2012-12-02 Always Prepared

"... Huh," Kid Karnevil curiously utters. Half a dozen sets of booted footsteps echo from the adjoining alleyways of the Suicide Slum; the Kid himself is crouching beside a young African-American man wrapped in dirty blankets and propped up against the back of a check cashing store. One arm - clothed in pristine, form-fitting purple and black - is curled around the filthy linens; the other is tucked securely inside.

"Think I've got something," the devilish scout whispers into his walkie as he takes a step back. "A /costumed/ something." A few feet away, a black-garbed thug drags an unconscious teen out of the back of a condemned building and towards a school bus parked on the street; the Kid turns away from his find to give his conspirator a thumbs up before bringing the radio back up to his mouth.

"All that money for a fancy costume, and he hasn't even got a roof over his head; typical," he disdainfully transmits. "Oh well! Maybe tonight is my lucky night; we'll be back in an hour. Karnevil out." Humming to himself, the youth tucks the radio under his arm, fishes a cloth and a small bottle from his belt pouch, and carefully dumps the bottle's entire sweet-smelling contents into the rag.

Roused by strange sounds - was someone speaking to him, or did he dream that? - and cloying scents, Xavin opens his eyes an inch and is greeted by the whites of a mad, grinning boy's teeth; shocked, he forces them the rest of the way open, and is rewarded with a glimpse of the lad's masked face and rust-coloured uniform. And of the cloth bunched in his hand as he lunges at the groggy alien.

A few tiny flames briefly flicker across his upper body when the sweet-smelling cloth is first shoved against his nose and mouth, but they die down within seconds. The last thing he sees as the chemical fog settles over his mind and lulls him back to sleep is the mad scout's elation at the sight of his brief pyrotechnics; he manages to mumble a few virulent curses in his native tongue, but the cloth - and his fading consciousness - renders them all but inaudible.

"Pyrokinetic!" Karnevil gleefully exclaims after tucking his tools away. "I'm bringing him back now, and then we'll do a couple more blocks and call it a night." He squats down to grab Xavin about the waist and haul him over a shoulder for easy carrying, his humming replaced by melodic whistling; despite the added weight, there's a bounce in his step when he strolls back to the bus to dump this one with the rest.