Misericorde glanced down at his partially exposed frame, coiled and ready for combat. At least he'd retained enough sense to tuck that sheet in.
Scythian eyes widened in response briefly as he took a step backward. "Oh, don't be that way, darling," she pouted. Slowly, she uncoiled herself, languidly poised on hands and knees upon the gurney. "You're already dressed for the kind of tete a tete I'm contemplating..." She waggled her hips suggestively.
"Is that so?" Misericorde answered, sweet and heavy. "Then allow me to put on some music!" His balled fist, previously held in front of him with it's partner, swung behind him in a swift arc, smashing the intrusion alarm button and its housing with one strike. Detecting trouble, the alarm system began it's automated alert throughout the building. If she was so interested in recreating that night, he was happy to oblige her.
With a sly, slow wink, Scythian leaned back onto her haunches, one hand steadying herself upon the gurney, as that damned spirit blade spun itself into existence. "Such a clever doll. To tease me so."
The sirens sang their song of warning; the lights flickered and dimmed as power was rerouted to containment systems and perimeter security devices.
Misericorde coiled lightly, poised upon the balls of his feet. Disoriented and unclothed as he was, he considered himself more than a match for her. He uncoiled without warning and sprung forward, claws locking into place crisply as he leapt at her, his taut body straight as an arrow, aimed at her heart.
Hello Misericorde...I've Missed You
Moderator: Student Council
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Scythian had the very moment she had been waiting for at her fingertips, now all she needed was to reach out and take it. The blade vanished from her hands as she righted herself onto her feet, opened her arms wide, and accepted the full contact blow from a charging Misericorde. As the blades sunk deep into her dry, unmoving, chest she swung her arms around him and fell backwards to the floor in a strange sort of trust fall hug. Within a moment the two lay entwined on the hard concrete floor. Scythian lay flat on her back, her arms hugging Misericorde in a powerful vise, leaving him pinned on top of her; his claws locked in her body, unable to back up to strike again.
Their faces were only a mere inch apart. He snarled and tried to pull away, twisting in an effort to loosen her grip. The claws, however, were well designed for this and held fast. He was off balance and couldn't get the purchase he needed to hoist himself up, with or without her.
"My poor boy," she purred in his ear, "do you still not see? I am but the messenger....if it was your death I desired, I would have it. The Church of the Immaculata was only the beginning."
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
Their faces were only a mere inch apart. He snarled and tried to pull away, twisting in an effort to loosen her grip. The claws, however, were well designed for this and held fast. He was off balance and couldn't get the purchase he needed to hoist himself up, with or without her.
"My poor boy," she purred in his ear, "do you still not see? I am but the messenger....if it was your death I desired, I would have it. The Church of the Immaculata was only the beginning."
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
"Who watches the watchmen?" His eyes narrowed, as he assessed the number of working positions from this angle. He tried vainly to lift and twist himself away, but he managed only to grind himself against her, soliciting a laugh.
He opted for the direct approach.
"What are you talking about, demon? Where is Minerva!" He hissed. Scythians completely blank look was not what he had been expecting.
"Who, is Minerva?" The demon-girl looked completely confused. What was going on, here? If she didn't have Minerva, then...why were they fighting? Aside from the fact that she was a serial murderer...but had any of them deserved mercy? Misericorde had no love for Father Marshall...or any of the others she had slain. So...what was her game?
A moment passed, as each stared at the other uncertainly. With a dry sound, his claws retracted from her torso, and into his hands. He bit his lip, then spoke. "Let me up."
She laughed, but loosened that grip upon him for a moment "What, are you uncomfortable? I'll let you up, but first," She suddenly drew him tight against her again, her lips pressed to his ear. "You must swear to me that you will not attack. I am here to parley.....vous."
A quiet sigh in answer. "I offer you truce...for now. And...leave the ME unmolested, ok?" He felt her lips against his cheek curl into a smile, as she released him. "Why, Misericorde," she said..."why would I molest an old man when I have you!"
He sat back on his haunches, rearringing the sheet to cover himself, as she pouted, stretching out upon the floor on her stomach. Propped on her elbows, she cups her face in her hands, kicking her feet lazily in the air.
"Talk, Scythian. What do you want?"
He opted for the direct approach.
"What are you talking about, demon? Where is Minerva!" He hissed. Scythians completely blank look was not what he had been expecting.
"Who, is Minerva?" The demon-girl looked completely confused. What was going on, here? If she didn't have Minerva, then...why were they fighting? Aside from the fact that she was a serial murderer...but had any of them deserved mercy? Misericorde had no love for Father Marshall...or any of the others she had slain. So...what was her game?
A moment passed, as each stared at the other uncertainly. With a dry sound, his claws retracted from her torso, and into his hands. He bit his lip, then spoke. "Let me up."
She laughed, but loosened that grip upon him for a moment "What, are you uncomfortable? I'll let you up, but first," She suddenly drew him tight against her again, her lips pressed to his ear. "You must swear to me that you will not attack. I am here to parley.....vous."
A quiet sigh in answer. "I offer you truce...for now. And...leave the ME unmolested, ok?" He felt her lips against his cheek curl into a smile, as she released him. "Why, Misericorde," she said..."why would I molest an old man when I have you!"
He sat back on his haunches, rearringing the sheet to cover himself, as she pouted, stretching out upon the floor on her stomach. Propped on her elbows, she cups her face in her hands, kicking her feet lazily in the air.
"Talk, Scythian. What do you want?"
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
"That's always been such a strange question." Scythian's voice nearly rose into a petualnt whine, "Mankind seeks the esoteric and plunges all depths of the supernatural and spiritual in eternal search of answers he cannot seem to find....and then when he gets close enough...his very first remark is to query the great unknown with something as asinine and simplistic as, 'What do you want'?"
"What does anything want, my dear boy? Does it matter?..I think perhaps the better question isn't 'what', little one, but more like 'when'."
Scythian shifted from lying on the floor to a seated position, cocking her head to look up at Misericorde.
"Why is it that man spends his life searching for purpose and yet all he does is done to deny purpose? I have a purpose. Do you truly think that I first met you in a dark basement attended by a failed priest in a pathetic ritual, both long lost to time and decay?"
She slid, almost serpentine, up to her feet and moved next to Misericorde. She playfully picked at the top of the sheet causing him to start slightly and latch onto it.
"It is not I who saw you first, Misericorde, a pity really, but it is I who battles with the other who did." She leaned into his ear, "You're mine," her voice became a dry hiss, "And all the world will soon know this."
"What does anything want, my dear boy? Does it matter?..I think perhaps the better question isn't 'what', little one, but more like 'when'."
Scythian shifted from lying on the floor to a seated position, cocking her head to look up at Misericorde.
"Why is it that man spends his life searching for purpose and yet all he does is done to deny purpose? I have a purpose. Do you truly think that I first met you in a dark basement attended by a failed priest in a pathetic ritual, both long lost to time and decay?"
She slid, almost serpentine, up to her feet and moved next to Misericorde. She playfully picked at the top of the sheet causing him to start slightly and latch onto it.
"It is not I who saw you first, Misericorde, a pity really, but it is I who battles with the other who did." She leaned into his ear, "You're mine," her voice became a dry hiss, "And all the world will soon know this."
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Misericorde released his deathgrip on the sheet, and lightly pushed Scythian away with two fingers, giving her pause, and a pout. He considered attempting to decapitate her on the spot, but there were answers to be had.
He slowly rose to his feet with a sigh, imagining that most of the assault teams would be in place soon. Did they know he wasn't the threat? Misericorde imagined PPD Power Armor Units were moving into place by now.
"What is that supposed to mean? Telepathy isn't one of my tricks, Scythian." he teased. "Put away the crystal ball and cut the crap. What is it you expect me to do, when do you expect me to do it, and why is it so important?" She open her mouth to continue, but he presses onward, taking a step towards her as he stabs a finger at her chest.
"You know what? Forget it. I'm not interested. No games, because I'm not playing any more. Tell it to me straight, or stay away from me and mine."
He takes another step closer, and the sheet uncoils slowly from his waist. Continuing his stride, backing her up against the counter.
"I'm telling you, the boy you wanted is dead and gone, demon. I have a purpose..." Misericorde pauses, looking her up and down. "...but I do not have patience."
He slowly rose to his feet with a sigh, imagining that most of the assault teams would be in place soon. Did they know he wasn't the threat? Misericorde imagined PPD Power Armor Units were moving into place by now.
"What is that supposed to mean? Telepathy isn't one of my tricks, Scythian." he teased. "Put away the crystal ball and cut the crap. What is it you expect me to do, when do you expect me to do it, and why is it so important?" She open her mouth to continue, but he presses onward, taking a step towards her as he stabs a finger at her chest.
"You know what? Forget it. I'm not interested. No games, because I'm not playing any more. Tell it to me straight, or stay away from me and mine."
He takes another step closer, and the sheet uncoils slowly from his waist. Continuing his stride, backing her up against the counter.
"I'm telling you, the boy you wanted is dead and gone, demon. I have a purpose..." Misericorde pauses, looking her up and down. "...but I do not have patience."
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
Her mouth curled into a smile as Misericorde glowered over her. She was pleased that he had grown so tall. She leaned forward away from the counter and pressed against him. There was a brief, uncomfortable expression in his eyes as she wound her fingers down his sides and rested her hands on the small of his back.
“I think that I shall impart my gift to you now then, little one, before passion swells with savage wrath.”
The move was sudden and violent. Her arms shot up and latched onto his throat, not choking him but instead, she twisted her body, spun him around, and locked him into a kneeling headlock.
“It is not your loins I want today boy…but your eyes.” She hissed. “Cineri gloria sera est ((Mourning for ashes has come too late.)).”
Misericorde felt Scythian become incorporeal, a power he had seen several times now but never felt. He struggled against her strength but soon came to realize that he too had become incorporeal in her grip. He looked up, the door to the morgue exploded in a shower of metal and plastic as the first Power Suits of the Paragon City Police Department stormed the room. There was now smoke everywhere, the newest version of tear gas most likely. But Misericorde knew it was already too late. The Police Officers could not see them and would not know where they stood.
Scythian shifted and the sound of cartilage creaking together and bones popping resounded in his ears. The room was nothing but smoke now, and all he could see was indiscriminate grey. There were no sounds, they had quickly faded away, and now, he could no longer see the lights mounted atop the power armor suits. It was as though the room and the men had simply ceased to exist. He struggled again and this time she released him, causing him to slip slightly on something on the floor, but he managed to turn and lock his claws into place.
Scythian only stood, silent and tall. Her cloudy eyes glittered with unholy light as she spoke again, “Et sceleratis sol oritur, dear one..the sun shines even upon the wicked.” She motioned to the dim grey amorphousness behind him. “Go, look for yourself, what the world has in store for you….without me to watch over you.”
“I think that I shall impart my gift to you now then, little one, before passion swells with savage wrath.”
The move was sudden and violent. Her arms shot up and latched onto his throat, not choking him but instead, she twisted her body, spun him around, and locked him into a kneeling headlock.
“It is not your loins I want today boy…but your eyes.” She hissed. “Cineri gloria sera est ((Mourning for ashes has come too late.)).”
Misericorde felt Scythian become incorporeal, a power he had seen several times now but never felt. He struggled against her strength but soon came to realize that he too had become incorporeal in her grip. He looked up, the door to the morgue exploded in a shower of metal and plastic as the first Power Suits of the Paragon City Police Department stormed the room. There was now smoke everywhere, the newest version of tear gas most likely. But Misericorde knew it was already too late. The Police Officers could not see them and would not know where they stood.
Scythian shifted and the sound of cartilage creaking together and bones popping resounded in his ears. The room was nothing but smoke now, and all he could see was indiscriminate grey. There were no sounds, they had quickly faded away, and now, he could no longer see the lights mounted atop the power armor suits. It was as though the room and the men had simply ceased to exist. He struggled again and this time she released him, causing him to slip slightly on something on the floor, but he managed to turn and lock his claws into place.
Scythian only stood, silent and tall. Her cloudy eyes glittered with unholy light as she spoke again, “Et sceleratis sol oritur, dear one..the sun shines even upon the wicked.” She motioned to the dim grey amorphousness behind him. “Go, look for yourself, what the world has in store for you….without me to watch over you.”
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Misericorde spun and lunged at her, but she had already vanished into the mists that surrounded them. He had to asume this was a trap of some sort; he'd learned long ago never to accept gifts at face value. Striking blindly would accomplish nothing.
He was rendered near-blind, in the cloying vapors that slunk through the air. He navigated through the fog as well as he was able; his head thick, senses dulled, whether by dark magics or narcotic, he could not know. The mists lapped at his body, clinging to him, before moving on.
Misericorde stopped; frozen in place. Seven children in the ever-familiar red hoods had surrounded him in the fog. Silent, unmoving, uncaring. He reached out to them, retrieved his hand quickly; they were as immaterial as the fog.
A vision, perhaps? More lies?
One by one, each removed their hood; martinettes in turn, revealing a face strikingly familiar to his own, but female. Misericorde turned silently to regard them. Each was identical to the last. He heard the familiar sharp sound of seven sets of claws locking into place in unison, and seven children leapt at him to strike...
...there was a feeling of moving on, and he was no longer in the place he had been.
When he opened his eyes, the children were gone. Minerva stood before him, out of uniform. Her red and white Longbow uniform replaced with his own colors of green and black. Crossbow at her hip, and long, slender knife at her side. She reached for him, no, reached out to him with one hand, as she drew that long knife from its sheath with the other, holding it behind her back...and then he was moving on...
It took him a moment to recognize himself among the troubled tendrils of vapor. Crouched and cradling someone in his arms. This time, it wasn't her, but someone else. He tried to maneuver to see who it was, but the mists made him sluggish; his limbs filled with lead, tongue thick and swollen. The "other" Misericorde bowed his head and cried, as he had once before. He reached out to himself, but he was moving on...
..and Scythian stood before him now, arms folded across her chest. Was that...pity crawling across her face, quickly replaced by a stoic mask of apathy?
"Enough," he said flatly. "What is your purpose, demon?" His eyes narrow, as he crosses his arms across his chest. "Are you saying...you're here to protect me?"
He was rendered near-blind, in the cloying vapors that slunk through the air. He navigated through the fog as well as he was able; his head thick, senses dulled, whether by dark magics or narcotic, he could not know. The mists lapped at his body, clinging to him, before moving on.
Misericorde stopped; frozen in place. Seven children in the ever-familiar red hoods had surrounded him in the fog. Silent, unmoving, uncaring. He reached out to them, retrieved his hand quickly; they were as immaterial as the fog.
A vision, perhaps? More lies?
One by one, each removed their hood; martinettes in turn, revealing a face strikingly familiar to his own, but female. Misericorde turned silently to regard them. Each was identical to the last. He heard the familiar sharp sound of seven sets of claws locking into place in unison, and seven children leapt at him to strike...
...there was a feeling of moving on, and he was no longer in the place he had been.
When he opened his eyes, the children were gone. Minerva stood before him, out of uniform. Her red and white Longbow uniform replaced with his own colors of green and black. Crossbow at her hip, and long, slender knife at her side. She reached for him, no, reached out to him with one hand, as she drew that long knife from its sheath with the other, holding it behind her back...and then he was moving on...
It took him a moment to recognize himself among the troubled tendrils of vapor. Crouched and cradling someone in his arms. This time, it wasn't her, but someone else. He tried to maneuver to see who it was, but the mists made him sluggish; his limbs filled with lead, tongue thick and swollen. The "other" Misericorde bowed his head and cried, as he had once before. He reached out to himself, but he was moving on...
..and Scythian stood before him now, arms folded across her chest. Was that...pity crawling across her face, quickly replaced by a stoic mask of apathy?
"Enough," he said flatly. "What is your purpose, demon?" His eyes narrow, as he crosses his arms across his chest. "Are you saying...you're here to protect me?"
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
The remains of Ava Paroulis gracefully arranged herself on the ground, sitting upright her knees hugged against her chest.
"Protect you, dear boy? Why of course I will. It would be such a shame to allow one such as you to be taken away so soon. I have better plans my little calico cat."
"Calico cat?" Misericorde knew better than to ignore any odd references made by the infernal. Meaning was hidden in every word, a clue in each utterance. "Why can't any of you be direct...ever?" He hissed in irritation.
"Because darling," her voice dropped, "Others are always listening."
She smiled and stood, a languid gesture at best, almost lazy.
"The Gingham dog and the Calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch Clock and the Chinese Plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I wasn't there; I simply state, What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)."
Here she began to giggle almost insanely, the gestures and poses she made in correlation to the words almost made the recitation like some odd diabolical performance. Misericorde gave considerable thought to sending his claws through her throat but the nagging feeling this was going somewhere got the better of him.
"The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch Clock in the chimney place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!"
With that she trailed off...
"Yes, a family row isn't it." Her voice became quiet, almost sad.
Her eyes snapped back up to Misericorde's face with an almost predatory glare.
"You want more?" She smiled again. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to earn it, little one."
_____________________________________________________________
The stanza excerpts used herein are from a poem called "The Duel" By Eugene Fields.
"Protect you, dear boy? Why of course I will. It would be such a shame to allow one such as you to be taken away so soon. I have better plans my little calico cat."
"Calico cat?" Misericorde knew better than to ignore any odd references made by the infernal. Meaning was hidden in every word, a clue in each utterance. "Why can't any of you be direct...ever?" He hissed in irritation.
"Because darling," her voice dropped, "Others are always listening."
She smiled and stood, a languid gesture at best, almost lazy.
"The Gingham dog and the Calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch Clock and the Chinese Plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I wasn't there; I simply state, What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)."
Here she began to giggle almost insanely, the gestures and poses she made in correlation to the words almost made the recitation like some odd diabolical performance. Misericorde gave considerable thought to sending his claws through her throat but the nagging feeling this was going somewhere got the better of him.
"The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch Clock in the chimney place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!"
With that she trailed off...
"Yes, a family row isn't it." Her voice became quiet, almost sad.
Her eyes snapped back up to Misericorde's face with an almost predatory glare.
"You want more?" She smiled again. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to earn it, little one."
_____________________________________________________________
The stanza excerpts used herein are from a poem called "The Duel" By Eugene Fields.
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
"Great, now it's story time. I forget how much of your demonic heirarchy is dependent on fear," he retorted.
Misericorde still couldn't exactly place what it was that Scythian wanted out of him. Obviously her sometimes sexually charged advances were designed to keep him off-guard, as were the ambushes and this oracular mist thing she had going on.
It was as though she were trying to warn him of some impending danger, which didn't make much sense. Still, demons had rules to play by, so there was another manipulator behind the scenes, one who threatened her own plans enough that she felt obligated to reveal herself to him.
Misericorde could then reasonably assume that she was not a threat to him, per se; she had simply eliminated the others to remove any information this other player could have used against her. Of course, once this other player no longer interfered with her plans for him, he would have to remain on his guard.
If this other villain was the type to give Scythian pause, he'd do best to gather what intelligence he could before things got out of hand. Time to play along, for now. What the hell did she mean by family row, anyway?
"Alright, so spill it, Mother Goose, or you'll be picking more than stuffing up off the floor."
Misericorde still couldn't exactly place what it was that Scythian wanted out of him. Obviously her sometimes sexually charged advances were designed to keep him off-guard, as were the ambushes and this oracular mist thing she had going on.
It was as though she were trying to warn him of some impending danger, which didn't make much sense. Still, demons had rules to play by, so there was another manipulator behind the scenes, one who threatened her own plans enough that she felt obligated to reveal herself to him.
Misericorde could then reasonably assume that she was not a threat to him, per se; she had simply eliminated the others to remove any information this other player could have used against her. Of course, once this other player no longer interfered with her plans for him, he would have to remain on his guard.
If this other villain was the type to give Scythian pause, he'd do best to gather what intelligence he could before things got out of hand. Time to play along, for now. What the hell did she mean by family row, anyway?
"Alright, so spill it, Mother Goose, or you'll be picking more than stuffing up off the floor."
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
Scythian tilted her head slightly and gave Misericorde a cold smile.
“How sweet of you.” Her dead eyes sparkled with diabolical mischief. “But I’m afraid the gingham dog is far too close for that now, little one, and I have far too little time with you.”
Misericorde was about to roll his eyes when he saw something that struck him as odd. There was a pair of stark, white lights, spaced evenly apart about four feet above Scythian’s head, where just moments ago, there was only grey fog. The lights moved back and forth in a sweeping motion and Misericorde suddenly realized something that caused his blood to freeze. They could only be the search lights mounted on the shoulders of one of Paragon City’s finest Armored Police Units.
He did not know when things had changed or when they had come back to the morgue but it seemed as though they had never left. Maybe they hadn’t. Scythian sprung into action. To his horror he saw her reach into the fog and mist near their feet and her hands produced none other than the unconscious ME. He tried to stop her... he truly did. But it was over before he could reach her dead form with his claws. The blood that once again spattered across his body was hot and slick and where he made full contact with the demon, he felt more of the viscera of her hatred and malice. The two ended up locked together, sprawled across the floor, Misericorde tearing into Scythian with everything he had.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that there was more to be said, there was more she would reveal to him, but in the heat and stale humidity of the room all he could fathom was her destruction. To finally rid the world of this abomination was worth more than the answer to a possibly lethal mystery.....wasn’t it?
He suddenly felt nothing but air as something metal and warm lifted him from the floor and hauled him to his feet.
“Freeze! This is Paragon Police! Do not Resist! You are under arrest!”
He saw Scythian man-handled in much the same manner, and pulled too far away from him to see her through the choking smoke. He wanted to shout something to the units, something about the demon, but Scythian made no moves to escape the PPD or Misericorde’s angry glare. Instead, she merely smiled as they drug her away.
The two of them were promptly arrested and dragged outside of the burning building to what should inevitably be the interrogation rooms of the King’s Row Precinct, but at least now he might get some pants.
“How sweet of you.” Her dead eyes sparkled with diabolical mischief. “But I’m afraid the gingham dog is far too close for that now, little one, and I have far too little time with you.”
Misericorde was about to roll his eyes when he saw something that struck him as odd. There was a pair of stark, white lights, spaced evenly apart about four feet above Scythian’s head, where just moments ago, there was only grey fog. The lights moved back and forth in a sweeping motion and Misericorde suddenly realized something that caused his blood to freeze. They could only be the search lights mounted on the shoulders of one of Paragon City’s finest Armored Police Units.
He did not know when things had changed or when they had come back to the morgue but it seemed as though they had never left. Maybe they hadn’t. Scythian sprung into action. To his horror he saw her reach into the fog and mist near their feet and her hands produced none other than the unconscious ME. He tried to stop her... he truly did. But it was over before he could reach her dead form with his claws. The blood that once again spattered across his body was hot and slick and where he made full contact with the demon, he felt more of the viscera of her hatred and malice. The two ended up locked together, sprawled across the floor, Misericorde tearing into Scythian with everything he had.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that there was more to be said, there was more she would reveal to him, but in the heat and stale humidity of the room all he could fathom was her destruction. To finally rid the world of this abomination was worth more than the answer to a possibly lethal mystery.....wasn’t it?
He suddenly felt nothing but air as something metal and warm lifted him from the floor and hauled him to his feet.
“Freeze! This is Paragon Police! Do not Resist! You are under arrest!”
He saw Scythian man-handled in much the same manner, and pulled too far away from him to see her through the choking smoke. He wanted to shout something to the units, something about the demon, but Scythian made no moves to escape the PPD or Misericorde’s angry glare. Instead, she merely smiled as they drug her away.
The two of them were promptly arrested and dragged outside of the burning building to what should inevitably be the interrogation rooms of the King’s Row Precinct, but at least now he might get some pants.
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
Misericorde stared down at the clothes PPD had provided him with; sure, they were "Zig Orange," but they were clothes nonetheless. They didn't make him feel any less exposed, though.
He tried to scratch his nose, though his hands and forearms were encased in some heavy alloy that made lifting his arms difficult. The fact that the restraints were cabled to the floor made lifting his arms impossible. He settled for bending over and scratching his nose on the table.
The detective who sat across from him sighed heavily, and took a sip of her coffee. She sounded bored, but had all the tells of being nervous as all hell. Not surprising; until a couple months ago, he didn't exactly have a stellar reputation among law enforcement.
He looked up, the blue-green glow of the nullifier lamp gave the room a sickly color, and made him slightly nauseous. Even with the windows in the room, the place was definitely not inviting. Misericorde figured it was on purpose.
"Ok, kid, let's review."
Misericorde nodded.
"Ok, so the girl we have in custody next door is Scythian, you're Misericorde, she dropped a church on you last night, you healed yourself, she killed the M.E. to cover her tracks from four years ago. That about right?"
Misericorde spoke quietly. "Yes."
The detective reviewed her notes again, then rubbed at her eyes blearily. A uniformed officer slipped inside the interrogation room, and whispered to the detective, then left.
She licked her lips once, then spoke. "Ok, well, we're just waiting on Longbow to confirm the girl's identity. You, however seem to check out."
Misericorde nodded, looked down at his restraints, then back to her. "Yeah kid, about those...we gotta leave them on for now. Protocol says so." He sat back heavily in his chair, and the detective allowed herself to smile. "It won't be much longer, kid. Longbow said they were sending some guys from Omega branch to pick you up. I had no idea Longbow even had a Special Ops branch called Omeg..."
She paused in midsentence. Misericorde had sat up straight in his chair, and looked almost...terrified. He spoke very evenly.
"Get me out of these restraints, now."
She shook her head, "listen, kid, hero or not, we've got rules, and..."
He stood up, the chair teetering on two legs before clattering to the ground. His countenance spoke only of urgency. "Detective, Longbow does not HAVE an Omega Branch."
Almost on cue, three holes appeared in the reinforced glass of the window, mirroring the three holes that appeared in the detective's chest. She fell forward upon the table with a muffled thump.
Misericorde hooked the chair behind him with a foot and spun, sending it crashing into the nullifier lamp above with a crash, and a rain of glass. They really needed to improve procedure around here.
With a savage tug, he braced his feet upon the floor and used the stronger muscles of his legs to tear the cabled restraints from the floor. Misericorde heard the roar of turbines outside, and hit the ground hard as glass and chunks of concrete exploded inward from the direction of the windows.
He stood for a moment, coughing in the dust of the explosion. Twin heavy blue arcs of energy leapt at him through the debris from the windows, draining his energy, novas exploding behind his eyes. Even his enhanced metabolism and nanite enhanced recovery could not maintain integrity under sustained fire.
The sappers maneuvered expertly into the room with their flightpacks, swiftly laying Misericorde low upon the floor. After a few moments, he was still.
A figure stepped through the dust cloud, the red pinpoints of her vision enhancements glowing eerily in the chaos. She steps forward, grabbing Misericorde by the hair, peering into his face; she then lay his head down gently...almost tenderly.
The door to the interrogation room burst open, several Paragon SWAT team members attempting an entry into the room. Without taking her eyes from the boy's face, she appears to simply point at the SWAT, as they fall in unison, knives appearing in their poorly-armored throats.
"It's him. Let's go."
He tried to scratch his nose, though his hands and forearms were encased in some heavy alloy that made lifting his arms difficult. The fact that the restraints were cabled to the floor made lifting his arms impossible. He settled for bending over and scratching his nose on the table.
The detective who sat across from him sighed heavily, and took a sip of her coffee. She sounded bored, but had all the tells of being nervous as all hell. Not surprising; until a couple months ago, he didn't exactly have a stellar reputation among law enforcement.
He looked up, the blue-green glow of the nullifier lamp gave the room a sickly color, and made him slightly nauseous. Even with the windows in the room, the place was definitely not inviting. Misericorde figured it was on purpose.
"Ok, kid, let's review."
Misericorde nodded.
"Ok, so the girl we have in custody next door is Scythian, you're Misericorde, she dropped a church on you last night, you healed yourself, she killed the M.E. to cover her tracks from four years ago. That about right?"
Misericorde spoke quietly. "Yes."
The detective reviewed her notes again, then rubbed at her eyes blearily. A uniformed officer slipped inside the interrogation room, and whispered to the detective, then left.
She licked her lips once, then spoke. "Ok, well, we're just waiting on Longbow to confirm the girl's identity. You, however seem to check out."
Misericorde nodded, looked down at his restraints, then back to her. "Yeah kid, about those...we gotta leave them on for now. Protocol says so." He sat back heavily in his chair, and the detective allowed herself to smile. "It won't be much longer, kid. Longbow said they were sending some guys from Omega branch to pick you up. I had no idea Longbow even had a Special Ops branch called Omeg..."
She paused in midsentence. Misericorde had sat up straight in his chair, and looked almost...terrified. He spoke very evenly.
"Get me out of these restraints, now."
She shook her head, "listen, kid, hero or not, we've got rules, and..."
He stood up, the chair teetering on two legs before clattering to the ground. His countenance spoke only of urgency. "Detective, Longbow does not HAVE an Omega Branch."
Almost on cue, three holes appeared in the reinforced glass of the window, mirroring the three holes that appeared in the detective's chest. She fell forward upon the table with a muffled thump.
Misericorde hooked the chair behind him with a foot and spun, sending it crashing into the nullifier lamp above with a crash, and a rain of glass. They really needed to improve procedure around here.
With a savage tug, he braced his feet upon the floor and used the stronger muscles of his legs to tear the cabled restraints from the floor. Misericorde heard the roar of turbines outside, and hit the ground hard as glass and chunks of concrete exploded inward from the direction of the windows.
He stood for a moment, coughing in the dust of the explosion. Twin heavy blue arcs of energy leapt at him through the debris from the windows, draining his energy, novas exploding behind his eyes. Even his enhanced metabolism and nanite enhanced recovery could not maintain integrity under sustained fire.
The sappers maneuvered expertly into the room with their flightpacks, swiftly laying Misericorde low upon the floor. After a few moments, he was still.
A figure stepped through the dust cloud, the red pinpoints of her vision enhancements glowing eerily in the chaos. She steps forward, grabbing Misericorde by the hair, peering into his face; she then lay his head down gently...almost tenderly.
The door to the interrogation room burst open, several Paragon SWAT team members attempting an entry into the room. Without taking her eyes from the boy's face, she appears to simply point at the SWAT, as they fall in unison, knives appearing in their poorly-armored throats.
"It's him. Let's go."
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
In the next room sat a lone girl. The dim, flickering, over head light barely illuminated the curves, planes, and missing pieces of her face. She had been sitting in the dank recesses of the cell for hours now, with not a single whisper of movement in her lithe form. It was here that she waited, with the patience only the fury of hell can bestow.
The area outside was silent except for the occasional murmurings of officers as they flit past. No one, not even Paragon’s finest wanted to remain alone with her for any amount of time…..such a pity.
She felt the presence long before she saw it. It was first in the upper levels of the precinct and only then, made its way slowly through the office hallways, down through the booking section and finally towards the interrogation rooms.
Her smiled was vicious as it crept across her face. It was only that illuminated by the dim lights to create the visage of a hellish Cheshire cat.
“The Chinese plate looked very blue,” Her voice was low and barely above a whisper.
“And wailed, “Oh, dear! What shall we do!” slowly she began to rise to her feet.
“But the gingham dog and the calico cat,
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,” She spat the last word.
“Employing every tooth and claw,
In the awfullest way you ever saw—
And, oh! How the gingham and calico flew!”
The demon within the dearly departed shuddered and moaned as she began to sway back and forth. The infernal powers that both held dominion over her and granted her freedom boiled into activity. She felt the power within her unfurl with her anger and her body faded into mist as the hellish blade once again made its way into corporeal being. She had been waiting far too long.
The precinct building was simple to navigate as she swept unseen through the cell block and into the interrogation hallways. Her faint footfalls could not be heard by mortal men and her wrath would go unnoticed until the very end. It wasn’t long until she saw the first of them. They were at the far end of the hall, guns brandished, and already the scent of death was heavy in the air. Scythian tilted her head and deeply inhaled, a moment’s passing indulgence to relish the censer of human demise.
She stole quietly up to the first man. His eyes were already darting maniacally from side to side, hunting for the first signs of trouble. She smiled as she whispered into his ear,
“Next morning where the two had sat,” The man looked choked and frantic, for he could see nothing.
“They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole the pair away!”
The man swung around with his weapons, ready to shout warning to the others, when his voice simply stopped; his throat cut neatly by a blade that was little more than air, but so much more than salvation. He stuttered and tried to speak when he saw her face drift into his view. A single tear fell from his dead eye, and the demon let the encumbering weight fall uncaringly to the floor. The dull thump was all the other intruders needed and the group turned to face the small teenage girl clothed in rags.
“But the truth about the cat and pup,” She turned her head and lifted her chin.
“Is this: they ate each other up!” The darkness began to return, swirling around her with palpable malevolence. Her voice rose into laughter.
“Now what do you really think of THAT!”
Only a single, humming light in the center of the interrogation room, did not go out.
The area outside was silent except for the occasional murmurings of officers as they flit past. No one, not even Paragon’s finest wanted to remain alone with her for any amount of time…..such a pity.
She felt the presence long before she saw it. It was first in the upper levels of the precinct and only then, made its way slowly through the office hallways, down through the booking section and finally towards the interrogation rooms.
Her smiled was vicious as it crept across her face. It was only that illuminated by the dim lights to create the visage of a hellish Cheshire cat.
“The Chinese plate looked very blue,” Her voice was low and barely above a whisper.
“And wailed, “Oh, dear! What shall we do!” slowly she began to rise to her feet.
“But the gingham dog and the calico cat,
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,” She spat the last word.
“Employing every tooth and claw,
In the awfullest way you ever saw—
And, oh! How the gingham and calico flew!”
The demon within the dearly departed shuddered and moaned as she began to sway back and forth. The infernal powers that both held dominion over her and granted her freedom boiled into activity. She felt the power within her unfurl with her anger and her body faded into mist as the hellish blade once again made its way into corporeal being. She had been waiting far too long.
The precinct building was simple to navigate as she swept unseen through the cell block and into the interrogation hallways. Her faint footfalls could not be heard by mortal men and her wrath would go unnoticed until the very end. It wasn’t long until she saw the first of them. They were at the far end of the hall, guns brandished, and already the scent of death was heavy in the air. Scythian tilted her head and deeply inhaled, a moment’s passing indulgence to relish the censer of human demise.
She stole quietly up to the first man. His eyes were already darting maniacally from side to side, hunting for the first signs of trouble. She smiled as she whispered into his ear,
“Next morning where the two had sat,” The man looked choked and frantic, for he could see nothing.
“They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole the pair away!”
The man swung around with his weapons, ready to shout warning to the others, when his voice simply stopped; his throat cut neatly by a blade that was little more than air, but so much more than salvation. He stuttered and tried to speak when he saw her face drift into his view. A single tear fell from his dead eye, and the demon let the encumbering weight fall uncaringly to the floor. The dull thump was all the other intruders needed and the group turned to face the small teenage girl clothed in rags.
“But the truth about the cat and pup,” She turned her head and lifted her chin.
“Is this: they ate each other up!” The darkness began to return, swirling around her with palpable malevolence. Her voice rose into laughter.
“Now what do you really think of THAT!”
Only a single, humming light in the center of the interrogation room, did not go out.
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
The Hand of Artemis stood, motioning to the Sappers who stepped forward to clsoe ranks between her and the newly-arrived Scythian.
"Suppressive fire," she said quietly, as she kneeled and hoisted the motionless Misericorde over one shoulder. The sappers wasted no time, sweeping the humming blue arcs of energy from left to right across the room in the direction of the nearly-invisible Scythian.
The demon-girls dodged low, and tittered, preparing to spring at the Sappers, when the loud reports of high-calibre revolvers filled the room with the smell of gunpowder; the heavy rounds knocked her to the ground face first, as a Gunslinger advanced from the hallway behind her.
"I've got this one," he said; he sounded professional and meant business. He crunched through the glass and debris of the room as Scythian slowly rose to her feet with a dry rattle and cough, positioning himself between her and the surviving members of his team.
Even as the dust began to settle and clear from the room, it was stirred again into billowing clouds by the harsh shine of a flyer's turbines from outside the nearly obliterated outer wall of the interrogation room.
The sappers hooked one arm under each of Misericorde's, lifting his inert form and engaging their flight packs, lifting him from the ground. Scythian took a step towards them menacingly, and earned a round center mass to her torso for her trouble, knocking her back several steps.
"Last chance, girl," the Gunslinger ordered; there was no hesitation there.
The Sappers backed out of the room on their jets, disappearing from Scythian's view...with the inert Misericorde slung between them. Presumably, he was to be loaded into the flyer.
"I adore games of chance," Scythian said, and the Gunslinger readied his revolver again. She suddenly moved across the floor so quickly that the mercenary could barely track her; spinning along the outside of his firing arm as the fiendish blade she carried passing effortlessly through his torso to skewer his heart.
The girl smiled terribly as the revolver tumbled from his hand to clatter to the floor; looking up in time to see the flyer pull away from the building.
The Hand of Artemis stood framed in the doorway, and as the demon leapt towards her, she executed a perfect reverse somersault out the destroyed outer wall, and into the open air, twenty stories above the waiting concrete below.
Scythian cocked a brow in surprise, as the Merc's body went loose, and faded into invisibility within seconds even as she fell towards the ground. The demon girl heard the heavy footfalls of PPD Powered Armor Units entering the room behind her.
"Get down, now!" the team chief demanded, as the lead Armor Unit's loudspeaker crackled to life.
"As you wish," she stated to no on in particular, and leapt from the room into the darkening sky.
"Suppressive fire," she said quietly, as she kneeled and hoisted the motionless Misericorde over one shoulder. The sappers wasted no time, sweeping the humming blue arcs of energy from left to right across the room in the direction of the nearly-invisible Scythian.
The demon-girls dodged low, and tittered, preparing to spring at the Sappers, when the loud reports of high-calibre revolvers filled the room with the smell of gunpowder; the heavy rounds knocked her to the ground face first, as a Gunslinger advanced from the hallway behind her.
"I've got this one," he said; he sounded professional and meant business. He crunched through the glass and debris of the room as Scythian slowly rose to her feet with a dry rattle and cough, positioning himself between her and the surviving members of his team.
Even as the dust began to settle and clear from the room, it was stirred again into billowing clouds by the harsh shine of a flyer's turbines from outside the nearly obliterated outer wall of the interrogation room.
The sappers hooked one arm under each of Misericorde's, lifting his inert form and engaging their flight packs, lifting him from the ground. Scythian took a step towards them menacingly, and earned a round center mass to her torso for her trouble, knocking her back several steps.
"Last chance, girl," the Gunslinger ordered; there was no hesitation there.
The Sappers backed out of the room on their jets, disappearing from Scythian's view...with the inert Misericorde slung between them. Presumably, he was to be loaded into the flyer.
"I adore games of chance," Scythian said, and the Gunslinger readied his revolver again. She suddenly moved across the floor so quickly that the mercenary could barely track her; spinning along the outside of his firing arm as the fiendish blade she carried passing effortlessly through his torso to skewer his heart.
The girl smiled terribly as the revolver tumbled from his hand to clatter to the floor; looking up in time to see the flyer pull away from the building.
The Hand of Artemis stood framed in the doorway, and as the demon leapt towards her, she executed a perfect reverse somersault out the destroyed outer wall, and into the open air, twenty stories above the waiting concrete below.
Scythian cocked a brow in surprise, as the Merc's body went loose, and faded into invisibility within seconds even as she fell towards the ground. The demon girl heard the heavy footfalls of PPD Powered Armor Units entering the room behind her.
"Get down, now!" the team chief demanded, as the lead Armor Unit's loudspeaker crackled to life.
"As you wish," she stated to no on in particular, and leapt from the room into the darkening sky.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
The rushing chill of wind, the scream of turbines, and the momentary weightlessness of a devastating midair leap; Scythian threw back her head and closed her eyes, a smirk on her dry lips. The Paragon PPD Armor Units were no more than a forgotten memory, though only a brief second had passed. The cold breeze of early evening drifted past her face and buffeted her through the fall. There was no fear in the demon’s heart, only perfect trust, and a perfectly executed leap of faith.
She hit the far side of the flyer with barely an upset to the large machine, her willowy frame easily shifting to hold fast to the metal plates that already burned hot from the engines. The flesh of her right hand fused almost instantly to the hot metal and in irritation she pulled her palm from the surface. The pad of her palm remained, burned to the flat side of the flyer…another wound that would never heal. She paid it no mind.
She settled into a small niche between two large outer plates and a turbine, settled in for the ride.
----------- ------------- -------------- --------------- -------------
Scythian shifted further back into the dark planes of the flyer as it set down some 30 minutes later. She knew they had left the city limits of Paragon but she was unsure precisely where they were. She watched as several individuals came, nearly tumbling, out of the flyers main hatch, the odor of cordite still strong on the re-circulated air. Then it was Misericorde’s turn, he was carried aloft by two more in hoods and buckled shirts, followed closely on the heels was the woman. Scythian tilted her head, her eyes tracking her enemy, as the one called “The Hand of Artemis” paused for a moment on the landing pad. She seemed to be sensing something, rather than seeing it.
“Almost time, my little gingham dog, are you ready for it?” Scythian barely whispered.
Then the woman was gone, striding confidently after the others. Slowly, Scythian moved down from her perch on the flyer and alighted on the ground without a discernable sound. A string of purple and green lights barely illuminated the dark landing stretch and the faint glitter of stars could be seen just beyond the hanger doors behind her. She stretched and flexed the stiffness from her joints; the fingers of her damaged hand popping as she curled them. The blade was next to join her.
The hallway on the far side of the hanger was also dimly lit. Several lanterns, many of them broken, were placed at odd intervals down the stretch of metal and concrete. Scythian was secretly glad that the dark light and quiet surroundings did more to cover her intrusion than activity and lights ever could. Her body faded from all view.
---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -------- ---------- --
Deep in side the complex, the demon’s eyes befell a strange scene. In the center of a large room lay Misericorde, his battered form still, draped over a table surrounded by all manner of instruments and devices. Several people, hidden by dim lights and flickering shadows, rushed about examining screens and breathlessly whispering back and forth. The woman, Minerva, was leaning over Misericorde. Scythian thought she could hear her saying something, but it was too far and too soft to make out. The demon sidled in closer, her lithe form silent as it glided to the nearest wall. Her calm was deep and her fury patient.
Minerva produced from her coat something that resembled an oddly shaped hypodermic needle and without mercy or mind to pain, plunged it into Misericordes chest. He stirred.
Scythian leaned forward, dark swirls of energy beginning to drift about her as she called upon the power in the depths of her infernal soul.
“Wake up, little one….” Her voice a barely audible hiss. “It’s time to wake up.”
She hit the far side of the flyer with barely an upset to the large machine, her willowy frame easily shifting to hold fast to the metal plates that already burned hot from the engines. The flesh of her right hand fused almost instantly to the hot metal and in irritation she pulled her palm from the surface. The pad of her palm remained, burned to the flat side of the flyer…another wound that would never heal. She paid it no mind.
She settled into a small niche between two large outer plates and a turbine, settled in for the ride.
----------- ------------- -------------- --------------- -------------
Scythian shifted further back into the dark planes of the flyer as it set down some 30 minutes later. She knew they had left the city limits of Paragon but she was unsure precisely where they were. She watched as several individuals came, nearly tumbling, out of the flyers main hatch, the odor of cordite still strong on the re-circulated air. Then it was Misericorde’s turn, he was carried aloft by two more in hoods and buckled shirts, followed closely on the heels was the woman. Scythian tilted her head, her eyes tracking her enemy, as the one called “The Hand of Artemis” paused for a moment on the landing pad. She seemed to be sensing something, rather than seeing it.
“Almost time, my little gingham dog, are you ready for it?” Scythian barely whispered.
Then the woman was gone, striding confidently after the others. Slowly, Scythian moved down from her perch on the flyer and alighted on the ground without a discernable sound. A string of purple and green lights barely illuminated the dark landing stretch and the faint glitter of stars could be seen just beyond the hanger doors behind her. She stretched and flexed the stiffness from her joints; the fingers of her damaged hand popping as she curled them. The blade was next to join her.
The hallway on the far side of the hanger was also dimly lit. Several lanterns, many of them broken, were placed at odd intervals down the stretch of metal and concrete. Scythian was secretly glad that the dark light and quiet surroundings did more to cover her intrusion than activity and lights ever could. Her body faded from all view.
---------- ---------- ---------- ---------- ----------- -------- ---------- --
Deep in side the complex, the demon’s eyes befell a strange scene. In the center of a large room lay Misericorde, his battered form still, draped over a table surrounded by all manner of instruments and devices. Several people, hidden by dim lights and flickering shadows, rushed about examining screens and breathlessly whispering back and forth. The woman, Minerva, was leaning over Misericorde. Scythian thought she could hear her saying something, but it was too far and too soft to make out. The demon sidled in closer, her lithe form silent as it glided to the nearest wall. Her calm was deep and her fury patient.
Minerva produced from her coat something that resembled an oddly shaped hypodermic needle and without mercy or mind to pain, plunged it into Misericordes chest. He stirred.
Scythian leaned forward, dark swirls of energy beginning to drift about her as she called upon the power in the depths of her infernal soul.
“Wake up, little one….” Her voice a barely audible hiss. “It’s time to wake up.”
-
Misericorde
- Posts: 1921
- Joined: Mon Mar 13, 2006 9:31 pm
- Location: Saint Joseph's School
- Contact:
With the flat of her palm, the Hand injected the syrupy black fluid into his body; Misericorde, still unconscious, shook and trembled upon the table, then lay still.
With a nod from the woman, assistants stripped the jumpsuit from his slender frame, and maneuvered him into a nearby apparatus; a large ring with heavy, solid restraints that enclosed his arms to the forearm, legs to mid-thigh.
Inside each restraint bristled a thousand needles.
One after the other, the Hand applied more bizarre needles over pulse sites in turn, moving to large muscle masses next. Scores of needles punctured his flesh; a wave of a hand, and an assistant began to attach hoses, micromesh tubes, to each housing from a large humming device that resembled nothing so much as a dialysis machine.
With each needle pressed into him, Misericorde remained frighteningly inert.
The lab assistants bustled around him, spinning the large ring easily, as though it were a giant gyroscope. As the final needles found their way into place, a single large catheter and needles set was pressed into place at the base of his skull with a wet "pop."
Misericorde was then swung upright, resembling Da Vinci's drawing of man.
"Wake him," the woman stated. Her assistants nodded, and a charge of some sort passed through the device, wakening the boy with wracking convulsions. The Hand removed her mask and goggles, genuine concern breaking the stoic mask of her noble features. "Be gentle...he's been hurt enough." Assistants nodded, monitoring readouts closely.
Misericorde stirs, as the charge fades from the machine. The Hand of Artemis steps close, laying a hand upon his cheek. His eyes open slowly, deliriously.
"Wake up, MC. C'mon, hon. Wake up." Her eyes searching his blearily blinking orbs. Slowly, they focus on her face.
"Mi...Min....Minerva?" Voice slurred, lips flecked with spittle. She wipes it from his mouth with a gloved thumb, and a gentle smile.
"Yes, it's me, Michael. There's something I need from you." She ruffles his head, maternally. "I need the Knives back."
Misericorde licked his lips slowly. Voice weak, so weak. Trembling. "Knives? What....?" He trails off, almost losing conciousness again. His tongue felt swollen, hot.
Minerva nodded. "Afraid so, hon. Those nanites...the Knives...they belong to Artemis, as I do. As the Hood does. As you did." Misericorde blinks in confusion. She offers him a slow smile. "Michael, those Knives were not meant for a man. Your parents...they defied us. Made you in the image of mighty Ares, unforgiving and implacable Mars! For love of your father, your mother made you...a boy."
Misericorde swallows roughly, his brow troubled. "So, we slew them, and made the best of things. We gave you to the Hood, trained you, monitored your every step through the Knives coursing through your veins. They have recorded your every maneuver. Manufactured drugs to keep you...docile. Complacent. Controlled. You've been such a good boy, Michael. A good boy." She kissed him upon the cheek lightly.
"Michael, the time has come for me to take back the Knives. It will only hurt for a few moments, and then..."
"Don't," Misericorde whispered a confused jumble of words. "...deadly...suffer...they're...not me..."
Minerva lay a hand upon his shoulder gently. "Poor boy. Life has dealt you a harsh hand. You really were a good boy, Michael." Regret twisted her lips into a nearly imperceptible frown; but for a moment. Swiftly, she turned from him, allowing her assistants to carefully secure her into a large device similar to the one restraining Misericorde. "The Catalyst should be taking effect now," Minerva uttered.
Misericorde sagged inside the device. So much pain, a thousand ants biting at once, his healing factor suppressed so as to be practically nonexistant. His body felt like so much lead, weighing him down to this world. He sensed that Scythian was nearby, even with his mind and senses dulled. Close.
"Let me out." he whispered, his words hardly his own. Searching for the familiar grey warmth of the Fugue, his solace unfound. Where was it? The cool feeling that kept the monster locked away. That protected him, kept his furyin check. He felt the anger boiling in his breast, and he was terrified. Weakened as he was, did they know what they had done? Remove the Knives? Were they serious?
He looked up again, startled by the hum of the machine around him. He felt a tugging...inside his veins. Saw Minerva yards away, attached to a similar device...down to the large needle in the base of her skull.
He screamed his fear and futility, unable to form words or warning.
Something black loosed itself inside his mind. This was no battle-fugue, no comforting efficiency. This was it's counterpart; darkness, fear, helplessness. Scorn. Brutality. Merciless and implacable. Hungry.
It grew silent inside his body. Willed Misericorde to lay still.
And waited.
With a nod from the woman, assistants stripped the jumpsuit from his slender frame, and maneuvered him into a nearby apparatus; a large ring with heavy, solid restraints that enclosed his arms to the forearm, legs to mid-thigh.
Inside each restraint bristled a thousand needles.
One after the other, the Hand applied more bizarre needles over pulse sites in turn, moving to large muscle masses next. Scores of needles punctured his flesh; a wave of a hand, and an assistant began to attach hoses, micromesh tubes, to each housing from a large humming device that resembled nothing so much as a dialysis machine.
With each needle pressed into him, Misericorde remained frighteningly inert.
The lab assistants bustled around him, spinning the large ring easily, as though it were a giant gyroscope. As the final needles found their way into place, a single large catheter and needles set was pressed into place at the base of his skull with a wet "pop."
Misericorde was then swung upright, resembling Da Vinci's drawing of man.
"Wake him," the woman stated. Her assistants nodded, and a charge of some sort passed through the device, wakening the boy with wracking convulsions. The Hand removed her mask and goggles, genuine concern breaking the stoic mask of her noble features. "Be gentle...he's been hurt enough." Assistants nodded, monitoring readouts closely.
Misericorde stirs, as the charge fades from the machine. The Hand of Artemis steps close, laying a hand upon his cheek. His eyes open slowly, deliriously.
"Wake up, MC. C'mon, hon. Wake up." Her eyes searching his blearily blinking orbs. Slowly, they focus on her face.
"Mi...Min....Minerva?" Voice slurred, lips flecked with spittle. She wipes it from his mouth with a gloved thumb, and a gentle smile.
"Yes, it's me, Michael. There's something I need from you." She ruffles his head, maternally. "I need the Knives back."
Misericorde licked his lips slowly. Voice weak, so weak. Trembling. "Knives? What....?" He trails off, almost losing conciousness again. His tongue felt swollen, hot.
Minerva nodded. "Afraid so, hon. Those nanites...the Knives...they belong to Artemis, as I do. As the Hood does. As you did." Misericorde blinks in confusion. She offers him a slow smile. "Michael, those Knives were not meant for a man. Your parents...they defied us. Made you in the image of mighty Ares, unforgiving and implacable Mars! For love of your father, your mother made you...a boy."
Misericorde swallows roughly, his brow troubled. "So, we slew them, and made the best of things. We gave you to the Hood, trained you, monitored your every step through the Knives coursing through your veins. They have recorded your every maneuver. Manufactured drugs to keep you...docile. Complacent. Controlled. You've been such a good boy, Michael. A good boy." She kissed him upon the cheek lightly.
"Michael, the time has come for me to take back the Knives. It will only hurt for a few moments, and then..."
"Don't," Misericorde whispered a confused jumble of words. "...deadly...suffer...they're...not me..."
Minerva lay a hand upon his shoulder gently. "Poor boy. Life has dealt you a harsh hand. You really were a good boy, Michael." Regret twisted her lips into a nearly imperceptible frown; but for a moment. Swiftly, she turned from him, allowing her assistants to carefully secure her into a large device similar to the one restraining Misericorde. "The Catalyst should be taking effect now," Minerva uttered.
Misericorde sagged inside the device. So much pain, a thousand ants biting at once, his healing factor suppressed so as to be practically nonexistant. His body felt like so much lead, weighing him down to this world. He sensed that Scythian was nearby, even with his mind and senses dulled. Close.
"Let me out." he whispered, his words hardly his own. Searching for the familiar grey warmth of the Fugue, his solace unfound. Where was it? The cool feeling that kept the monster locked away. That protected him, kept his furyin check. He felt the anger boiling in his breast, and he was terrified. Weakened as he was, did they know what they had done? Remove the Knives? Were they serious?
He looked up again, startled by the hum of the machine around him. He felt a tugging...inside his veins. Saw Minerva yards away, attached to a similar device...down to the large needle in the base of her skull.
He screamed his fear and futility, unable to form words or warning.
Something black loosed itself inside his mind. This was no battle-fugue, no comforting efficiency. This was it's counterpart; darkness, fear, helplessness. Scorn. Brutality. Merciless and implacable. Hungry.
It grew silent inside his body. Willed Misericorde to lay still.
And waited.
Origin: 1200–50; ME misericorde lit., pity, mercy, an act of clemency
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3
misericordia pity, equiv. to misericord- (s. of misericors) compassionate
(miseri-, s. of miserēre to pity + cord- s. of cor heart) + -ia -y 3