The page had been torn from the journal I’d found beyond the swirling gate at Portal Corporation, in the place so dispassionately called Alpha Upsilon 24-2. Tina had needed the rest of the book, for some reason, and I was glad to give it to her. What things had she done, the girl who kept that journal? I’d scanned over some of it, and it made me sick. But the single page I kept. I treasured.
I had the single page framed, and I hung it over my desk, right beside my letter of commendation from Hero Corps, beside the shadowbox that Moth had made for my medals and ribbons. Amidst a collage of heroism, it was an artifact of evil. But it is just as important, just as vital a reminder as a photo with Synapse or the Clockwork gears that hang near it. You see, the girl who wrote that page was me.
I, the mighty Screaming-Mimi, have triumphed, but victory is not as sweet as I imagined. In my zeal to conquer this feeble world, I have instead demolished it. The people I would have ruled? Dead, though not entirely gone. They linger in these lands, as foul angry spirits. They hope eventually to find a way to destroy me, but I am not concerned. I am Screaming-Mimi! I need fear no one, for my power is truly beyond all limits.
Well, maybe not me. Not the me I know, anyway. Another me. Another me in another world, another dimension. Out of how many? In how many dimensions am I good, or evil? Do I have powers? Am I happy? Am I even alive?
I close my eyes. So many questions, and they’re so distracting. And then, as always, I find my mind wandering to a familiar destination, ever since I found that journal—ever since I found out there were other me’s in other worlds. I start to think about a world where I took Mikaela’s hand, one where I wasn’t shocked and frightened by her offer. Or maybe a world where I offered my hand to her. Maybe a world where I was the one in a tank, and she stood on the floor below, pressing her palm against the two-inch thick polyglass.
I shake my head to rid myself of those thoughts, but I remind myself that they’re important. I look again at the page from the journal, looking over the traces of what is so obviously my handwriting. This is why the page is here on the wall: to remind me that I am not that other me. I am not the one who offered a life of chaos and destruction. I am the one who said no. I am not the one in the tank. I am the one who pressed her hand to the glass.
Reflections (Semi-Open, see Roleplaying Chat)
Moderator: Student Council
-
FrancisCross
- Posts: 1224
- Joined: Wed Nov 02, 2005 9:18 am
- Location: Quad 1 Room 2
“There was a feast. The king
was heartily in his cups.
He saw a learned scholar walking by.
“Bring him in and give him
some of this fine wine.”
Servants rushed out and brought the man
To the king’s table, but he was not
Receptive. “I had rather drink poison!
I have never tasted wine and never will!
Take it away from me!”
He kept on with these loud refusals,
Disturbing the atmosphere of the feast.
That is how it sometimes is
At God’s table.”
~From Breadmaking, by Jelaluddin Rumi
Witch Warden. It wasn’t just her name anymore, it was everything and anything that meant something. Ever since the Rikti had invaded, it had been the definition of a woman, of a mage, of a girl once lovingly called Franky.
It was late, and the Rikti force domes between the Atlas Park Crater and the Steel Canyon wastelands tinged the sky a pale teal, sending stolen electricity to those hidden below. She was having that dream again. It was the dream where the world wasn’t an endless heartbreak of underground tunnels, of hiding, shivering, in the mud. She dreamed that the Rikti had lost that fateful day so many years ago. She dreamed that the Alpha team had fought valiantly against the invading aliens and, though suffering great losses, had emerged victorious, that the Omega team had made it to the portal, that they didn’t lie dusty and dead in the cracks and crevices of what was once a beautiful, rolling, green. But they didn’t. Alpha team had been wiped out by the Rikti to a man by the second wave, Omega team was gone…the world had ended. The Rikti had won.
Witch Warden rose from the pallet and cracked her neck. Only seventeen years old and already her bones ached. She surveyed the crumbling sewer maintenance room that had been her home for almost four years. No better than a rat, she would die here. It was alright, she had once thought, at least she would die free.
After the Rikti invasion, everything had changed. The enslavement began in full force less than an hour after the fall of Hero-1. They had taken everyone they could reach, killed those they couldn’t, and dropped buildings and statues in their wake like so many tinker toys. The heroes were the first to go. The Rikti could sense heroes, could find them, without fail they wiped them from the face of the earth. There were no more heroes.
Sometimes heroes were still born on the surface, a mutant perhaps, a psychic at random. Inevitably, moments later the drones would show up and thus ended the short saga of the would-be hero. The drones could find them anywhere.
But they couldn’t find her, no, not her and not the Underground. It was the magic in the end. Francis Cross hadn’t been a hero, not really. She knew magic, gleaned and learned from ancient texts and forgotten trinkets every weekend after school. In the days following the invasion, as she was swept away with the others, the frightened and trembling masses, she and all those like her came to understand the terrible…and hopeful truth. As they passed the death squads of drones and bore witness to the execution of their heroic friends and celebrities, they saw something the Rikti couldn’t. Magic. It was no superpower, it was no inherent change, and the drones could not sense it. Magic was swept away into the sea of humanity and hidden away in dust and destruction.
She had escaped then, running across the chasms and blast zones, through the slave camps and into the barrens of Croatoa. When the monkeys came pouring out and the warriors marched into the streets her magic had kept her safe. The many secrets she had kept now kept her. Witch Warden remembered the tear-filled days and sweat-soaked nights as she crawled through the ashes in search of succor, only her weak spells to hold her aloft. To the very moment she now opened her eyes, now a stronger, older, harder magus, she knew not how it had been possible.
The Underground had been her home since she stumbled upon them years ago. They were all that was left of the Resistance, the last remaining bastion against an alien world. Mages they were, all of them, some weak, some strong, some an enigma, others as plain as the blue-tinged night. Together, they were all that humanity had. They were not Alpha team, they were not Omega team, they were what was left after the rain washed the blood from the streets.
A crackle of energy from the door way snapped Witch Warden from her reverie. Something was disturbing the runes from the walkway, the magic calling out in warning. She moved deftly to her feet and flicked a practiced wrist toward the far wall. Obediently, the oddly shaped, black wand that had rested on a ramshackle shelf leapt from its precarious perch to her waiting hands.
“Speak, and best make it fast.” She all but snarled into the darkness there.
An answering hiss, familiar in its low tone, tugged a smile to her lips.
“It is I, Warden. Move with care.” The small redcap hobbled into view.
Witch Warden smiled then, “Hello Gormaugh. What brings you this far down the tunnels? I thought you and Andrew were hunting for tech tonight.” The wand was carefully lowered to her side, lest the skittish Redcap grow more restless.
The small creature tensed at the mention of the ghost, another member of the Underground, he had often been paired with for missions. “You know damn well he’s never around, poking his head into this Rikti port or that Rikti installation. Gonna get it lopped off one of these days.”
Witch Warden chuckled, gracing the Redcap with one of her infamous raised eyebrows. “I doubt that , Gormaugh. Besides, even if he does get it chopped off its not like we won’t hear him swearing with it a few hours later.”
Gormaugh merely grunted his reply. “They’ll be back soon, you’d better hurry up.” With that and no backward glance, he waddled unsteadily back down the tunnel.
With a careless turn, she ran her hand through unruly locks of bedraggled red hair. She hadn’t bothered to cut it in years and now, it fell in twisted, unkempt, dread-locks down her shoulders and nearly to her waist. Maybe she’d dye it one of these days, something obnoxious, maybe pink.
She grabbed the battered witch hat from the pallet, as it was never far from her hands or her head. The hat, her personal icon and the last memorial of the revered Mary Macomber, was the symbol of the Cabal hero who had fallen in combat in the last waves of the invasion. All those who dared call themselves ‘witch’ paid such homage to her memory and Witch Warden, the keeper of the Underground, bore it as her badge of station. No one would ever forget the final sacrifice of the Cabal, the saviors of the last of humanity.
The main hall; little more than a large, open, tunnel space, was already packed with chattering mages. Six hours ago, Witch Warden had sent two operatives out onto the surface to retrieve the Scroll of Tielekku, one of the last magic artifacts to survive the purge. They had gotten word that the scroll had been hidden in MAGI’s destroyed archives and, somewhere in the bowels of the City Hall’s ruined structure, may yet survive. Amergin, an irrepressible little Tuatha, and Morgan, a fifteen-year-old fancying himself a fire mage, were due back at any moment. The excitement in the air was palpable as Witch Warden strode in to quickly hushing whispers and giddy smiles.
The happiness didn’t last long, but then again, it never did anymore. A cry echoed down the causeway and the room fell silent. Several Redcaps began to fidget as the scent of blood and death wafted into the room. It was Amergin who came first, his battered body shaking and stumbling. Over his small shoulders was draped the last of what was Morgan. The young boy’s broken body bleeding from a massive blast wound to the chest.
Witch Warden barely heard the little stag-troll as the words began to tumble out of his mouth. They had been seen, a Rikti officer had caught them unawares as they passed from ruined wall to foundation block. Whatever it was that Amergin said next, it didn’t matter. She knew what had happened.
Sobs began to choke out into the air followed by a soft, keening sound that grew louder and louder. Somewhere, in her own mind, Witch Warden felt her soul hold desperately to its last breath. The eyes that rose from beneath the black brim clouded with hate and scorched the room.
Without a word of comfort she took several long strides into the center of the room.
“Good night, Morgan.” Her grim voice chilling the mages around her.
She stretched the wand out from her hand over the still form of the boy.
“Magna res est vocis et silentii temperamentum, Male parta male dilabuntur, Malum quidem nullum esse sine aliquo bono.”
As the horrified crowds watched in silence and in sorrow, Morgan convulsed once, and then again. His eyes drifted open but it was obvious to all, he saw nothing. His mouth quirked, but not in the sly mischievous way they had all known him for. The body rose, shambling, coughing, dead still though it moved.
Witch Warden lowered the black wand and gazed into the face of the dead mage. For a moment, her eyes flicked to the faces of those gathered around her.
“This changes nothing.” Her voice was cold, heartless. “You know the way, Morgan. Bring me the Scroll.” She raised her hand and pointed a sharp finger toward the causeway. “You heard me.” Her voice rose, wavering slightly. “Go!”
The corpse shambled past the silent crowd, bent once again on the task at hand, but no longer with a trembling lip or a nervous quip. That would never happen again.
The eyes of the Underground turned to her as she stood there in silence, watching the dead man return to his final mission. There was sadness there, but the face of the Warden would not break, would not betray a heart that may as well have stopped beating with Morgan’s that very night.
Witch Warden turned and walked effortlessly back into the tunnel, back to her sanctuary in the depths of a storm sewer. In the secret space of the little room, late into the night, Francis Cross wept.
was heartily in his cups.
He saw a learned scholar walking by.
“Bring him in and give him
some of this fine wine.”
Servants rushed out and brought the man
To the king’s table, but he was not
Receptive. “I had rather drink poison!
I have never tasted wine and never will!
Take it away from me!”
He kept on with these loud refusals,
Disturbing the atmosphere of the feast.
That is how it sometimes is
At God’s table.”
~From Breadmaking, by Jelaluddin Rumi
Witch Warden. It wasn’t just her name anymore, it was everything and anything that meant something. Ever since the Rikti had invaded, it had been the definition of a woman, of a mage, of a girl once lovingly called Franky.
It was late, and the Rikti force domes between the Atlas Park Crater and the Steel Canyon wastelands tinged the sky a pale teal, sending stolen electricity to those hidden below. She was having that dream again. It was the dream where the world wasn’t an endless heartbreak of underground tunnels, of hiding, shivering, in the mud. She dreamed that the Rikti had lost that fateful day so many years ago. She dreamed that the Alpha team had fought valiantly against the invading aliens and, though suffering great losses, had emerged victorious, that the Omega team had made it to the portal, that they didn’t lie dusty and dead in the cracks and crevices of what was once a beautiful, rolling, green. But they didn’t. Alpha team had been wiped out by the Rikti to a man by the second wave, Omega team was gone…the world had ended. The Rikti had won.
Witch Warden rose from the pallet and cracked her neck. Only seventeen years old and already her bones ached. She surveyed the crumbling sewer maintenance room that had been her home for almost four years. No better than a rat, she would die here. It was alright, she had once thought, at least she would die free.
After the Rikti invasion, everything had changed. The enslavement began in full force less than an hour after the fall of Hero-1. They had taken everyone they could reach, killed those they couldn’t, and dropped buildings and statues in their wake like so many tinker toys. The heroes were the first to go. The Rikti could sense heroes, could find them, without fail they wiped them from the face of the earth. There were no more heroes.
Sometimes heroes were still born on the surface, a mutant perhaps, a psychic at random. Inevitably, moments later the drones would show up and thus ended the short saga of the would-be hero. The drones could find them anywhere.
But they couldn’t find her, no, not her and not the Underground. It was the magic in the end. Francis Cross hadn’t been a hero, not really. She knew magic, gleaned and learned from ancient texts and forgotten trinkets every weekend after school. In the days following the invasion, as she was swept away with the others, the frightened and trembling masses, she and all those like her came to understand the terrible…and hopeful truth. As they passed the death squads of drones and bore witness to the execution of their heroic friends and celebrities, they saw something the Rikti couldn’t. Magic. It was no superpower, it was no inherent change, and the drones could not sense it. Magic was swept away into the sea of humanity and hidden away in dust and destruction.
She had escaped then, running across the chasms and blast zones, through the slave camps and into the barrens of Croatoa. When the monkeys came pouring out and the warriors marched into the streets her magic had kept her safe. The many secrets she had kept now kept her. Witch Warden remembered the tear-filled days and sweat-soaked nights as she crawled through the ashes in search of succor, only her weak spells to hold her aloft. To the very moment she now opened her eyes, now a stronger, older, harder magus, she knew not how it had been possible.
The Underground had been her home since she stumbled upon them years ago. They were all that was left of the Resistance, the last remaining bastion against an alien world. Mages they were, all of them, some weak, some strong, some an enigma, others as plain as the blue-tinged night. Together, they were all that humanity had. They were not Alpha team, they were not Omega team, they were what was left after the rain washed the blood from the streets.
A crackle of energy from the door way snapped Witch Warden from her reverie. Something was disturbing the runes from the walkway, the magic calling out in warning. She moved deftly to her feet and flicked a practiced wrist toward the far wall. Obediently, the oddly shaped, black wand that had rested on a ramshackle shelf leapt from its precarious perch to her waiting hands.
“Speak, and best make it fast.” She all but snarled into the darkness there.
An answering hiss, familiar in its low tone, tugged a smile to her lips.
“It is I, Warden. Move with care.” The small redcap hobbled into view.
Witch Warden smiled then, “Hello Gormaugh. What brings you this far down the tunnels? I thought you and Andrew were hunting for tech tonight.” The wand was carefully lowered to her side, lest the skittish Redcap grow more restless.
The small creature tensed at the mention of the ghost, another member of the Underground, he had often been paired with for missions. “You know damn well he’s never around, poking his head into this Rikti port or that Rikti installation. Gonna get it lopped off one of these days.”
Witch Warden chuckled, gracing the Redcap with one of her infamous raised eyebrows. “I doubt that , Gormaugh. Besides, even if he does get it chopped off its not like we won’t hear him swearing with it a few hours later.”
Gormaugh merely grunted his reply. “They’ll be back soon, you’d better hurry up.” With that and no backward glance, he waddled unsteadily back down the tunnel.
With a careless turn, she ran her hand through unruly locks of bedraggled red hair. She hadn’t bothered to cut it in years and now, it fell in twisted, unkempt, dread-locks down her shoulders and nearly to her waist. Maybe she’d dye it one of these days, something obnoxious, maybe pink.
She grabbed the battered witch hat from the pallet, as it was never far from her hands or her head. The hat, her personal icon and the last memorial of the revered Mary Macomber, was the symbol of the Cabal hero who had fallen in combat in the last waves of the invasion. All those who dared call themselves ‘witch’ paid such homage to her memory and Witch Warden, the keeper of the Underground, bore it as her badge of station. No one would ever forget the final sacrifice of the Cabal, the saviors of the last of humanity.
The main hall; little more than a large, open, tunnel space, was already packed with chattering mages. Six hours ago, Witch Warden had sent two operatives out onto the surface to retrieve the Scroll of Tielekku, one of the last magic artifacts to survive the purge. They had gotten word that the scroll had been hidden in MAGI’s destroyed archives and, somewhere in the bowels of the City Hall’s ruined structure, may yet survive. Amergin, an irrepressible little Tuatha, and Morgan, a fifteen-year-old fancying himself a fire mage, were due back at any moment. The excitement in the air was palpable as Witch Warden strode in to quickly hushing whispers and giddy smiles.
The happiness didn’t last long, but then again, it never did anymore. A cry echoed down the causeway and the room fell silent. Several Redcaps began to fidget as the scent of blood and death wafted into the room. It was Amergin who came first, his battered body shaking and stumbling. Over his small shoulders was draped the last of what was Morgan. The young boy’s broken body bleeding from a massive blast wound to the chest.
Witch Warden barely heard the little stag-troll as the words began to tumble out of his mouth. They had been seen, a Rikti officer had caught them unawares as they passed from ruined wall to foundation block. Whatever it was that Amergin said next, it didn’t matter. She knew what had happened.
Sobs began to choke out into the air followed by a soft, keening sound that grew louder and louder. Somewhere, in her own mind, Witch Warden felt her soul hold desperately to its last breath. The eyes that rose from beneath the black brim clouded with hate and scorched the room.
Without a word of comfort she took several long strides into the center of the room.
“Good night, Morgan.” Her grim voice chilling the mages around her.
She stretched the wand out from her hand over the still form of the boy.
“Magna res est vocis et silentii temperamentum, Male parta male dilabuntur, Malum quidem nullum esse sine aliquo bono.”
As the horrified crowds watched in silence and in sorrow, Morgan convulsed once, and then again. His eyes drifted open but it was obvious to all, he saw nothing. His mouth quirked, but not in the sly mischievous way they had all known him for. The body rose, shambling, coughing, dead still though it moved.
Witch Warden lowered the black wand and gazed into the face of the dead mage. For a moment, her eyes flicked to the faces of those gathered around her.
“This changes nothing.” Her voice was cold, heartless. “You know the way, Morgan. Bring me the Scroll.” She raised her hand and pointed a sharp finger toward the causeway. “You heard me.” Her voice rose, wavering slightly. “Go!”
The corpse shambled past the silent crowd, bent once again on the task at hand, but no longer with a trembling lip or a nervous quip. That would never happen again.
The eyes of the Underground turned to her as she stood there in silence, watching the dead man return to his final mission. There was sadness there, but the face of the Warden would not break, would not betray a heart that may as well have stopped beating with Morgan’s that very night.
Witch Warden turned and walked effortlessly back into the tunnel, back to her sanctuary in the depths of a storm sewer. In the secret space of the little room, late into the night, Francis Cross wept.
"...City Representative Brighid Moreira and Rikti Traditionalist Ambassador C'Kelkah will be meeting tomorrow at City Hall to further negotiate the Rikti Peace Treaty. While some pe--"
Toby flicked the TV off emphatically. The last thing he wanted to listen to was more talk about the Rikti Peace Treaty. He couldn't believe that the world was falling for it. The Rikti had proven they couldn't be trusted, proven that they'd trample our world for the sake of power, yet here we were welcoming them in the name of peace.
Even his own sister was falling for it. She was studying empathic psychology at Brown University. She'd inherited moderate empathic abilities from their psychic father, and she'd received blue skin and pink hair from theirshapeshifting mother. She couldn't do much with the skin and hair, but she was leveraging her empathy as well as she could. Honestly, she was nothing short of brilliant. Of course, that made her position all the more frustrating--how could someone as smart as her want to give them a chance? They'd had many heated discussions about it lately, by phone, arguing till the wee hours of the morning.
His mother, on the other hand, refused to talk about it. When they'd first mentioned peace talks on the news, she'd locked herself in her room for hours. Toby knew she'd been crying. He could feel her pain whenever the topic came up. He tried to avoid having it come up around her. He could do that much, to help her at least.
But what of the rest of the world? He was a hero. He had to do something to protect the world from this threat, to wake them up to the danger they were embracing.
----
Atlas Park was bustling with activity. The Paragon Police were everywhere, monitoring the situation to ensure no problems would erupt. The press was everywhere, too, taking photographs and interviewing anybody who seemed interesting. Then there were the crowds of people. People protesting, people praying, people celebrating. People doing all manner of things as they waited for news of the afternoon's momentous occasion.
Inside City Hall, the Mayor of Paragon City and the Rikti Ambassador were meeting to sign the world's first peace treaty with the Rikti. Everyone knew it was mostly symbolic. The rest of the country wouldn't be bound by it, nor would the other nations of the world. Nor would the rivalRikti factions adhere to it. But it was a first step, a momentous first step towards real peace.
The doors to City Hall opened. Quiet descended across the crowd as people emerged. There was the Mayor, there was the City Representative, and there! There was theRikti! A real, live Rikti , standing peacefully in Atlas Park! The crowd's silence was broken as the protesters abruptly resumed shouting. They were joined a moment later by peace advocates cheering their support. Then the City Representative stepped up to the podium and, amazingly, everyone stilled to listen.
Behind her, though, a nearby police officer drew his gun and fired. Once, twice, three times he shot.
The Rikti Ambassador stumbled and fell to the ground as the crowd erupted in a near riot. Other nearby police officers quickly apprehended the assailant, but he was changing. He shifted from a thirty-something police officer with dark brown hair and green eyes to a teenager with reddish-blond hair and blue eyes.
The boy cried out, "Peace isn't going to change the past! Peace isn't going to save the future! They tried to kill us all before, they'll do it again! Don't trust them!" A clip to the head largely subdued him, but as he was taken into custody, Toby continued mumbling. "Peace isn't going to bring back my father and brother. Don't let them do it..."
Toby flicked the TV off emphatically. The last thing he wanted to listen to was more talk about the Rikti Peace Treaty. He couldn't believe that the world was falling for it. The Rikti had proven they couldn't be trusted, proven that they'd trample our world for the sake of power, yet here we were welcoming them in the name of peace.
Even his own sister was falling for it. She was studying empathic psychology at Brown University. She'd inherited moderate empathic abilities from their psychic father, and she'd received blue skin and pink hair from theirshapeshifting mother. She couldn't do much with the skin and hair, but she was leveraging her empathy as well as she could. Honestly, she was nothing short of brilliant. Of course, that made her position all the more frustrating--how could someone as smart as her want to give them a chance? They'd had many heated discussions about it lately, by phone, arguing till the wee hours of the morning.
His mother, on the other hand, refused to talk about it. When they'd first mentioned peace talks on the news, she'd locked herself in her room for hours. Toby knew she'd been crying. He could feel her pain whenever the topic came up. He tried to avoid having it come up around her. He could do that much, to help her at least.
But what of the rest of the world? He was a hero. He had to do something to protect the world from this threat, to wake them up to the danger they were embracing.
----
Atlas Park was bustling with activity. The Paragon Police were everywhere, monitoring the situation to ensure no problems would erupt. The press was everywhere, too, taking photographs and interviewing anybody who seemed interesting. Then there were the crowds of people. People protesting, people praying, people celebrating. People doing all manner of things as they waited for news of the afternoon's momentous occasion.
Inside City Hall, the Mayor of Paragon City and the Rikti Ambassador were meeting to sign the world's first peace treaty with the Rikti. Everyone knew it was mostly symbolic. The rest of the country wouldn't be bound by it, nor would the other nations of the world. Nor would the rivalRikti factions adhere to it. But it was a first step, a momentous first step towards real peace.
The doors to City Hall opened. Quiet descended across the crowd as people emerged. There was the Mayor, there was the City Representative, and there! There was theRikti! A real, live Rikti , standing peacefully in Atlas Park! The crowd's silence was broken as the protesters abruptly resumed shouting. They were joined a moment later by peace advocates cheering their support. Then the City Representative stepped up to the podium and, amazingly, everyone stilled to listen.
Behind her, though, a nearby police officer drew his gun and fired. Once, twice, three times he shot.
The Rikti Ambassador stumbled and fell to the ground as the crowd erupted in a near riot. Other nearby police officers quickly apprehended the assailant, but he was changing. He shifted from a thirty-something police officer with dark brown hair and green eyes to a teenager with reddish-blond hair and blue eyes.
The boy cried out, "Peace isn't going to change the past! Peace isn't going to save the future! They tried to kill us all before, they'll do it again! Don't trust them!" A clip to the head largely subdued him, but as he was taken into custody, Toby continued mumbling. "Peace isn't going to bring back my father and brother. Don't let them do it..."
Bryan sat at quietly at his desk, his completed test paper sat on his wooden desk. The teacher's instructions had been to bring it to her desk at the front of the class when it was finished. Randy had given him other instructions though...
The small young man with think round-rimmed glasses looked over next to head. The massive red headed kid next to him stared back. That was Randy, he had failed ninth grade three times already. He had made it very clear that Bryan was his ticket out of ninth grade English.
Bryan had done every homework assignment and every paper for this class twice. Once for himself, the second he would dumb down and give to Randy on the bus to school. Bryan always received a B or a C and Randy’s “work always earned him a C or D, not enough to be valedictorian but enough for him to pass without being obvious about how the work was getting done.
The first two weeks, Bryan had stood up to Randy and refused to do is work. Those weeks were hell. Bryan had mysteriously gotten a black eye and two chipped teeth that first week. He didn't tell what happened; the red headed bully had told him what would happen if he did. Bryan believed every word. He told his parents it happened on his bike.
A broken arm was Bryan's punishment for refusing Randy for two weeks in a row. He told him that next week it would be a leg. That weekend, Bryan started doing the work; he had done all of it until today. The work had never stopped the bully from calling him names or threatening him but it had at least stopped him from beating Bryan up though.
The young boy in the glasses pretended to look over his test, he played oblivious to the fact that the tall kid next to him was reading over his shoulder and copying his test word for word.
Bryan smiled to himself inside. Looking over the answers he had written down. They were ridiculous; anyone with half a brain would have spotted them for what they were. Completely and deliberately wrong!
He fought hard not to let his excitement show. He looked slyly over his shoulder, seeing how eagerly his tormentor was copying the moronic answers. “It’s working, he’s falling for it.” Bryan thought to himself as he thought back over the year’s worth of plotting that was going to pay off soon.
Bryan had always kept Randy’s grades close to failing but always high enough that the bully was not worried about failing. However, if he had looked more closely at the grades he had received over the course of the semester; he would have noticed that he was going to need at least a score in the high 80’s to pass. The test he was copying was going to score in the single digits.
Seeing Randy motion to the front, Bryan took his cue and placed his paper on the teacher’s desk. After returning to his seat, Randy leaned to him and whispered “Good work fag. I better ace this test or you die.” There was no hint of compassion in his voice.
Bryan wanted to laugh in his face; this was going to be spectacular. When he first thought of this plan, he had accepted the beating that he was going to receive as the cost for this elaborate ruse. Until something happened five weeks ago…
Late one night, he was sitting at his bedroom desk crying thinking about how much he hated the bully. He heard a crunching sound, and had noticed a pencil that had been sitting on his desk was standing on its point. It was slowly pushing itself through the oak tabletop. Bryan discovered that he too had powers like those caped morons he always saw on the news, but he had no thoughts of donning spandex and stopping bank heists. He thought only of revenge.
And tomorrow afternoon, when Randy found out that he was going to again fail English, Bryan would laugh and laugh and laugh. Then in the afternoon, his bully would be out for blood. When he was going to hurt the nerd that had so carefully set him up to fail, then Bryan was going to surprise him again.
This time he was going to show that monster what happened to the human body when it was pulled to the ground with the force of Mack truck hitting a brick wall. It was probably going to kill the red headed boy... Bryan was fine with that.
The small young man with think round-rimmed glasses looked over next to head. The massive red headed kid next to him stared back. That was Randy, he had failed ninth grade three times already. He had made it very clear that Bryan was his ticket out of ninth grade English.
Bryan had done every homework assignment and every paper for this class twice. Once for himself, the second he would dumb down and give to Randy on the bus to school. Bryan always received a B or a C and Randy’s “work always earned him a C or D, not enough to be valedictorian but enough for him to pass without being obvious about how the work was getting done.
The first two weeks, Bryan had stood up to Randy and refused to do is work. Those weeks were hell. Bryan had mysteriously gotten a black eye and two chipped teeth that first week. He didn't tell what happened; the red headed bully had told him what would happen if he did. Bryan believed every word. He told his parents it happened on his bike.
A broken arm was Bryan's punishment for refusing Randy for two weeks in a row. He told him that next week it would be a leg. That weekend, Bryan started doing the work; he had done all of it until today. The work had never stopped the bully from calling him names or threatening him but it had at least stopped him from beating Bryan up though.
The young boy in the glasses pretended to look over his test, he played oblivious to the fact that the tall kid next to him was reading over his shoulder and copying his test word for word.
Bryan smiled to himself inside. Looking over the answers he had written down. They were ridiculous; anyone with half a brain would have spotted them for what they were. Completely and deliberately wrong!
He fought hard not to let his excitement show. He looked slyly over his shoulder, seeing how eagerly his tormentor was copying the moronic answers. “It’s working, he’s falling for it.” Bryan thought to himself as he thought back over the year’s worth of plotting that was going to pay off soon.
Bryan had always kept Randy’s grades close to failing but always high enough that the bully was not worried about failing. However, if he had looked more closely at the grades he had received over the course of the semester; he would have noticed that he was going to need at least a score in the high 80’s to pass. The test he was copying was going to score in the single digits.
Seeing Randy motion to the front, Bryan took his cue and placed his paper on the teacher’s desk. After returning to his seat, Randy leaned to him and whispered “Good work fag. I better ace this test or you die.” There was no hint of compassion in his voice.
Bryan wanted to laugh in his face; this was going to be spectacular. When he first thought of this plan, he had accepted the beating that he was going to receive as the cost for this elaborate ruse. Until something happened five weeks ago…
Late one night, he was sitting at his bedroom desk crying thinking about how much he hated the bully. He heard a crunching sound, and had noticed a pencil that had been sitting on his desk was standing on its point. It was slowly pushing itself through the oak tabletop. Bryan discovered that he too had powers like those caped morons he always saw on the news, but he had no thoughts of donning spandex and stopping bank heists. He thought only of revenge.
And tomorrow afternoon, when Randy found out that he was going to again fail English, Bryan would laugh and laugh and laugh. Then in the afternoon, his bully would be out for blood. When he was going to hurt the nerd that had so carefully set him up to fail, then Bryan was going to surprise him again.
This time he was going to show that monster what happened to the human body when it was pulled to the ground with the force of Mack truck hitting a brick wall. It was probably going to kill the red headed boy... Bryan was fine with that.
Bryan Baxter (Codename: Gravwarp)
Gravity Control / Force Field / Fire Mastery
Global: @The Troll
Fight My Brute!
Gravity Control / Force Field / Fire Mastery
Global: @The Troll
Fight My Brute!
Voritex slowly and achingly arose from his downed postion, and weakly looked across the desolate landscape of Praetorian Atlas Park. The Atlas statue replaced with one of Tyrant breaking through the earth, the statue overlooking the lake replaced with Anti-Matter melting the face off of some poor innocent. But those images where not the most unbelivable, or even dire, to him.
No, that singular honor rested with the thing that hovered in the air 10 feet away from him, quizzically holding his head with his hand and staring at Voritex.
"So... The Valiant Victorious Voritex. At last we meet. Tyrant and his brood have had...some interesting things to say to you. And now I get to see you up close and personal. What an...honor." the speech was laced with sarcasm and a tangible hint of hatred.
Voritex remained silent as he stared at the ma...no, monster before him. It was kind of comical, in a life threating sort of way. They were the same height, had the same build, even the same voice. The only difference was the armor. Red on black, with two spirling ram horns in place of his own wings and black on white costume. I wonder...Do I always look so...scary? Abe thought, still staring at the faceless helmet that he knew contained his own darker ego. After a silence that felt like years, he finally spoke.
"I was wondering if you existed. The only thing you've done by jumping me is confirming the fact that you exist. That, and making me very VERY angry." Voritex finished his sentence with a small flick of his hand, and a ruined Chevy from the blasted landscape below came whisliting up and sent his dark twin flying off into a decrepted skyscraper off in the distance.
Voritex rose, and cracked his neck. Looks like the entire hostage thing was a trap then. There's no one else here but him an...! Abe's thought was cut off as he was hurled bodily through the air by a sudden blast of gravitational force. Righting himself in midair by use of his own powers, he sent his own gravitational blow hurtling in the direction of his clone, who had once again taken to the skies. The two circled each other like birds of prey about to engage in a contest over a mate or food, but this battle was far more complicated. This was a battle of "Right vs. Might" and it was one that had to be fought. There were no tap outs here. Only the complete destruction of the other.
And so they warred.
Decaying buildings ripped off they're broken foundatins, partially destroyed cars used as giant bombs, The very glue of existence itself was the weapon, as they slowly but surely ripped the world underneath them into smaller and smaller peices. Tyrants statue was toppeled in an attempt by one to crush the other, Anti-Matter's head used as a battering ram to dislodge one from his hiding place, the spire of city hall used to disrupt a warwall generator, dropping the defenses of the zone momentarily until the auxilary power kicked in.
And by the end, neither looked nearly as well as they did in the start. Their armor was shorn, they're helmets crushed below tons and tons of debris, but they're resolve was unscathed. And in the end, all that remained, was the two warriors, floating above the descruction they had created. Neither saying a word, but speaking volumes by the shifting emotions on their faces. And it was soon to be over.
The two rushed at each other at the same time, and the impact of the two hitting eachother was felt throughout the ruins of Paragon City. Higher and higher they rose, using the power of gravity within close range of each other, increasing the gravitational force of the punches and kicks they were landing on each others bodies, and right when they crested, floating with in inches of space, Novitex landed a devastating blow to Voritex.
"This is MY world, little hero. And NEVER forget it." He hissed, placing his hands on Voritex's abdomen and flying straight back down to earth, intent of reducing Voritex down to his very molecules. Voritex simply watched, broken, beaten, and more then willing the accept death.
But then, something twinged in side his mind. Mental images of evenings sitting at the side of a hot tube, of staying up late trying to finish some wonky english assignment or annoyingly difficult math problem. He thought of his friends: Nick, Mana, Byran, Sam, Tiff, and a variety of others whom he shared time and laughs with, whom he had fought next to. And something snapped.
Content with his future victory, Novitex didn't see the look in Voritex's eyes until it was too late. That silibant stare of eternal hatred, that promise of coming retribution. "You can HAVE your world, monster." Voritex whispered, grabbing his opponent by the throat and head butting him in the face. "I like mine much BETTER!" he yelled, as he swung the Novitex onto his back side and sent him plummeting into the scarred dome of the ruined Atlas City Hall. Novitex's impact destroyed the building, caving it into itself tossed debris into the air, blocking out the all ready dimmed sun even more, and cracked the very earth. Having spent the last of his energy, Voritex's somehow manged to port himself back into normal earth to a place he felt safe, and began plummeting to earth and landed with a bone crunching thump infront of his classmates at the hot tube in New Overbrook.
And back on Praetorian Earth...Two glowing green eyes burst into cosmic fire, looked to the heavens, and cursed the name of The Vailant Victorious Voritex. And that voice swore vengence, and it promised it to be soon....
No, that singular honor rested with the thing that hovered in the air 10 feet away from him, quizzically holding his head with his hand and staring at Voritex.
"So... The Valiant Victorious Voritex. At last we meet. Tyrant and his brood have had...some interesting things to say to you. And now I get to see you up close and personal. What an...honor." the speech was laced with sarcasm and a tangible hint of hatred.
Voritex remained silent as he stared at the ma...no, monster before him. It was kind of comical, in a life threating sort of way. They were the same height, had the same build, even the same voice. The only difference was the armor. Red on black, with two spirling ram horns in place of his own wings and black on white costume. I wonder...Do I always look so...scary? Abe thought, still staring at the faceless helmet that he knew contained his own darker ego. After a silence that felt like years, he finally spoke.
"I was wondering if you existed. The only thing you've done by jumping me is confirming the fact that you exist. That, and making me very VERY angry." Voritex finished his sentence with a small flick of his hand, and a ruined Chevy from the blasted landscape below came whisliting up and sent his dark twin flying off into a decrepted skyscraper off in the distance.
Voritex rose, and cracked his neck. Looks like the entire hostage thing was a trap then. There's no one else here but him an...! Abe's thought was cut off as he was hurled bodily through the air by a sudden blast of gravitational force. Righting himself in midair by use of his own powers, he sent his own gravitational blow hurtling in the direction of his clone, who had once again taken to the skies. The two circled each other like birds of prey about to engage in a contest over a mate or food, but this battle was far more complicated. This was a battle of "Right vs. Might" and it was one that had to be fought. There were no tap outs here. Only the complete destruction of the other.
And so they warred.
Decaying buildings ripped off they're broken foundatins, partially destroyed cars used as giant bombs, The very glue of existence itself was the weapon, as they slowly but surely ripped the world underneath them into smaller and smaller peices. Tyrants statue was toppeled in an attempt by one to crush the other, Anti-Matter's head used as a battering ram to dislodge one from his hiding place, the spire of city hall used to disrupt a warwall generator, dropping the defenses of the zone momentarily until the auxilary power kicked in.
And by the end, neither looked nearly as well as they did in the start. Their armor was shorn, they're helmets crushed below tons and tons of debris, but they're resolve was unscathed. And in the end, all that remained, was the two warriors, floating above the descruction they had created. Neither saying a word, but speaking volumes by the shifting emotions on their faces. And it was soon to be over.
The two rushed at each other at the same time, and the impact of the two hitting eachother was felt throughout the ruins of Paragon City. Higher and higher they rose, using the power of gravity within close range of each other, increasing the gravitational force of the punches and kicks they were landing on each others bodies, and right when they crested, floating with in inches of space, Novitex landed a devastating blow to Voritex.
"This is MY world, little hero. And NEVER forget it." He hissed, placing his hands on Voritex's abdomen and flying straight back down to earth, intent of reducing Voritex down to his very molecules. Voritex simply watched, broken, beaten, and more then willing the accept death.
But then, something twinged in side his mind. Mental images of evenings sitting at the side of a hot tube, of staying up late trying to finish some wonky english assignment or annoyingly difficult math problem. He thought of his friends: Nick, Mana, Byran, Sam, Tiff, and a variety of others whom he shared time and laughs with, whom he had fought next to. And something snapped.
Content with his future victory, Novitex didn't see the look in Voritex's eyes until it was too late. That silibant stare of eternal hatred, that promise of coming retribution. "You can HAVE your world, monster." Voritex whispered, grabbing his opponent by the throat and head butting him in the face. "I like mine much BETTER!" he yelled, as he swung the Novitex onto his back side and sent him plummeting into the scarred dome of the ruined Atlas City Hall. Novitex's impact destroyed the building, caving it into itself tossed debris into the air, blocking out the all ready dimmed sun even more, and cracked the very earth. Having spent the last of his energy, Voritex's somehow manged to port himself back into normal earth to a place he felt safe, and began plummeting to earth and landed with a bone crunching thump infront of his classmates at the hot tube in New Overbrook.
And back on Praetorian Earth...Two glowing green eyes burst into cosmic fire, looked to the heavens, and cursed the name of The Vailant Victorious Voritex. And that voice swore vengence, and it promised it to be soon....
Abraham Nesson/OMEGA Rebirth designation: Voritex, Power level 10 Controller/Class 5 Mutant
Be careful, I've thrown bigger things then you into orbit.
Be careful, I've thrown bigger things then you into orbit.
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Vesper Fiend
- Student Council
- Posts: 2756
- Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2007 12:24 am
- Location: Here and there.
A small figure floated silently in a darkened corner wrapped in a shroud of pure shadow. Only the sharpest eyes would have been able to notice her, and there was no one around with keen enough sight to cause her worry. She had been waiting patiently there for at least two hours. The man and woman had arrived home later than expected. They were alone in the room, this quiet room full of dark furniture and musty books that were never taken from their shelves. It reeked of pretense and pomposity. The bodyguards never came in here. This room should have been secure. It should have been safe.
The girl knew the patterns. She knew the codes to get in and out. Locks weren’t a hindrance to her. She had watched from this corner for a number of days now. The man had his brandy and his papers and was already settled into his chair. The woman would be leaving soon, moving through the main hall to take the stairs to the master bedroom. For now, the girl could only continue to wait. She was alert enough to be aware of her surroundings, but allowed her mind to wander slightly to keep the waiting from gnawing at her nerves. As they often did, her thoughts meandered back to the day she learned the value of strength.
It started almost a year and a half ago. A skinny, stick figure blond came to the very group home Aleyne lived in, and for some reason decided to befriend her. For the first time in her life, Aleyne dared to think she might have found a real friend. Five months later her dream came crashing to a bitter end. Maybe she taunted the boy as badly as he had taunted her, but that gave him no right to gather his cronies together for an assault on her.
The initial few moments of the attack were still unclear in her mind. Her first memory was the bully standing over her, holding a bat in one hand and smacking it into the other. His four boys were in various positions around the room. Suddenly, she was tired of being the weak one, the one picked on, and sometimes beat on. Aleyne knew she had command of the darkness, and she knew in that moment, that it could offer great power. Striking hard enough to break the boy’s knee, she scrambled to her feet. When she saw Leslie lying in a pool of her own blood, lifeless eyes staring at nothing, Aleyne lost her mind.
“They say people see red when rage takes them,” the girl thought absently, listening to the woman make small-talk with the man holding the glass of brandy, “but I remember… It was black.” The fight was brief. They didn’t have a chance against her anger and the darkness which flowed with it. Bloody, battered, broken, they were strewn about the room. Unable to fight back, the ring-leader was beneath her as she sat upon his chest. One more blow would end it…
When you’re called something long enough, you might just become it. “Freak!” rang in her mind like a harsh gong. “Devil!” and “Demon!” and what seemed like a thousand other names crashed together in her head in a cacophony of hateful sound. Above the din, her own voice cried out inside, “They think I’m a demon?!? I could show them a demon! Make them PAY for what they’ve done!” She recalled thinking how easy it would be to kill them all.
She remembered how she hesitated, and for a moment, the entire world had stopped. It seemed like an infinite time of realization was impossibly squeezed into a fraction of an instant… She remembered looking down at the boy. She didn’t know his name. He didn’t have the strength to hold his hands up in protection, anymore. One more blow...
“Not long,” she thought. The woman was leaving. “Does she know?” the girl wondered absently, watching from the shadows. “Does she know about the legislation her Senator, Chairman of the Board husband is sponsoring? Does she know the long-term agenda? What it will eventually lead to? For her own son, even?” The girl had learned that it was those with strength who made the rules, who shaped the world. “Someone has to stop them. Someone has to make sure it never happens.” This was her crusade ever since her contacts had passed the details on to her. Within ten minutes the woman would be fast asleep. The liquor in her system would ensure she slept soundly.
There were two very simple, very efficient ways this could happen. The first: fear. It took some time. It certainly wasn’t quick and she used it rarely, but it was quiet, clean, and no one had any reason to suspect foul play in the absence of another pattern. Wait until the target was alone, and, preferably, asleep. Evoke panic in his mind so profound that he would envision in his dream his own greatest horror. Coax it, caress it, let it build to its ultimate crescendo, and then hold it... Hold it, draw it out, prolong it, until the target was sweating and thrashing about, until the very room itself stank with the heavy scent of terror. Hold it until the heart’s pounding thundered through the still air, until the eyes were squeezed so tightly shut they would surely burst, until no amount of air could satiate the frenetic breathing. One final, hard push combined with a deep draw on his life energies would do it. Heart attack, stroke, it was generally written off as some kind of natural cause… until they found the pattern. By then, she was long gone, and all that was left was a mystery.
This time, they weren’t seeing the pattern. Two lobbyists, three aides, and one board member already, and they just weren’t seeing it. The second method was the one she preferred. It was messier and louder, but it was more satisfying and left an obvious message. Beat someone to a bloody pulp – well, tonight there were bodyguards to hear and it would be several someones – and someone else will take notice. Someone else will wonder why. Sooner or later, they’d see the pattern. Maybe then they’d learn their lesson.
She drifted on silent air towards the dozing man, her form shimmering into visibility as the shadowy cloak dispersed, her hands wrapped in gauntlets formed of the night’s essence. She remembered how that final blow felt almost a year ago, the night she laid Aleyne Kensington to rest with five dead boys and another dead girl, the night that the Vesper Fiend was born. It was the only night that she couldn’t quite shake out of her head. This night, like others, would never cross her mind again, but it would feel the same way tonight as it did before… except each of these nights became easier than the last.
The girl knew the patterns. She knew the codes to get in and out. Locks weren’t a hindrance to her. She had watched from this corner for a number of days now. The man had his brandy and his papers and was already settled into his chair. The woman would be leaving soon, moving through the main hall to take the stairs to the master bedroom. For now, the girl could only continue to wait. She was alert enough to be aware of her surroundings, but allowed her mind to wander slightly to keep the waiting from gnawing at her nerves. As they often did, her thoughts meandered back to the day she learned the value of strength.
It started almost a year and a half ago. A skinny, stick figure blond came to the very group home Aleyne lived in, and for some reason decided to befriend her. For the first time in her life, Aleyne dared to think she might have found a real friend. Five months later her dream came crashing to a bitter end. Maybe she taunted the boy as badly as he had taunted her, but that gave him no right to gather his cronies together for an assault on her.
The initial few moments of the attack were still unclear in her mind. Her first memory was the bully standing over her, holding a bat in one hand and smacking it into the other. His four boys were in various positions around the room. Suddenly, she was tired of being the weak one, the one picked on, and sometimes beat on. Aleyne knew she had command of the darkness, and she knew in that moment, that it could offer great power. Striking hard enough to break the boy’s knee, she scrambled to her feet. When she saw Leslie lying in a pool of her own blood, lifeless eyes staring at nothing, Aleyne lost her mind.
“They say people see red when rage takes them,” the girl thought absently, listening to the woman make small-talk with the man holding the glass of brandy, “but I remember… It was black.” The fight was brief. They didn’t have a chance against her anger and the darkness which flowed with it. Bloody, battered, broken, they were strewn about the room. Unable to fight back, the ring-leader was beneath her as she sat upon his chest. One more blow would end it…
When you’re called something long enough, you might just become it. “Freak!” rang in her mind like a harsh gong. “Devil!” and “Demon!” and what seemed like a thousand other names crashed together in her head in a cacophony of hateful sound. Above the din, her own voice cried out inside, “They think I’m a demon?!? I could show them a demon! Make them PAY for what they’ve done!” She recalled thinking how easy it would be to kill them all.
She remembered how she hesitated, and for a moment, the entire world had stopped. It seemed like an infinite time of realization was impossibly squeezed into a fraction of an instant… She remembered looking down at the boy. She didn’t know his name. He didn’t have the strength to hold his hands up in protection, anymore. One more blow...
“Not long,” she thought. The woman was leaving. “Does she know?” the girl wondered absently, watching from the shadows. “Does she know about the legislation her Senator, Chairman of the Board husband is sponsoring? Does she know the long-term agenda? What it will eventually lead to? For her own son, even?” The girl had learned that it was those with strength who made the rules, who shaped the world. “Someone has to stop them. Someone has to make sure it never happens.” This was her crusade ever since her contacts had passed the details on to her. Within ten minutes the woman would be fast asleep. The liquor in her system would ensure she slept soundly.
There were two very simple, very efficient ways this could happen. The first: fear. It took some time. It certainly wasn’t quick and she used it rarely, but it was quiet, clean, and no one had any reason to suspect foul play in the absence of another pattern. Wait until the target was alone, and, preferably, asleep. Evoke panic in his mind so profound that he would envision in his dream his own greatest horror. Coax it, caress it, let it build to its ultimate crescendo, and then hold it... Hold it, draw it out, prolong it, until the target was sweating and thrashing about, until the very room itself stank with the heavy scent of terror. Hold it until the heart’s pounding thundered through the still air, until the eyes were squeezed so tightly shut they would surely burst, until no amount of air could satiate the frenetic breathing. One final, hard push combined with a deep draw on his life energies would do it. Heart attack, stroke, it was generally written off as some kind of natural cause… until they found the pattern. By then, she was long gone, and all that was left was a mystery.
This time, they weren’t seeing the pattern. Two lobbyists, three aides, and one board member already, and they just weren’t seeing it. The second method was the one she preferred. It was messier and louder, but it was more satisfying and left an obvious message. Beat someone to a bloody pulp – well, tonight there were bodyguards to hear and it would be several someones – and someone else will take notice. Someone else will wonder why. Sooner or later, they’d see the pattern. Maybe then they’d learn their lesson.
She drifted on silent air towards the dozing man, her form shimmering into visibility as the shadowy cloak dispersed, her hands wrapped in gauntlets formed of the night’s essence. She remembered how that final blow felt almost a year ago, the night she laid Aleyne Kensington to rest with five dead boys and another dead girl, the night that the Vesper Fiend was born. It was the only night that she couldn’t quite shake out of her head. This night, like others, would never cross her mind again, but it would feel the same way tonight as it did before… except each of these nights became easier than the last.
- All opinions are not equal. Some are a very great deal more robust, sophisticated and well supported in logic and argument than others. - Douglas Adams - The Salmon of Doubt
- Never fear shadows… That always means there is a light shining somewhere. - Lactantius
- Never fear shadows… That always means there is a light shining somewhere. - Lactantius
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Mana Cannon
- Posts: 1045
- Joined: Sun Nov 12, 2006 11:52 pm
- Location: Where Am I Now?
- Contact:
[OOC This story is mildly graphic due to Mana’s original programming if it is too much please say so and I will pull and edit it immediately]
Walking silently on padded robotic feet he neared the door. Behind it were 6 of only a handful of remaining heroes. Reviewing his orders a small holographic screen appeared just outside his visor.
Target: Gravdose
Quake-Storm
Tazonia
Borgonink
Heavy Beam
Xeocon
Each a powerful entity on their own. Together one of the few super-teams left on this world. Known as the Freedom Givers they have fought and defeated countless numbers of Crey’s Paragon Protectors. After the second great Rikti war more then 60% of the worlds heroes and villains had been wiped from the earth. Seeing this as an opportunity Crey speed up the development of project “Mana Cannon” a living weapon of unimaginable power and destructive force. And the best part of it was, it was under Creys complete control. Having no free will or emotion it tracked down the surviving meta-humans one by one and ruthlessly slaughtered them. Never tiring. Never needing food or drink. His sole reason for being is to do the Countesses bidding whatever it may be.
Running a systems check in a fraction of second, everything is fully powered and charged. Pulling on metallic boot up he swiftly kicks the door in sending it sailing to the other side of the room in splinters. Jumping from their seats the meta-humans are shocked to find the last lace they thought was safe no long is.
Giving them no time to react the cold machine levels his arm cannon and fires blowing a seared hole 6 inches wide in Gravdose’s chest killing him instantly. Before a second shot can be fired Xeocon runs at hyper speed and punches the faceplate of his friends assailant, only managing to hurt his fist. Reaching out a cold metal hand clamps down on Xeocons throat squeezing the air from it before giving it a swift ‘snap’ and dropping Xeocons limp form to the floor.
Returning his attention to the remaining heroes he find them to have formed a defensive position and are preparing a counter-attack. It will not save them. The countless heroes before them have tried and failed this will end no differently. Borgonink takes point as Quake-Storm begins to summon strong gales of wind and ice. Rushing in with lumbering feet, the mammoth human rams his attacker with one ton of flesh and bone causing him to slide on his feet before being thrown into a wall. Pulling away it’s only then that Borgonink notices blood on the ground. Looking down he sees numerous holes in his armored skin before death over takes him and collapses to the floor.
Climbing from the wall there are only 3 targets remaining. During the encounter with Borgonink, Heavy Beam is charging particles around his fists preparing for his famous “Heavy Beam Barrage”, something that could even destroy the monster in front of them. Knowing the charge is almost complete he levels both arm cannons at Heavy Beam and fires with an all out assault unloading all barrels at him. Heavy Beam decides its now or never and fires at well. The beams collide mid-air showing the area in sparks and plasma energy setting the room ablaze within seconds. As the robotic killer pour out energy it becomes apparent Heavy Beam will not win this, taking the opportunity Tazonia rushes in swinging her katana in an attempt to sever the robots arms. Looking to the side it simply pours out more power into on arm and shifts the other one in her direction burning her arm and part of her chest completely off in mid-strike. Giving a soft “oh” she falls to floor in a pool of blood. Screaming in fury at his beloved Tazonias death Quake-Storm throws himself at the monstrous being before him while forming a tornado around himself. “I will kill you!!” he screams. Shifting his weight the robotic killer gives it one last burst of energy now that Heavy Beam is weakening and beginning to tire, giving a scream of agony he is burned alive but the combined power discharges. Heavy Beam tries to stop but it is too late and he watches in horror as his last friend is vaporized before his eyes. “Damn you!!” He rushes in wrapping his fists in the last energy he can muster. Grabbing his attacker with one hand he whirls him around and slams him head first into the wall and fires into his back with his free hand.
Wiping blood from his metallic hands and making sure to step around the gore, he sends the signal to his back-up unit to come and collect the bodies his mission complete.
New orders are received and he sets off after a new target.
Walking silently on padded robotic feet he neared the door. Behind it were 6 of only a handful of remaining heroes. Reviewing his orders a small holographic screen appeared just outside his visor.
Target: Gravdose
Quake-Storm
Tazonia
Borgonink
Heavy Beam
Xeocon
Each a powerful entity on their own. Together one of the few super-teams left on this world. Known as the Freedom Givers they have fought and defeated countless numbers of Crey’s Paragon Protectors. After the second great Rikti war more then 60% of the worlds heroes and villains had been wiped from the earth. Seeing this as an opportunity Crey speed up the development of project “Mana Cannon” a living weapon of unimaginable power and destructive force. And the best part of it was, it was under Creys complete control. Having no free will or emotion it tracked down the surviving meta-humans one by one and ruthlessly slaughtered them. Never tiring. Never needing food or drink. His sole reason for being is to do the Countesses bidding whatever it may be.
Running a systems check in a fraction of second, everything is fully powered and charged. Pulling on metallic boot up he swiftly kicks the door in sending it sailing to the other side of the room in splinters. Jumping from their seats the meta-humans are shocked to find the last lace they thought was safe no long is.
Giving them no time to react the cold machine levels his arm cannon and fires blowing a seared hole 6 inches wide in Gravdose’s chest killing him instantly. Before a second shot can be fired Xeocon runs at hyper speed and punches the faceplate of his friends assailant, only managing to hurt his fist. Reaching out a cold metal hand clamps down on Xeocons throat squeezing the air from it before giving it a swift ‘snap’ and dropping Xeocons limp form to the floor.
Returning his attention to the remaining heroes he find them to have formed a defensive position and are preparing a counter-attack. It will not save them. The countless heroes before them have tried and failed this will end no differently. Borgonink takes point as Quake-Storm begins to summon strong gales of wind and ice. Rushing in with lumbering feet, the mammoth human rams his attacker with one ton of flesh and bone causing him to slide on his feet before being thrown into a wall. Pulling away it’s only then that Borgonink notices blood on the ground. Looking down he sees numerous holes in his armored skin before death over takes him and collapses to the floor.
Climbing from the wall there are only 3 targets remaining. During the encounter with Borgonink, Heavy Beam is charging particles around his fists preparing for his famous “Heavy Beam Barrage”, something that could even destroy the monster in front of them. Knowing the charge is almost complete he levels both arm cannons at Heavy Beam and fires with an all out assault unloading all barrels at him. Heavy Beam decides its now or never and fires at well. The beams collide mid-air showing the area in sparks and plasma energy setting the room ablaze within seconds. As the robotic killer pour out energy it becomes apparent Heavy Beam will not win this, taking the opportunity Tazonia rushes in swinging her katana in an attempt to sever the robots arms. Looking to the side it simply pours out more power into on arm and shifts the other one in her direction burning her arm and part of her chest completely off in mid-strike. Giving a soft “oh” she falls to floor in a pool of blood. Screaming in fury at his beloved Tazonias death Quake-Storm throws himself at the monstrous being before him while forming a tornado around himself. “I will kill you!!” he screams. Shifting his weight the robotic killer gives it one last burst of energy now that Heavy Beam is weakening and beginning to tire, giving a scream of agony he is burned alive but the combined power discharges. Heavy Beam tries to stop but it is too late and he watches in horror as his last friend is vaporized before his eyes. “Damn you!!” He rushes in wrapping his fists in the last energy he can muster. Grabbing his attacker with one hand he whirls him around and slams him head first into the wall and fires into his back with his free hand.
Wiping blood from his metallic hands and making sure to step around the gore, he sends the signal to his back-up unit to come and collect the bodies his mission complete.
New orders are received and he sets off after a new target.
Till All Are One! -Optimus Prime
There Are Things Each Of Us Can And Can Not Do. I Will Do What You Can Not Do While You Go And Do What I Can Not Do-Sanji of the Black Leg
There Are Things Each Of Us Can And Can Not Do. I Will Do What You Can Not Do While You Go And Do What I Can Not Do-Sanji of the Black Leg
Okay, 1460 Jackson Lane. 1200, 1210...
No one at the station had taken the call seriously at first; some pizza place concerned that one of their delivery boys had never returned and asking for an APB for the missing car. Yeah, right... Then Officer Reid had remembered a similar call about a week ago. Another delivery boy missing in the same area. Further investigation had dug up two more that their respective restaurants hadn't even bothered to report. All were on runs to the same house when they vanished.
1320, 1330...
The house was owned by Martin and Michelle Jacobs. Martin was a part-time substitute teacher, Michelle a receptionist at a dental office. There were a couple detectives looking into their backgrounds (particularly suspicious was how those two could afford a house in this neighborhood), but for now they already had enough for a warrant to search the property.
1440, 14... no way.
There were no less than eight cars crammed along the roadside, most with restaurant logos of all kinds. One still had the lights on and the engine idling.
"...maybe we should wait for backup," Camicia muttered.
Reid was only slightly more confident but wasn't about to reveal that to his partner. "Look, you know the difference between us and those delivery boys?" He tapped his holster. "We've got guns and six years of police experience. Now come on, the most recent arrival can't have been here for that long. We need to move fast."
The two officers got out of the car and approached the door. Camicia rang the bell, keeping one hand near his holster.
A teenaged girl in a hooded sweater and sweat-pants slowly opened the door. Reid considered her choice of summer clothing odd for all of two seconds, then the air from inside the house hit his face. They must have had their air conditioning turned up as high as it would go.
The girl looked up, and Reid was surprised to see under the hood... the girl was albino. He flinched, something the girl must have misinterpreted, as she started stammering, "No, p-please don't go! I need your help!"
"Slow down. Who are you?"
"Umm, I, I'm Jonina Jacobs. I called over a month ago, but you didn't come then..."
"...are you related to Martin and Michelle?"
She nodded nervously. "Please... y-you need to help me. Daddy's in the basement with the delivery boys... I think they're in danger... they need help..."
Damn. The two officers drew their sidearms and followed her through the kitchen to a door in the back. "Is that the basement door?"
She nodded.
"Okay, Camicia, I'm on point. Cover me. Jonina, wait here." Reid opened the door and started down the stairs.
The two officers shivered as they reached the bottom; it was like a meat locker. Someone had even left blocks of ice in the...
"...my God in heaven. Camicia?"
"I see them..." He looked around, gun ready. "Martin Jacobs! This is the police! Wherever you are, come out--!"
"Daddy can't answer. He needs your help." Jonina was at the top of the stairs, pointing to one of the ice heaps. Like the others, it contained a person inside, long frozen to death. "He was going to leave me... I had to... I had to... please help him..."
The two officers turned to face her, horrified. "You... you did this?"
Joni drew back again at their expressions. "Y-you're going to leave me too, aren't you?" Her face darkened. "...You, you're just like the rest! None of them wanted to stay to help me! None would even stay to talk!"
Reid winced as his gun suddenly became too cold to handle. A moment later he realized he couldn't drop it either; ice had encrusted it and his hand. Ice that was creeping up his arm... "Camicia! Help!"
"You're NOT going to ABANDON ME! You're NEVER going to leave, UNDERSTAND?"
Reid turned enough to see that his partner was already totally encased. A moment later, he lost the chance to turn away forever...
No one at the station had taken the call seriously at first; some pizza place concerned that one of their delivery boys had never returned and asking for an APB for the missing car. Yeah, right... Then Officer Reid had remembered a similar call about a week ago. Another delivery boy missing in the same area. Further investigation had dug up two more that their respective restaurants hadn't even bothered to report. All were on runs to the same house when they vanished.
1320, 1330...
The house was owned by Martin and Michelle Jacobs. Martin was a part-time substitute teacher, Michelle a receptionist at a dental office. There were a couple detectives looking into their backgrounds (particularly suspicious was how those two could afford a house in this neighborhood), but for now they already had enough for a warrant to search the property.
1440, 14... no way.
There were no less than eight cars crammed along the roadside, most with restaurant logos of all kinds. One still had the lights on and the engine idling.
"...maybe we should wait for backup," Camicia muttered.
Reid was only slightly more confident but wasn't about to reveal that to his partner. "Look, you know the difference between us and those delivery boys?" He tapped his holster. "We've got guns and six years of police experience. Now come on, the most recent arrival can't have been here for that long. We need to move fast."
The two officers got out of the car and approached the door. Camicia rang the bell, keeping one hand near his holster.
A teenaged girl in a hooded sweater and sweat-pants slowly opened the door. Reid considered her choice of summer clothing odd for all of two seconds, then the air from inside the house hit his face. They must have had their air conditioning turned up as high as it would go.
The girl looked up, and Reid was surprised to see under the hood... the girl was albino. He flinched, something the girl must have misinterpreted, as she started stammering, "No, p-please don't go! I need your help!"
"Slow down. Who are you?"
"Umm, I, I'm Jonina Jacobs. I called over a month ago, but you didn't come then..."
"...are you related to Martin and Michelle?"
She nodded nervously. "Please... y-you need to help me. Daddy's in the basement with the delivery boys... I think they're in danger... they need help..."
Damn. The two officers drew their sidearms and followed her through the kitchen to a door in the back. "Is that the basement door?"
She nodded.
"Okay, Camicia, I'm on point. Cover me. Jonina, wait here." Reid opened the door and started down the stairs.
The two officers shivered as they reached the bottom; it was like a meat locker. Someone had even left blocks of ice in the...
"...my God in heaven. Camicia?"
"I see them..." He looked around, gun ready. "Martin Jacobs! This is the police! Wherever you are, come out--!"
"Daddy can't answer. He needs your help." Jonina was at the top of the stairs, pointing to one of the ice heaps. Like the others, it contained a person inside, long frozen to death. "He was going to leave me... I had to... I had to... please help him..."
The two officers turned to face her, horrified. "You... you did this?"
Joni drew back again at their expressions. "Y-you're going to leave me too, aren't you?" Her face darkened. "...You, you're just like the rest! None of them wanted to stay to help me! None would even stay to talk!"
Reid winced as his gun suddenly became too cold to handle. A moment later he realized he couldn't drop it either; ice had encrusted it and his hand. Ice that was creeping up his arm... "Camicia! Help!"
"You're NOT going to ABANDON ME! You're NEVER going to leave, UNDERSTAND?"
Reid turned enough to see that his partner was already totally encased. A moment later, he lost the chance to turn away forever...
"When you can hear 'em talk, cling to them with all force, because those are the ones with staying power." - Ursula Vernon
-
Eddie Amplitude
- Posts: 158
- Joined: Mon Dec 25, 2006 6:25 am
- Location: Class
It was finally over…The horrible torture Mother had put Eddie through had come to an end. Now stripped of his vocal cords, Eddie was carted back to his room. The stench of dried blood and perspiration greeted him as he was placed in a dark room with padded walls. “Goodnight Eddie, pleasant dreams.” said Mother in an almost loving tone, mocking him. With a smile, she closed the door, leaving Eddie alone in the darkness.
Eddie could do little more than sob, the painful thoughts of the others kept him company in his padded prison. “I wish I were dead…” he thought to himself, head throbbing from the thoughts of the others. The bandages on his neck were stained in crimson, they had taken his voice, Eddie felt worthless…empty. “I wish I were dead…No, I wish they were dead.”
Mother, the only human to top Eddie in terms of psychic ability. In terms of sheer power, he was superior. However, Mother had one thing he lacked, control. He had to bide his time, wait for the perfect moment, only then could Eddie achieve salvation. “One more day… One more day until they all die…” he though to himself, blood seeping from his bandages onto his clothes. Eddie was losing his grip on consciousness, the bleeding wouldn’t stop. He knew what was coming, the cold grip of the nether would have him soon.
Eddie crawled toward the door, vision fading. Smearing blood from his wound on the door, Eddie smiled. Mother had made her mistake, with much satisfaction Eddie finally relented, falling to the floor.
Mere hours would pass before his heart gave it’s final beat, releasing Eddie from his horrid prison.
---
Mother had come to check on Eddie the following morning, upon opening the door she discovered the gruesome scene, as well as a message. “Mother Mayhem, you lose! - Eddie” had been smeared in blood on the door, with a sharp growl she slammed the door shut. This would be the final resting place of Edward Trenton Jr.
Eddie could do little more than sob, the painful thoughts of the others kept him company in his padded prison. “I wish I were dead…” he thought to himself, head throbbing from the thoughts of the others. The bandages on his neck were stained in crimson, they had taken his voice, Eddie felt worthless…empty. “I wish I were dead…No, I wish they were dead.”
Mother, the only human to top Eddie in terms of psychic ability. In terms of sheer power, he was superior. However, Mother had one thing he lacked, control. He had to bide his time, wait for the perfect moment, only then could Eddie achieve salvation. “One more day… One more day until they all die…” he though to himself, blood seeping from his bandages onto his clothes. Eddie was losing his grip on consciousness, the bleeding wouldn’t stop. He knew what was coming, the cold grip of the nether would have him soon.
Eddie crawled toward the door, vision fading. Smearing blood from his wound on the door, Eddie smiled. Mother had made her mistake, with much satisfaction Eddie finally relented, falling to the floor.
Mere hours would pass before his heart gave it’s final beat, releasing Eddie from his horrid prison.
---
Mother had come to check on Eddie the following morning, upon opening the door she discovered the gruesome scene, as well as a message. “Mother Mayhem, you lose! - Eddie” had been smeared in blood on the door, with a sharp growl she slammed the door shut. This would be the final resting place of Edward Trenton Jr.
"No man has ever fought so hard as the one who fights for those he loves." - Richard Harrison
It is the end of all hope
To lose the child, the faith
Eshva Dybbuk wandered threw the allies of Port Oaks. She dressed in all black, that way the blood didn’t show and she could blend in the darkness when she came out. The darkness is her closest and only friend. The air was still and chilled. It was going to be be a good night.
To end all the innocence
To be someone like me
There in the distance a group of them stood playing with fire as they normally would. Drawings of the goat head pentacle covered the ground. Eshva knew the symbol all to well. It was that that started her hunt. She hated them. That’s why she came here from Paragon. As she studied the group she remembered why she was doing this. Hunting them.
This is the birth of all hope
To have what I once had
Raped that one fated day, it killed her and brought her back. They dragged her to a building where they tided her up cut, tortured on that very symbol. Her blood covered her body, they forced it down her throat to drink. The cuts healed and they were amazed so the repeated it over and over again. They called her a demon. Demon the word pained her so much. Her parents tried to kill her for it. God punished her for the sins of her appearance. That was the day her eyes changed; her true form came out with the yellow orbs that fired the new beginning
This life unforgiven
It will end with a birth
Numbness had come over her as the blood poured down her thoart. It had seemed like hours where she had done nothing. She finally chose that this was not her fate. From somewhere she did not know where the anger came from but the next Hellion to attempt to have his way with him ended up with no head. Shortly after the room was red with everyone else’s blood.
No will to wake for this morn
To see another black rose born
Deathbed is slowly covered with snow
Like she’d done before she walked casually up to the group they startled and pulled their weapons. She smiled and with a whirl their arms, hands and fingers fell off two of them. Some fell, some ran but she was okay with that she would find them again. She grabbed only one of them and went to work. Tearing him apart slowly and letting his screams fill the air. It soothed her more now then before
Angels, they fell first but I'm still here
Alone as they are drawing near
In heaven my masterpiece will finally be sung
She was well known in Paragon. The papers always talked about the brutal killings labeling her demon. Even Longbow fell to her hands when they tried to stop her. She had some unfortunate bump in with some young hero’s saw her one day. They fought well but they all fell.
Wounded is the deer that leaps highest
And my wound it cuts so deep
Turn off the light and let me pull the plug
Then sun started to rise and crippled bodies littered the alley way, for longbow and others to find later on that day. She, covered in blood, wandered her way to her hide in a empty building. She recorded the night’s events in a book. Well battered with age she dipped a claw into a vile of blood in which she wrote.
Mandylion without a face
Deathwish without a prayer
To her entertainment a old church was near and the casting of a shadow of a cross threw the broken window. The faith that had abandoned her; left her to become this soulless thing she is now. Eshva frowned as she looked at the cross in her dark corner where the sun did not touch her. Emptiness still remained inside and she did not know how to fill it. “Maybe when they are all dead” she whispered. “Then I will go after the church I do not feel whole again..” Little did she know she was being watched. Dressed in purple and black the woman had seen her that night watched how she moved and she saw a good use for this demonic girl in the ranks of the Archano’s
End of hope
End of love
End of time
The rest is silence
(( song - End of all hope - Nightwish))
To lose the child, the faith
Eshva Dybbuk wandered threw the allies of Port Oaks. She dressed in all black, that way the blood didn’t show and she could blend in the darkness when she came out. The darkness is her closest and only friend. The air was still and chilled. It was going to be be a good night.
To end all the innocence
To be someone like me
There in the distance a group of them stood playing with fire as they normally would. Drawings of the goat head pentacle covered the ground. Eshva knew the symbol all to well. It was that that started her hunt. She hated them. That’s why she came here from Paragon. As she studied the group she remembered why she was doing this. Hunting them.
This is the birth of all hope
To have what I once had
Raped that one fated day, it killed her and brought her back. They dragged her to a building where they tided her up cut, tortured on that very symbol. Her blood covered her body, they forced it down her throat to drink. The cuts healed and they were amazed so the repeated it over and over again. They called her a demon. Demon the word pained her so much. Her parents tried to kill her for it. God punished her for the sins of her appearance. That was the day her eyes changed; her true form came out with the yellow orbs that fired the new beginning
This life unforgiven
It will end with a birth
Numbness had come over her as the blood poured down her thoart. It had seemed like hours where she had done nothing. She finally chose that this was not her fate. From somewhere she did not know where the anger came from but the next Hellion to attempt to have his way with him ended up with no head. Shortly after the room was red with everyone else’s blood.
No will to wake for this morn
To see another black rose born
Deathbed is slowly covered with snow
Like she’d done before she walked casually up to the group they startled and pulled their weapons. She smiled and with a whirl their arms, hands and fingers fell off two of them. Some fell, some ran but she was okay with that she would find them again. She grabbed only one of them and went to work. Tearing him apart slowly and letting his screams fill the air. It soothed her more now then before
Angels, they fell first but I'm still here
Alone as they are drawing near
In heaven my masterpiece will finally be sung
She was well known in Paragon. The papers always talked about the brutal killings labeling her demon. Even Longbow fell to her hands when they tried to stop her. She had some unfortunate bump in with some young hero’s saw her one day. They fought well but they all fell.
Wounded is the deer that leaps highest
And my wound it cuts so deep
Turn off the light and let me pull the plug
Then sun started to rise and crippled bodies littered the alley way, for longbow and others to find later on that day. She, covered in blood, wandered her way to her hide in a empty building. She recorded the night’s events in a book. Well battered with age she dipped a claw into a vile of blood in which she wrote.
Mandylion without a face
Deathwish without a prayer
To her entertainment a old church was near and the casting of a shadow of a cross threw the broken window. The faith that had abandoned her; left her to become this soulless thing she is now. Eshva frowned as she looked at the cross in her dark corner where the sun did not touch her. Emptiness still remained inside and she did not know how to fill it. “Maybe when they are all dead” she whispered. “Then I will go after the church I do not feel whole again..” Little did she know she was being watched. Dressed in purple and black the woman had seen her that night watched how she moved and she saw a good use for this demonic girl in the ranks of the Archano’s
End of hope
End of love
End of time
The rest is silence
(( song - End of all hope - Nightwish))
Eshva 
Dearest Heavenly Father;
I know your awfully busy right now,
But all I ask is for one small thing now,
Please Heavenly Father,
Please take care of my friends at this time.
Dearest Heavenly Father;
I know your awfully busy right now,
But all I ask is for one small thing now,
Please Heavenly Father,
Please take care of my friends at this time.