John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to answer Jasper's question.

"Nah, not me Irish I got no family left. My pop died more than ten years ago of a bad ticker and my mother died a year later. I think she did not want to go on without him...anyway it's just me."

John shoveled more of the beans and franks in his mouth.

"I don't have my folks around anymore but I got good friends, you know people like us. Me and Bug been raising hell off and on for years. You're gonna laugh but I used to work for the government. I met a lot of good people when I worked for Uncle Sam, names you might recognize like Cowboy, Babyface, Chameleon, Di Vine, Shaman and a lot of other 'heroes'. Some of them are locked up, some are on the run, and a few are dead..."

John chewed his dinner, his eyes were fixed o the small fire.

Jasper leaned forward to stretch his back out and placed his empty dish on the ground. When he heard that John used to work for the government, he indeed laugh but only because he just couldn't see him taking orders from any of those stiff pencil necks.

"The government, really, you?" Commented Jasper with a shake of his head, "Must'a been back when the agencies actually gave a shit about the world."

When John mentioned the other meta's he only recognized a few of the names. "I've ne'er heard of this Cowboy before but there's been a guy called the Wrangler stirring up trouble from here ta New York. Maybe they're related. I've also come across a few stories about Chameleon, but I've never met her, probably wouldn'a know 'er even if I saw her, since she's able to look like anyone she wants ta anyhow."

Jasper drew his coat closed. The night air had a bit of chill and it was more noticeable with a full belly. Reaching out his hands to warm them before the fire, the young fugitive wondered what the next move would be. John seemed pretty rugged, hell if one looked up the word you'd probably find his picture beside it, he figured. There was definitely no question about where he'd sleep, which Jasper figured was, where ever the hell he wanted, still he had a bed waiting for him and a safe one.

"I know we're shakin' the wolves off of our tails and all." mentioned the Irishman, "But, I've got a place South Side, in the Back o' the Yards. Mind ya, it's a few streets over from Hell and next door to Death but I guarantee ya that no pig, be they blue or black like RAID are goin' ta find it. If'n ya dun gotta place to put yer head down for a spell, you're welcome to it, that is if ya feel its safe and all. I've never messed with RAID before, so I could be talkin' out me arse."

The night air had grown crisp and downright biting, stinging Fyedka Romanov's pale arms with the slightest breeze. Hugging his arms close to his body, he rubbed them vigorously and tried to ignore the painful stabs of hunger as his stomach seemed determined to digest his spine. Breathing deeply, Fyedka let out a sigh in a puff of white steam that floated out in front of him along a heavier breeze that wrapped his jet black ponytail around his neck and blew the stray locks into his face. Squeezing his jade-colored eyes shut, he stumbled blindly into the warehouse district, letting himself run straight into a wall.

When the wind passed, he opened them again and stood straight glanced around, pushing the black fly-aways from his face. All around him, the air seemed to ting against the aluminum siding of the endless rows of warehouses faintly glowing in the light. Normally the view would have been inviting, but to Fyedka it felt like a dead end, like a sad confirmation that he would be going yet another day without managing to glean any food. It was as though he had exhausted the city. He'd only barely managed to escape from the cops earlier that day for trying to steal from a Dumpster behind a restaurant in an alley that was apparently empty save for himself and the cop. The lunatic with the shotgun hidden behind the counter at the convenience store had been enough to chase Fyedka away from that entire neighborhood for at least that month if he had anything to say about it. He'd never realized a package of crackers could be considered such contraband.

Shivering and trying hard to keep his teeth from chattering, Fyedka turned his head away from a light rush of cold wind and did his best to pretend he had a thick sweater on instead of a threadbare t-shirt. The wind seemed to be penetrate every pinhole that might have been in his shirt, rushing up the sleeves and inflating his pants through the holes where his knees were completely exposed. At the same time, his eyes darted around at the warehouses, looking for the one with an open door or a cracked entry, or even an opened or broken window. As he walked, a hacking cough shook him, echoing over the warehouses and making him freeze like a rat caught in the open. He listened intently for any sign of movement indicating anything bigger than a leaf. When the area remained silent, he sighed in relief and continued on, turning down another row and walking along side of buildings, keeping himself away from the cold aura that always seemed to radiate from metal.

Suddenly, the scent of food hit him like a brick. Stopping abruptly, Fyedka's eyes went wide and he sniffed the air, as though unsure if he were really detecting anything or if he were simply hallucinating. He was too far from any restaurant that would be open and there certainly weren't any houses nearby with pies cooking on open windowsills. There was no doubt about it, though. Someone was cooking and from the smell of it, they were only a little better off than himself. Taking in the scent, Fyedka's stomach whined and snarled, suddenly feeling as though it was being stabbed with so many pins and gone flat. The sudden realization of how hungry he really was seemed to drag him down and he almost fell over trying to remember the last time he'd eaten anything bigger than a free sample of a bread crust from a sandwich store.

Moving cautiously towards it, Fyedka followed the scent with silent footsteps. As the smell became stronger, so did the sound of voices, at least two. A gruff sounding one grumbled out into the air followed by a much younger one that sounded a little too upbeat considering circumstances. Creeping into the shadows, Fyedka flattened himself against another warehouse and peeked around the side. Directly across from him sat an enormous man with a set of very off-putting prosthetics on his hand and leg. With him a smaller, younger looking one, and a little weirdo with the wildest dreadlocks Fyedka had ever seen. None of them looked to Fyedka as though they had been on the streets very long, save for maybe the one with the dreadlocks who looked more like he recently escaped from somewhere. While the younger one seemed friendly enough, the other two were enough to keep Fyedka at a distance. He watched cautiously, carefully considering if he should approach them while gazing longingly at the fire between them.

"I'm up fer anything Jasper, I thought Gabriel would have caught up with us by now but maybe he ran into..."

The mechanic stopped short, he coulda sworn he saw someone walking just beyond the small fire, someone who moved as quiet as a cat.

John watched the shadows just beyond their makeshift dining area.

"Jasper, did you just see?..."

John's instincts told him it was probably one of the many homeless people that lived in the surrounding buildings. A small part of him hoped that it was Gabriel returning from flying the unfriendly skies.

"Come on out, I saw you, come on out or I'll come and get ya."

John looked to the canned food that was warming near the fire.

"We got food to share, why don't you come and have some..."

John took a step towards where he had seen movement in the long shadows of the old warehouse, the motors in his leg clicked and whined as he moved, the sound echoed loudly throughout building.

Jasper did not move, but John noticed that his hand was now resting on his cane and the mechanic could here that familiar hum of electricity as he channeled power into it. He was ready to provide a ranged attack if necessary, but the big man quickly assessed that what ever was moving out there in the shadows wasn't RAID.

The Irishman looked over his shoulder. From under the brim of his hat he peered into the darkness searching for their mysterious guest, but could see nothing.

"I'd be listenin' to me large friend." Jasper shouted in his heavy Irish accent, "We're in no mood fer hide n' seek, com'on out and introduce yerself."

Jasper kept his eyes and the cybernetic mechanic scanning the dark corners that would conceal a man.

Fyedka's heart went on a cruel rollercoaster, jumping when the gruff man caught sight of him and ordered him to come out. He then relaxed slightly when he offered food only to have his guards shoot up again when an Irishman growled for his obedience. Holding his hands up in defense, Fyedka slowly stepped out from the shadows, his face emerging from the darkness, obscured by strands of black hair that blew across his handsome face. He didn't dare move to push it away even has it clung to his eyelashes and settled over his nose.

"Hey," he said, tensing his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, "I didn't mean anything, I just didn't know who you were." The tremble in his voice exposed his shivering along with the slight tremor in his raised hands as his pathetic black t-shirt inflated with an icy wind. Glazed-over green eyes flicked tentatively between the enormous man too close to him for comfort and the fire surrounded by opened cans of food. Swallowing as his mouth began to water, the man's words echoed in his mind and he paused, ensuring they weren't going to jump out and kill him on the spot, before he spoke again. "Did you say you had food to spare?"

John could now see the young man as he came near, his clothes were threadbare and he was in need of a haircut but he was certainly not R.A.I.D. but the question remained-Who was he?

"Go slow boy, and don't do anything stupid."

The mechanic continued to stand up as the long haired man came closer, John eyed him intensely as he came near the fire.

John took a long drag on his cigar and sized the young man up, after a few tense seconds the mechanic spoke as smoke puffed from his mouth.

"When's the last time you ate somethin' boy?"
John relaxed and sat back down on the steel drum.

"Ye better eat up kid this stuff won't keep fer long."
The mechanic said as he pointed to the cans hissing in the fire.

John was more relaxed but he wasn't going to take his eyes from the young stranger. John kicked another dingy milk crate over to the stranger to sit on.

You on the streets kid?" John asked gruffly.

Fyedka nodded at the enormous man with the robotic limbs and took the risk of pushing the hair out of his face as he walked towards them. His eyes were fixed on the food, his stomach growling with longing. It wasn't until he crossed the man's path that he felt the intense stare on him and peeked up at him. His muscles tensed as the man seemed to size him up before he collapsed onto a steel drum and pulled a milk crate out for Fyedka to sit on. "When's the last time you ate somethin', boy?" asked the gruff voice. Fyedka slowly sat down on the milk crate, glancing up at the man out of the corner of his eye before he shrugged.

"I'm not sure," he replied in a quiet voice. There was another pause as he couldn't help considering what might be too sudden a move around the mountain of a man beside him, but he couldn't stand it anymore. He snatched up the closest can and began to all but inhale its contents like a predator ripping apart its prey.

He couldn't taste, he could barely think, all Fyedka could concentrate on was getting food into his stomach as he downed the can in practically one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Dropping the can, Fyedka stared over at the fire, out of breath from gulping the food down. Pushing a lock of black hair behind his ear, the light from the fire dancing across his handsome young features, Fyedka looked around at the three strangers who had shared their food with him. They certainly seemed like a ragtag group, none seeming to fit in with the other, and they certainly didn't look like the usual bums he ran across around these parts.

"You on the streets, kid?" the man asked, turning Fyedka's attention back to him. He peeked up at him with jade green eyes that suddenly had just a little more color and focus to them. Fyedka nodded and turned away, holding his freezing hands out over the fire and letting it thaw his fingertips.

"Have been for years now," he said, then seemed to be tossing some idea around in his head as he swallowed and stared unblinkingly into space for a moment before he turned back to the man and said "thanks. For the food I mean. Thanks for the food."

Though Jasper doubted the kid's intentions there was no disputing the fact that he was half starved. He'd never seen the police go to such lengths to set up a plant and though his instincts told him that the kid was legit he still wanted to be sure. The Irishman grew up on the streets and he'd know if the kid was trying to deceive them.

Jasper reached over and held out his hand, "I'm JB," he introduced using an alias until he felt more comfortable around the newcomer, "so where ya frum? You've got a look to ya, that tells me yer not frum around these parts. How'd ya end up on the street?"

Jasper's barrage of questions were deliberate. He wasn't much one for coincidence, and this kids arrival at the same time that R.A.I.D. was sniffing around for them raised the hairs on the back on his neck. Of course it might have just been static electricity, but he had to be sure.

Fyedka took the Irishman's hand, closing his icy fingers around it in a firm but still shivering grip.

"Fyedka," he said by way of introduction. He then seemed to take a second to process the man's questions, his mind still drained from cold, hunger, and exhaustion. "I'm from not too far from here," he said, apparently missing what JB was really asking regarding his origins, "but I've been on the streets for . . . " he paused, staring and blinking slowly into the fire as he slowly counted in his mind. Sometimes he wasn't even so sure how old he was, especially in times like these when the going seemed to get especially rough. "Seven years now," he said with a grave fall to his expression as though he had only just figured this out. Nodding as though in clarification to himself, he looked up at the others, unsure of what else there was to say, though he was beginning to get the vague impression they weren't done grilling him.

"It can be rough out here, it's rough all around if you ask me..."
John grinned as he spoke.

"I'm John, the quiet one is Bug, he don't talk much and he ain't much on introductions."
John motioned to where Bug was sitting, he hadn't even looked at Fyedka. Bug was sitting a little ways from the group and now had his back to everyone.

"Anyway, nice ta meet ya."
John extended his hand to the young man.

"Being on the street you probably ain't been watching the news. As you can see we ain't yer average squatters, we had a run-in with the cops and some feds earlier tonight and we came here to lie low for a bit."

John shared this tidbit with the kid because he figured he had noticed John's arm and leg and Jasper's electric personality and Bug's strange glittering eyes. And who knows even a kid living on the streets may have heard of John or Bug before.

"Sometimes people like me an' JB and Bug here use places like this to stay off of RAID's radar, you do know what RAID is dont'cha?"

John was sharing information based on a hunch that the stranger was in fact a meta like them and he might just tell his story.

Jasper was satisfied with the kids story and didn't believe he needed to grill him any further. "Y'can call me Jasper, kid, JB stands for Joy Buzzer. Now before yer untimely arrival I had thought we might head down to me place in the Back 'o the Yards. There's hot water, and I'm thinkin' ye could use a shower, Fyed'. What d'ya say?"

Jasper looked over at John. "We can lay low there for a few days while I gather my essentials. I've a feelin' that these R.A.I.D. bastards will no doubt track me down by then. I'm well hid, but not untraceable."

"It's only a wee bit from here, actually." The Irishman figured, not entirely sure where they specifically were, but he was sure the big mechanic could find his way easily enough. "It's a rundown apartment block at 50th Street and Winchester, ye can't miss it. Got the top floor all to me self, since I have the only flat that hasn't been condemned yet. The two floors below me house a few langers but they're more concerned with their booze than anything else."

Fyedka gaped at them all, his jaw falling open. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd heard about other metas in the city, and what happened to them once they were exposed, but he'd never met any before. Part of him was skeptical, even frightened, that these guys were some kind of spies who had figured out his true nature and were trying to trick him into following them straight to RAID. Could Mikhail have hired them? He suddenly felt exhausted at the very thought. Seven years? It felt like he had been running for his entire life.

One look at John and Bug, however, immediately dropped the thought from Fyedka's apparently paranoid mind. Still, he paused, the words choked somewhere in the back of his throat.

"I . . . um . . . " he said, blinking. "Are you serious?" he finally asked stupidly. In response, the hairs began to raise on his arm and the one called Joy Buzzer smirked, holding up his hand and letting little arcs of electricity crackle over his fingers for a moment. Fyedka blinked, then moistened his lips. Looking away, he said very softly, "yeah . . . I've heard of RAID." As he spoke, the darkness seemed to close in on them, as though the light of the fire was dying even while it danced and crackled, the same size it was before. Behind Fyedka, the shadows rose up and crept forward, washing over them like a cloak slowly drifting up behind them. They then began to warp and stretch, ghostly shapes forming as though out of some vaguely translucent ooze. Tiny red eyes blinked open and peered over his shoulder at them, two long, arm-like tendrils dangling benignly in front of them. "I've been trying to stay off their radar for a while, too."

Slowly, Fyedka raised his eyes back to them, carefully searching their expressions as the shadows drifted back behind him, disappearing into the faint light as the strange creatures slunk away, their eyes extinguishing and their forms dissipating.

"I've been calling myself Shadow," he explained, "I figure Fyedka Romanov isn't exactly a common enough name to protect myself." He then paused, searching their expressions once more for some hint of an ulterior motive. In spite of himself and their welcoming demeanor, he felt his body tense, preparing to attack and run if the need arose. He then turned to Joy Buzzer, his expression unreadable. "I know where you're talking about. I've been one of those bums sleeping on the bottom floor before." There was a pause in which Fyedka tried to relax, fighting within his own mind-- part of him wanting to trust them, part of him refusing to. "How did you know?" he asked, "I mean . . . how'd you know what I was?"

Jasper rubbed his chin and swiveled his head toward John, then back to Fyedka. "Had no idea ol' boy. Nice trick with the shadows though, if'n I ever forget me sun-block you'll be handy to 'ave around." quipped the Irishman.

"Jus' thought y'might wanna warm place to sleep fer a change." he explained as he leapt up to his feet, anxious to get on the move, "When I was on the streets I had a few good people offer me a hand, just 'repayin' the debt, y'know."

Jasper twirled his cane and tucked it smoothly under his arm. "What d'ya say, John? Make for me place?"

The mechanic had never seen anything like it, the shadows closed in around the 4 of them, they seemed to come alive. For a moment they looked as if they might reach out and touch someone, their red eyes were bright against their black forms.

"Nice, you probably make a lot of folks afraid of the dark." John said flatly.

The mechanic put the small fire out with a stomp of his mech leg, it was time to move on.

"I don't suppose you got any beer at your place Irish..." John asked rubbing his chin, he had been in RAID custody for weeks before the breakout and hadn't had a good cold beer in a while.

John lead the group back to the old Cadillac, slipped behind the steering wheel and started the long white car.

"50th and Winchester it is, and keep yer eyes peeled for Gabriel..."