[Midnighter's got some questions, like how the fuck he ended up here and how they managed to put more shit in his brain, how he apparently doesn't remember even more crap, and how he wants his stuff back. Really, they're more statements. It doesn't matter. The prospect of taking out his confused frustration on random strangers is appealing. Eventually, he takes the gear they're giving him and leaves the fucking tent. Of course he manages to find robes and a sash in all black. Wrapped around his head, the lower half of his face is almost entirely covered, and his eyes are difficult to see, shadowed in black fabric. It's not quite a leather cowl, but it'll do.]
[He's playing around with a large scimitar, balancing the sharp point on one calloused finger. He doesn't seem to have any difficulty making it stay pointing upward. There's only the tiniest bead of blood at his fingertip.]
Think this is neat, you should see my sword swallowing act.
b. COMBAT / STEALTH.
[He can be quiet if he wants to, but this entire situation is too ridiculous for him to abide by long on the side of common decency. These people are real. The fight computer registers all their reactions as genuine, unique, caught somewhere in that incredible spectrum of thought and feeling that make up normal people.]
[They're also all meideval assholes that Midnighter has precious little regard for. Silent as, uh, midnight, he stalks between the tents on the Crusader's side of camp, sword flashing in the moonlight. This is more snake-in-the-grass than mongoose-vs-cobra, but it's apparently for a good cause. Stress relief, of course.]
[He stalks out of one tent with blood on down his front, making his black robes shine in the pale light of the moon. He hears someone approach, and rushes forward, almost too fast to register to the human eye. He's not as fast as the Flash or Superman, no lie there, but he's still pretty fucking quick. He puts his sword to the throat of whoever was approaching.]
[His voice is deep and grim.] What's the password?
c. COMBAT.
[Midnighter does not, actually, know how to ride a horse, but it takes his fight computer about a hot minute to figure it out. Maybe, like, five minutes. A couple minutes. Whatever.]
[The short story is that he has a horse now. The long story involves a dead guy and a whole lot of blood, some of which is still staining the otherwise white destrier he's riding around on, screaming and charging it into knights. Amidst this bloody chaos, he sees someone lost in the crowd, perhaps fighting, perhaps fallen. He leans down from the saddle, and sweeps them onto the back of his horse (he's named it 'Shithead' because it smells like shit) with impressive strength.]
Destination? My rate is $4 a mile, FYI.
d. NETWORK.
[Eventually, he's gotta try this communicator thing out.]
midnighter | dc (rebirth) | ota.