his way into the mall itself, where clusters of uniformed police drifted about, careful to avoid the areas that dustsuit-clad forensics specialists had cordoned off. It was strange here in LA; while the new streets and new locales were a refreshing change from the familiar old haunts of New York City, it just seemed damned peculiar seeing Uniforms wandering around in shirts that weren't blue.

He flashed his badge at the officer guarding the entrance, who nodded in approval and lifted the police tape to let them through. Jackson ducked under, the bespectacled and camera-wielding Jo Holloway following close on his heels.

He threw a brief glance in her direction. "Have a look around, see if you can find anything the Uniforms missed," he said, his tone making it more of a suggestion than an instruction.

His eyes searched the flocks of police officers, picking out one who was either important enough to be supervising, or enough at a loose end to be standing around doing little. He strode over, a subtle glance picking up his name without it seeming like he'd looked. "Officer Harding?" he asked, flashing his badge again. "Detective Jackson, MCU."

He paused for a moment, hands settling on his hips and surveying the scene. "What have we got?"

[Jo Holloway]

Jo nodded nervously at Det. Jackson, and clutched her camera in both hands as she looked over the crime scene. Well, the body was outside, but someone in the know had picked up on the fact that things were off inside the mall as well. She chewed her lower lip and awkwardly showed her clip on ID to one of the beat cops that approached her.

He raised an eyebrow. "MCU CSU?"

"I'm sure they could slap some more initials on me if they really tried. I'm just here to take some pictures..." Her voice trailed off. "Not that CSU isn't doing a great job!" The crime scene unit had arrived before she had, and were well into their work of picking up fibers and all that. Jo snapped a picture of the team at their work.

The uniform smiled. "So, you have x-ray vision or something?"

"Uh, no." Jo looked sideways at him and sidled away, hanging her camera from it's strap around her neck. People always assumed that a lab tech from MCU must have a power that augmented normal CSU duties. But no, she'd been to school for forensics and was actually, gasp, qualified!

She looked up and frowned. "Anyone else see that arrow?" Jo pointed above the sign for EXPRESS, and then frowned, picking up her camera and taking pictures of the storefront. Most of the mannequins inside were featureless grey, but there was one just behind the display window that was white.

[Shield]

"What the hell..."

Duke was just stepping inside to look over the other half of the equation when he followed Jo's pointing finger to the arrow buried in the wall near up near the ceiling. Judging from how deeply sunk past the drywall, it had been fired pretty hard.

"Detective Duquesne!" One of the uniformed cops came jogging from the women's underwear section hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "You might want to take a look at this."

Duke deadpanned back at him. "Well, why don't you tell me what you've found, and I can make that determination for you."

"Oh! Um..." The young officer's thumb froze in place, and then he sheepishly pulled it down. "It's a mannequin with an arrow stuck in its head."

Okay, Duke had to admit he had him there. "Really."

The mannequin was standing on a pedestal next to a shoe display. She wasn't wearing any pants, and her blouse had buttons in the wrong holes, but that was secondary to the hunting arrow sunk five inches into the center of her forehead.

Duquesne reached up with a gloved hand and tugged on the carbon composite shaft. It was stuck fast.

He narrowed his eyes and ran his finger back to the tiny constellation of gold pinpoints halfway to the fletching. "I've seen these arrows before."

[James Harding]

"Ah, about time you guys showed up. We've got all sorts of weird in here, sir," Harding responded, barely looking up from the papers he was holding in his hand. "Arrows, mannequins moving to different stores, open storefronts. But nothing stolen."

James shook his head, looking at the detective with something akin to incredulity.

"Lots of activity going on in the foyer... lobby... whatever the hell you wanna call it. Shoe prints all over, but they're all solid. All we're getting is a potential size. And get this. There's almost no walking prints. See?"

He pointed over to one section of the lobby, covered with forensics people doing whatever it was they did.

"We get a print over there, and then another set five feet away, but there are no prints showing whoever it was moved at all. The guy might have jumped."

It was a testament to how much things had changed that James said the last without a hint of being anything less than serious.

[Jo Holloway]

Jo looked sideways at the CSU technicians and caught one of the staring at her. They turned to one of their friends and said something, and then the two of them laughed. Jo looked away, pointing her camera at the ground and clicking blindly.

She walked back toward the center of the courtyard, looking up at the promenade. Don't do it. Don't do it!

They don't respect me!

Jo gritted her teeth and used her power. A sensation like holding in a sneeze swept over her and her eyes watered. She looked down at her feet, and then bent over, procuring tweezers and an evidence bag. Picking up a hair from the tile floor she popped it into the plastic bag and straightend up. "Look, sir, droids!"

Oh God, she was such a nerd. "That is, ah, evidence. Sir."

[John Jackson]

He might have jumped.

Jackson was certainly looking forward to passing on that fantastic bit of police work to his superiors. No doubt they'd be blown away by the insight, and would call the DA immediately; charges would be filed before the end of the day.

He sighed, and immediately regretted having given up smoking. It was times like this when the soothing burst of nicotine would have come in quite handy.

"You keep up with those iron-clad speculations there, Officer," he muttered, shaking his head. "And make sure CSU checks every inch of this place for more prints; this Jumper of yours must have leapt to somewhere, so maybe there'll be more clues wherever he landed."

He thought about escaping - there was a store on the corner that was bound to have cigarettes in stock; just one would be all it would take to tide him over - but young Jo's cult reference grabbed his attention. He wasn't sure where it was from - the droids bit sounded vaguely Star Trek - but the follow-up mention of evidence was much easier to decipher.

He waved a hand, beckoning for her to follow him as he walked over to regroup with Detective Duquesne. He considered asking aloud what Duke had found; but as he drew nearer, it became somewhat obvious. Arrows. Jumpers. Droids. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, and winced hard into his fingers. Some days, this job was a pain in the ass.

"That symbol mean anything to you?" he asked the group, gesturing at the way that Duke held the arrow with the star points on display.

[James Harding]

James grinned at the Star Wars reference the photographer had doled out. It was eerily fitting in this situation, but all he could do was grin in her direction and hope she caught it before the detective showed everyone an arrow.

"I'm not a detective, and I don't want to be one," he replied. "Have at it and enjoy your day."

He squinted at the arrow (arrows? Jesus, where they in the 21st or 11th century?), and shook his head, turning back to the clipboard in his hands and continuing to jot down notes.

God forbid he ever had a day without paperwork.

[Shield]

"I've seen those!" said the young, fresh-faced officer hovering over Duke's shoulder. "They're left behind by that vigilante guy who always calls in, what does he call himself, the Onion!"

"Orion." Duke turned the mannequin to give Jackson a better view. "These points are patterned after the constellation. Orion was a mythical hunter. He shot his game with a bow, but he also carried a sword."

He released the mannequin and let it wobble on its stand. "Our friend Orion's been attacking lone victims late at night. Nothing lethal so far. He uses his bow and arrows to scare them and then beats them into submission with blunt-force trauma. Then he calls the paramedics and leaves us an arrow as a calling card. As far as we know, he thinks he's doing us a service, taking down criminals for us to arrest."

Duke rubbed his forehead and glanced toward the back door where techs in hazard vests and gloves were moving Mr. Escovito into a body bag.

"He may have just changed his MO."