Mystlings IC (Mature Possible)

Benjamin was perched on one of the buildings, over looking the crowd and Brock.
Like a black cat with green eyes, he was sifting through the crowd to pick his next victim. It's been a few days, and he's found that these mystlings are most challenging and fun.
But then, The supposed leader, Brock was making an' announcement.
The crowd cheered and roared in response, doing what he did and raised their fists in the air.
Benjamin had to smile, if there was anything to get the blood pumping and the adrenaline bursting, it was war.
This Brock character might not be a bad guy after all..
Most of the crowd cheered, but Benjamin knew that Loyalty in times of war is essential.
Benjamin took a few steps back, jumping off the building and disappearing before landing, only to reappear a few feet away and running.
lets hope this brock guy has some brains behind that bark. He thought to himself as he retreated to get something from his hideout.
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Shuanna smiled, but she had to cover her ears as the crowd all around her shouted with Augusto. But like other mystlings, she couldn't help but feel a sense of doom, fear and the unexpected unknown.
--

Ravance Lead his sister Syra around, the huge crowd of protest/hype was in full swing, but Ravance knew to steer clear of crowd's like this, Getting trampled was not on his agenda.
He kept a tight hand wrapped around Syra's hand.
"keep close to me.. I don't want any nut job steal'un you..." He was nervous, and he let his sister cling to his arm.

Independence was an entirely new concept too complex for Zeta to wrap her finger around. She knew compliance very well, and absolute obedience, but independence? How does it work, not being told what to do, when you only know what to do when you're told? It had taken all the courage she could muster to exit the house after waiting three days for Dr. Langston to return, an act that was considered unthinkable in light of the punishments she received for leaving the premises. But the new coat of paint in her room had all but dried up, and now that she was out of entertainment, she was also growing hungry, and that was saying something for a girl who could survive on a slice of bread for weeks. Not that the fridge was empty, on the contrary it had been stockpiled with food, but they were off-limits for her. Even in the doctor's absence, she knew better than to sneak a few snacks into her mouth behind his back.

And yet here she was, out in the sweltering Sun, turning the eighteenth corner of her spontaneous city tour in trepidation. Zeta, too afraid to eat food from the fridge, but foolish enough to run away twice. Maybe that was why, it was the comfort of familiarity. Her destination: St. Teresa's orphanage. Her last semblance of a home.

Then she got sidetracked along the way.

As Zeta walked through the alley in eerie silence, she stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the walls with deep intrigue. There was something strange about them. Not just because the bricks which were so much different than the white walls in the lab, so full of grime and colour, and just short of obeying a pattern, but she felt . . . a brewing pool of energy. Like a sudden glimpse of images that was gone so quick she could have mistaken it to be never there. Or maybe she was just eager to know how those coarse-looking bricks felt like.

She reached out her hand, and felt nothing. Her hand slipped right through.

And she stumbled straight into a crowd of shouting, cheering people. Almost immediately her mind was assaulted by a splitting headache, as her ears grew red from the level of noise that was unheard of for her. There were too many voices, too many people. She had known only one voice, from one person. And she could not hear him.

Music. Where is the music?

Hands cupped in her ears, and dizzy from the disorienting noise, she ran. Straight into something.

Zeta toppled over, and found herself suspended a few inches above the ground, on something strangely soft. A quick glance downwards at the woman's face solved her mystery, and she was scrambling out of her position. This wasn't St. Teresa's orphanage. This wasn't Dr. Langston either. This was the wrong place to be, and she needed to go back.

Zeta spun around, looking for the magical door that had brought her to this strange land. It wasn't there. Lost. She was lost.

Was this what it means to be independent? Suddenly, her legs lost feeling, and she dropped to the floor like a corpse. There she laid, in a fetal position, sobbing silently. "Noise . . . too much noise . . ." she whimpered. She hated being independent.

Jeremy stood a little to the side, shaking his head. This was going to end badly. If Brock thought this was a battle they could win... Not all Mystlings were dangerous, the mutations didn't make them any stronger, just different. Sometimes, different was stronger, like Brock. But for others... This war speech was going to get a lot of people killed. He hoped Brock had some kind of plan, but he wasn't going to say anything with the crowd cheering like this. The war was started, like it or not, and the best thing for the site now was to keep moral and hope high, and prepare as if every life in his home depended on it.