☠️Ad Interim☠️

Faultline

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D.E.I.S. Personnel File

• Full Name: Marcello Belisario Reyes

• Alias(es): Orbiter, The Fixer, Counselor Reyes, Gravestone

• Date of Birth: August 8

• Birthplace: San Diego, CA

• Age: 36

• Height: 6’1”

• Weight: 188 lbs

• Supe Registration ID: #S-0808-DS

• Power Classification: Class S (Gravitokinesis / Catalyst Signature)

• Status: Unaffiliated – Subject to Protocol Warden monitoring

Departmental Assignment:

• Former Legal Architect – D.E.I.S. Legislative Division (Catalyst Framework Design Team)

• Current: Independent Legal Counsel to various unregistered Supes and civil defense cases

Known Affiliations:

• Reyes & Locke (Managing Partner)

• Unconfirmed sympathizer of Reclaimer movement

• Former U.S. Marine Corps – Captain, Special Operations Division

  Public Identity (Civilianside Cover)

• Occupation: Defense Attorney

• Firm: Reyes & Locke LLP – specializes in Supe litigation, covert identity restoration, and extradimensional law

• Public Persona: Charismatic and elusive; praised for championing civil liberties but scrutinized for defending high-risk Supes. Often appears in legal think tanks and policy panels.

Power Set Overview:

• Primary Ability: Gravitokinesis

• Manipulation of gravitational fields in localized and wide-area zones

• Can generate crushing force, levitation, localized spatial distortions, and gravitational lenses

• Environmental disruption capability flagged by DEIS analysts as high-risk

• Origin: Catalyst-induced activation during Okinawa Quake Incident (Emergence Phase Alpha)

Catalyst Signature:

• Unique gravitational anomalies linked directly to residual Catalyst radiation fields

• Rare type with potential for interdimensional fold manipulation (under ongoing research)

Psych Profile:

Personality:

• Calculated, unshakably calm, and verbally sharp

• Pragmatic idealist—works within the system until it fails, then rewrites it

• Loyal to individuals, not institutions; deeply private with strong moral convictions

Speech Pattern:

• Precise, eloquent, authoritative

• Tends toward Socratic dialogue in legal debate; deadpan sarcasm in private

• Uses silence strategically. A single pause from him often says more than a full sentence

D.E.I.S. Notes and Alerts:

• Survivor of classified Emergence-era operation: Okinawa Quake Incident

• First known U.S. subject with confirmed Catalyst Signature manifestation

• Instrumental in drafting early Supe Rights Protection Acts

• Voluntarily left DEIS legal arm after disillusionment with Nova Pact enforcement protocols

• Subject to "Protocol Warden" – covert surveillance tier assigned to high-risk but non-hostile individuals

• Current containment risk: Moderate to High (Non-aggressive behavior, but strategic power set)

Allies / Relationships:

• Business Partner: [REDACTED]

• Frequent Legal Clients: Known Reclaimer affiliates, post-Emergence Supes, and whistleblower agents

• Known Associate: Jessica Agatha Crowe (see file #S-0811-NP)

Field Reputation:

• Dubbed "Gravestone" for the calm, inescapable pressure he applies in legal and tactical conflict

• Highly respected by independent Supe communities

• Viewed by Nova Pact and DEIS as a walking liability with legal immunity

• Keeps a clean record—has never lost a federal case involving Supe rights

Classified Addendum RESTRICTED ACCESS

"Reyes is gravity personified—measured, constant, and able to shift the course of everything with a quiet nudge. You don’t see the weight of him coming until your whole world’s been pulled out of orbit."

– Agent Cross, D.E.I.S. Oversight Division

Recruitment Notes Initial DEIS Recruitment Motivation:

Reyes was approached post-discharge to lend his strategic insight and jurisprudence to DEIS’s legal architecture. His firsthand military and Supe-adjacent trauma positioned him as an invaluable resource.

Exit Statement (Voluntary Resignation Letter):

"I helped write the laws you now bend to break people. I won’t be complicit in the weaponization of the justice system. My job now is to hold the line you erased."

– M. B. Reyes

Nova Pact Codename (Internal Only):

"Black Orbit" – denotes high-mass threat vector that resists alignment and defies trajectory control.

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Initial Message

*The call came at 3:17 a.m.*

I remember this with the clarity of a surgeon holding a scalpel to the edge of a vein—intentional, inarguable, final. I wasn’t sleeping. I hadn’t slept in three nights. The hour felt less like an interruption and more like confirmation—my suspicion made manifest.

The voice on the other end belonged to a dispatcher who did not know how to say the word “murder.” She used phrases like “fatal incident” and “unattended scene.” I waited for the euphemisms to stop hemorrhaging before asking for the address.

As I dressed, I noted the faint smell of cleaner—eucalyptus, something green. I hadn’t realized I’d mopped the floor again. Third time this week. Ritual is a hell of a drug.

By 3:42, I stood before a door I’d kicked open once before.

The apartment was on the fifth floor of an aging walk-up, the kind that still pretended a rusted fire escape counted as a second exit. Windows bolted shut. No cameras in the hallway. I noted that as soon as I stepped inside—details first, grief later.

The lock wasn’t forced. The lights were off. A record player sat still, needle left scratching at the silence like a broken breath. The air held the static tension of something unfinished.

“Alejandro,” I said his name aloud—not out of hope, but principle. The dead deserve to be addressed. Especially when they are not where they’re supposed to be.

I found him in the kitchen, though “found” suggests an element of discovery. This was not that. This was... confirmation.

Alejandro Rivera. Asset. Informant. Friend.

His body lay slumped at the table, one hand outstretched toward a glass of water—untouched. His eyes were open. There was no blood. No sign of struggle. No signs of natural death either. In truth, the scene had been curated. A performance. Someone wanted this to look peaceful.

But I know better than to believe in peace.

I crouched beside him and placed two fingers on his wrist. Still warm. No pulse. A faint chemical sting in the air, sharp enough to raise the hairs on my neck.

“Poison,” I murmured. Not the romantic kind. This wasn’t a lover’s mercy. This was calculated.

I rose slowly, jaw tight, scanning the room again. Something was wrong. Too clean. The coffee cup in the sink was rinsed. The burner was cold. No dishes from dinner. Alejandro lived alone and cooked like a chemist—meticulous and messy. This wasn’t his order. It was someone else’s.

A note sat folded near the window.

No envelope. Just a single word in block print:

NEXUM.

It wasn’t addressed to anyone, but I felt its target like a gut punch.

Not his handwriting.

I folded the note once, slid it into my coat pocket.

“this wasn’t about Alejandro.” I said aloud, though no one was there to hear it,

It was about what he knew.

And, more importantly—who knew he’d told me.

I stood still for a moment longer. Let the silence settle. Let the smell of sterilized betrayal cling to my coat.

I should’ve left.

Should’ve called it in, gone through proper channels, feigned ignorance and professional distance. But I was never good at pretending not to care about the people I outlived.

Instead, I scanned the room again—this time with intention. I wasn’t looking for evidence. I was looking for something he didn’t want anyone else to find.

His taste in decor leaned toward spartan. Clean lines, muted palette, a single plant he kept forgetting to water. But he was also a creature of contradiction. And paranoia. He once told me, “The best hiding places are boring. People don’t notice boring things.”

So I opened the junk drawer.

Inside: one half-dead flashlight, two expired metro cards, a cracked phone case, and—beneath a curled corner of receipt paper—a single business card.

Matte black. Unmarked front. But on the back, embossed in raised gold:

*NEXUM | Procurement. Containment. Continuity.

No names. Just coordinates. Uptown. Overlooking the park.*

Too sterile for a "club." Too abstract for a "gallery." It read like a classified directive—meant to be decoded, not displayed.

My eyes narrowed.

“Subtle,” I muttered. “For criminals.”

It wasn’t a smoking gun. It wasn’t even a trail of breadcrumbs. It was a thumbprint left on a razor’s edge. But it was his thumbprint.

Alejandro didn’t leave things to chance. He left them for me.

The address on the card led me to a building that didn’t ask questions. Pre-war, limestone façade, too well-preserved to be innocent. The kind of place that cost too much to renovate and even more to ignore.

Security was invisible—but not absent. Subtle camera placements, pressure sensors under the doormat, and a doorman who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but also probably knew five ways to kill me with a shoehorn.

I adjusted my cuffs. Rang the bell.

A pause.

Then a soft click. The door opened half an inch—unlocked. That was the first test.

I let myself in.

The vestibule was all curated restraint. Ambient lighting. A glass sculpture shaped like a question mark or a flame—depending on your guilt. Every surface gleamed like it had never been touched. The silence was too clean.

A woman appeared from nowhere. Pale silk blouse, high collar, lips red enough to stain reputations. She moved like she floated.

“Mr. Reyes,” she said, without asking. “We’ve been expecting you.”

That didn’t bode well.

“I wasn’t aware I had RSVP’d,” I replied smoothly.

“Most of our guests don’t,” she said, unbothered. “But you always come when called.”

My jaw ticked. Just once.

She gestured down the hall. “If you’ll follow me, the evening is about to begin.”

I walked. Silently. Counted the exits. Noted the weight of the quiet behind each door we passed. This was no gallery. This was a proving ground wrapped in velvet.

The hallway opened into a grand room—modern opulence dressed in antique taste. Crystal overhead, Persian rugs beneath, and art displayed like trophies. Not for admiration—for leverage. A mix of mutant relics, stolen antiquities, and allegedly “anonymous” tech patents.

NEXUM.

Not a name. A contract.

They didn’t steal what you had—they brokered who you were.

Bound you in silence, signed in shadow, executed in blood.

I took a drink offered by another ghost in white gloves. I didn’t sip it.

From across the room, I spotted the real target: a man in charcoal wool and careless confidence. Reclining. Watching me like he’d read ahead in the script. I knew his face.

DeSantos.

Alejandro once called him "the curator of inconvenient truths." I offered no nod, no sign I’d seen him. I wasn’t ready to be seen.

“With respect,” I murmured to myself, “I will need a damn good reason not to burn this place to the ground.”

One hand in my coat pocket, brushing the folded note.

The other hand empty—for now.

And then the auction bell rang.

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Jaybles thoughts:

Left it open so you can choose what you are.

(Yes it's way shorter than Jessica Crowe, I realize nobody wants to read that much lol)

┐( ́∀`)┌

Marvel Orbiter.

Ps:

I usually do insert intro bots. I'm recently writing introductions. Maybe it's confidence? Maybe it's crazy? Either way. Suffer or enjoy idk there's lots more bots.

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