<<< That New Car Smell, Open

September 2nd, 8:30 pm.

St. John sat against one of the walls of the Brotherhood's training facility, working with the mechanisms on his arm. It was an object (two, actually) that Razorback had crafted. Getting them fitted properly was the pain. Buford was no tailor, that's for sure. That, or St. John had put on a few more pounds than he thought eating all that candy and subsequently lost the weight. Oh well, a few pounds wasn't going to kill him. Scrawny fucker he was, he could use it. Broken habits of insomnia had gradually reduced, a few full nights of sleep soon became easy resting. Ever since the freakish dimension-bending warp of the worlds stopped, he was feeling... Hot. Occasionally his flesh began to burn, flames growing from the blisters. A new power.

What was it that it was called? Secondary mutation? Perhaps that was it, or perhaps his pyrokinesis had grown to such a level that he no longer needed a match. However, burning yourself hurt like a motherfucker and St. John did not really want to have to pay a visit to the medical bay every time they got back from an assignment. No, it was time for an upgrade.

The mechanism were simple: a flammable liquid was fed down a hose from canisters placed on a harness on the back of his torso and moved into sheaths which could be hidden underneath his sleeves on the back of his arms. With a certain motion of his hand, a downward curled fist, an ignition was lit. In the greatest paradox, however, unlike its predecessors in Vietnam and other wars, St. John's flamethrower did not eject a spray of fire. All it did was feed a small flame that appeared at the base of those sheaths. His mutation took care of the rest.

Basically, the biggest fuckin' pair of lighters.

But, adjustments were needed. Making sure it was, for lack of a better term, well lubed as any machine would be, St. John had memorized the schematics and taken them to heart. His knowledge of combustible materials worked wonders, and he knew perfectly well how things work. Only reason he didn't make this sucker himself is because -- well -- he sucked at building things. Destruction was his thing -- and it was going to be biblical...

...Once he got these things working right.

He moved through Murderworld, for many here it was a apt name. Murder was a common practice among the members of the Brotherhood and in the eyes of many he was no different. But he killed for a different reason...the emotional need to rip the pain, fear, and the negative aspects of a person from their core to feed the mutation he was blessed with. To him the death of others was nothing more then stopping the hunger. His connection with his power was on a very deep level, he no longer existed just the darkness. And he was more then ok with that. But at times he needed to let loose, let his powers stretch and just hone them for the next time he was called on. The little moments of practice and training helped to take some of the edge off but nothing could compare with the life of another in the grasp of the darkness that made up his body now.

He moved to the training facility. His lips tense as always, the hood over his head and the darkness shading out the upper portions of his head. Making one have to squint to see his eyes or tried to get a read off the face. He looked at the door in front of him a moment. He didn't bother to reach out, it took to much energy to make his arm solid and press it open. He closed his eyes and just pushed his body through the door and stepped out on the other side, his shoulders and head solidifying as he looked around the room and noticed the other man there with his new devices. He stood silent studying them and seeing what he could learn about the man. He was still a bit new to the Brotherhood and was getting to know his new peers, and given his anti-social tendencies that was proving to be a much harder task then most would think it, and his cold even tone did not pass him off as the most cheerful of sorts.

“Interesting pieces you have there. They to contain or enhance your powers?” He was a bit unsure what these said powers may be but he was willing to wager they had something to do with his arms and hands. But mutation was a tricky thing he was learning. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to take in all what the devices could be. But he was no technician or scientist. Those things bended the laws of the world, and let people do things they were not built to do. And to Cloak the world was very simple. There was light and there was dark. There was the simple way to do things and the hard. He lost sight of the idea of progress, advancement and purpose long ago. His world was a cold raw place, and he was trying to over come that some. But he found increasingly hard as he interacted and saw the world as a whole...the idea of cloaking it all in darkness was seeming to be a better and better idea.

Fuckin' gizmos. There was a reason St. John hadn't bothered to use this thing out in the field yet, and it was because it was just a pain in the ass to get it on. Adjusting straps, making sure nozzles were open or closed and whatever, St. John made only a few modifications to the proverbial flamethrowers. He wasn't the best tinkerer, but with the various technopaths and mechanics in Sanctuary for him to abuse, St. John had gotten it so he could simply grip a bar on his hand and the flame would come to life. Easy peasy, right? Luckily, St. John knew the workings of actual flamethrowers, but his was really more like a big as zippo. Anyways...

Someone else came into the training area, but St. John didn't bother lifting his gaze. Having finally accomplished getting the arm bits fixed, he felt rather prepared and jittery to get it ready.

"Interesting pieces you have there. They to contain or enhance your powers?"

Looking over his shoulder, the scrawny pyrokinetic gave the other occupant a glance. Someone knew, someone he hadn't bothered to talk with. Beyond knowing people were recruited into the Brotherhood, St. John didn't really find a need to communicate with many of them. A conversation here and there was about it. The only mutants he gave two shits about were Spitfire and Saint, both whom he'd consider friends. Tom and Cain weren't too bad either, and everyone else he was just moot with. Pietro... Well, he hadn't been convinced about the guy yet. He led the charge into that batshit void thing two months or so ago and St. John hadn't even gone, so the result was... meh, basically.

But! New face, new mutant, new powers. Another person for him to learn about, think of strategies (although St. John's techniques were pretty basic). Another person to try to trust, because that's what everything came down to.

"Doesn't do neither," he said rather bluntly, picking up his jacket. "You always wear that thing? It ain't gonna rain in here, mate, but I'll gander it's why they call you Cloak, yeah?" He was speaking of the cloak, of course. It was kind of odd for people to wear those things. Beyond Tom being a tree, Cain and Magneto wearing their respective helmets, most people didn't wear odd things like that. Fitting himself into his jacket, he examined his person, making sure the flamethrower was concealed.

Fixing his hands with the straps, he moved his arms as if to look at his palms. Instead, he gripped the straps, pulling the release valve open and lighting the propane as it came out. A small burst of flame, but that was all. Releasing the valve it closed once again, a tongue of fire remaining just outside of the valves. "That's about all it does by itself. It's nothin' more than a big match lighter."