Portrait…Tour Guide? RPG

 Champion city hospital was arguably the most depressing place on the face of the Earth. It was where people who were on their last legs went to desperately hope that they would become well again . Where people went to only to find they would be staying here forever. Where people went to die. If they didn't want people to know that then they should be a little more secretive about the morgue. Even with all this, it didn't make it the worst. What really did it in was the boredom. There was nothing to do in the sterile white walls except letting your mind wander. Where your brain usually ended up was on what would happen to you? What would happen to the guy in the room next to yours? What would happen to everyone?

Marco's mind wasn't on any of those as he laid back in the hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown and pajama bottoms, that had served him for a month or more. He didn't really want to know how long he'd been in the bed, it would just be too depressing. Right. Like everything else was fine and dandy. Marco let his head drop on the soft pillow awaiting him and his mind go back to Erica. A girl who was probably one of the few things in his convoluted life he actually looked forward to.  She was in a hospital too and it was his fault. She'd been taken over by some weird worms a while back. Somehow she found him in Boston and tried to consume him. He fought back and using the ball and chain he fought them out of her. Then she didn't wake up. Marco swore he tried everything to wake her up, but she didn't even move. She was breathing, but she wouldn't wake. So he did the only thing he could do and called the ambulance. He'd rode with her, watching her still body and feeling the doubt in the back of his head grow larger every minute. At the hospital the doctor said she was in a coma. Marco had asked repeatedly how long Erica would be like this to every doctor and nurse at least twice. The people that were supposed to be professionals, that were supposed to know, said the same thing every single time. "I don't know". How could they not know?! They'd seen this a hundred times before! He'd started to talk to them, meaning he yelled at them and spoke so fast they couldn't catch a word, about how they must at least have an average or a median or something until they asked him to leave. Marco left the hospital and found a bench to sit on and did something that he hadn't done since he was eight. He cried until he fell asleep in the cold night air of Boston.

That happened a few weeks before Marco went to the hospital too. Not the same one though. He'd needed more advanced treatment that very few places offered. Champion City Hospital was one of them. Nothing really happened except for friends and Doctor Galipeau that came in occasionally to talk to him. All Marco did most of the time was think about his life. An idea that was good in theory, but terrible in reality. He stared up at the dull ceiling hoping for something, anything, to take his mind off everything wrong in his life.

A faint fluttering sound broke Marco's long stare at the wall, quickly rotating his head to the noise. Before his curious eyes that shined with curiosity, was a peacock perched on the windowsill and looking at him with one wide eye.  He kept staring at the bird as it stared unflinchingly back at him. It might have been a trick of the light coming from the open window, but he swore it looked like the peacock was repeatedly changing its colors and not in a synchronized way. Each feather seemed to be flashing a different color each time. Marco was so entranced by it that he almost didn't notice the the white slip of paper it carried in its beak. The birds enormous pupil swiveled down to the paper then jerked back up to Marco and shrunk down to the size of an ink dot. After a brief pause the peacock let the paper out of it's grasp. The slip of very thin and flimsy tree bark floated slowly down to the ground, swaying back and fourth until halted. The multicolored peacock slowly turned  around folding its magnificent tail feathers in to fit them through the window. With Marco could tell what it was about to do, but peacocks couldn't fly... Right? This theory was soon proven wrong as the bird flashed various bright and intense colors then hopped off the ledge,  spreading it's wings to catch an updraft near the building.  It soared through the air , surprisingly, faster than even most birds of prey let alone one that wasn't supposed to fly at all.

Marco pulled the sheets back and crept out of the warm comforting embrace of his bed. His lean body felt sore from being in the bed so long. Aches on the verge of being painful. Never the less he made his way to the window were he was greeted by a chilly blast of mourning air. Annoyed Marco shut the window then focused on the piece of paper laying by his feet. He bent over to pick the parchment up and immediately felt twenty years older. He was REALLY sore. It almost felt like his spine was a ruler. Sure you could bend it, but it didn't mean you were supposed to. Marco managed to pick up the paper and relieve his back of some extreme bending. He flipped it over and found there was a note written in beautiful cursive. It had a hand painted on in an Art Nouveau style. Marco's eyes curiously danced over the content.

"Paint is a world where anything can happen. Whatever you wish. Really. An idea can be made whole with color and canvas and mistakes can be easily rewritten".



Marco read the last part over again. "Mistakes can easily be rewritten"? It was a nice note, but he really didn't get the point to it. He had nothing to paint with, or on. Still Marco kept looking at the note as if there were some sort of brain buzzing puzzle to it. He looked away from the letters to the hand. He looked at the impressionistic style of art used with it. Could that be a clue?... Wait. Marco's heart skipped a beat in surprise. It had been Art nouvea before! Without warning the hand reached out and entered the 3 dimensional world known as reality and grabbed Marco by the hospital gown. He only had a second to gawk at the choppy textured arm before it yanked him into the paper. The feeling that came over Marco was what he imagined it must feel like to be a piece of toilet paper flushed down the toilet. First Marco's head disappeared, then his body, until finally his legs were sucked into the whiteness.

Marco was only there for a moment, staring at nothing but a world of white. Abruptly the world gained color. The gray of the pavement awaiting his face was of particular notice. He hit the ground with a large *THUMP*. "Um, ouch" he groaned before picking his upper body up off the hard concrete. What he saw was so weird he almost thought he was dreaming. "Oz? Portrait? Random dude? Wasgoinon"? He exclaimed in utter confusion and exhaustion. This was definitely going to be an adventure.

Marco? Marco Smith was here? And he was wearing his patients gown too! This was great, just great. This kid, his teammate and friend, had just been shot in the head and had been sitting in a hospital bed for weeks, he was just about to get out too and now he had been teleported to the painted world just like Oz had been. He had enough worries having to find his brother and take care of him, but he'd have to take care of two teenagers now! Marco was pushed onto the bus and took a seat with Ozzy. "I don't know what is going on, but I'm going to find out." the hero listened in on what Portrait was saying, a tour of the painted world? He'd read a little bit up on it before, but he sure as hell didn't sign up for a tour. He looked back at his friend shaking his head, "My brother is in the painted world somewhere, we have to find him...and I'm not letting you out of my sight."

 "Firstly, a demonstration of the safety muzzle and straightjacket." As Portrait spoke a straight jacket and muzzle appeared in midair, attaching itself to a man..that man was Nerx. Great! One of the most dangerous monsters on this earth was on the same tour bus as the two, this wasn't going to end well. "Don't light any matches, cigarettes, firecrackers, etc while in the Painted World. Don't touch anything that looks like it can hurt you, because it can." Craig, Oz's younger brother, was stranded in the painted world where painting's could come to life and kill him, spectacular, Oz had confidence that his brother could hold his own, at least for a time being, but he needed to find him soon. Hopefully that blue chameleon would find him fast if Oz didn't, knowing his brother, he was probably in some sort of trouble already.

Oz raised his hand but the passengers started to stand up, blocking his view. He looked out the window, an expression of utter amazement on his face. They were at the 
Persistance of Memory created by the famous artist Salvator Dali. They were actually IN the painting. Oz had seen a lot of strange things, in his costumed career, but nothing like this. This was magic at its finest and even though he HATED magic he had to admit this was amazing, gorgeous and frightening all at the same time.

The passengers began to file out and Oz did the same, making sure Marco wasn't far behind. As they stepped out of the bus he headed straight for Portrait. She was pretty cute for a notorious supervillain, he had to admit. He could almost feel the anger emanating off of her that she hid behind her fake smile. He held back a laugh for her silly, yet professional tour guide uniform. "Excuse me, Portrait? But I have a question...why us? I never signed up for this, is this some sort of super villain plan of yours?" That was the only thing he could possibly think of it to be, but something told him that it wasn't that. That him and all the passengers were just stuck in the crossfires of something much bigger.

 "You're on a tour of the Painted World. Please get onto the bus, we'll get moving shortly." Painted World? If Marco remembered correctly there wasn't a state called the Painted World on that geography test he'd flunked out of. It did explain the note though. He could see why it used paint as an analogy. Although it didn't explain what the letter actually meant.  "Paint is a world where anything can happen. Whatever you wish. Really. An idea can be made whole with color and canvas and mistakes can be easily rewritten". There had to be some sort of meaning to it that concerned him. Marco thought for a moment only to be stopped by a massive headache. He'd hit his skull on the ground pretty hard. Using his hands he pushed off to get himself steadily onto his feet. When he looked up he thought the bus was gently swaying back and forth. It didn't take long for the teen to realize he was actually on wobbly knees. Before he could even correct his sway he felt people start to push behind him, forcing Marco to stumble forward. He blindly reached out for something to stop his forward movement. A cold hard, metal cylinder entered his hand ,and he tightly grasped it, breaking his fall. It didn't take long for the crowd to catch up and rudely push him again. Well he was on the bus now.

Marco thought he was going to be pushed all the way to the back by what sounded like a whole herd of impatient people behind him. Surprisingly, he didn't get pushed abruptly again. Something was guiding him through the isle and helping him keep his balance. The confusion of everything kept him from looking up to see what was doing it. Marco felt the something soft move underneath him and he automatically sat down in what he though was a seat. It was a seat right? If it wasn't a seat then he didn't want to know what he was sitting on. He looked next to him to see Ozzy Winters sitting beside him. That made sense. Oz was a friend, and sort of like the brother he never had. With most of the confusion gone Marco noticed the painful throbbing in his skull. He bent down in his seat and tried to ignore everything happening around him. Oz said something to him, but he couldn't listen.  There was more happening which may have been interesting to listen to, but right then all it did was make Marco's head hurt worse. Something about Muzzles and firecrackers, and the quirky feminine voice made him think it was Portrait telling them this. She was an odd person. Last time he'd met her she was poisoning him then giving him the antidote. She was cute though. Until he'd met Erica. As soon as the image of the modestly dressed girl with a violin entered his mind the headache hit him full force. He was glad for that.

The bus jerked as it came to a halt. Marco hadn't been listening so he wasn't sure where. Once again he followed Ozzie's lead, out of the bus, and into a world of wonky clocks. No seriously. Now he knew why they called it the painted world. He realized his head wasn't hurting as bad anymore. Maybe the fresh air was helping, then again this was like that painting so maybe he was breathing paint. That didn't sound very healthy, but he wasn't suffocating from lack of oxygen so either way it was fine with him. After taking in  the landscape Marco noticed Oz was walking over to Portrait. He also noticed she was wearing a uniform. He couldn't help, but quietly snicker at how she was barely holding in her anger over being reduced to a tour guide, and not being able to throw daggers at peoples necks. Unlike Marco, who was still trying to fighting to hold from laughing, Ozzy started asking relevant questions. "Excuse me, Portrait? But I have a question...why us? I never signed up for this, is this some sort of super villain plan of yours?" Marco stopped snickering as the question computed. He was wondering that too. Marco moved up closer to the two of them. "Yeah, and what does  "Paint is a world where anything can happen. Whatever you wish. Really. An idea can be made whole with color and canvas and mistakes can be easily rewritten"  mean? I got a note that said that, and it brought me here".