Oliver was well aware that his team mates were saying something, as he climbed slowly out of his chair, and stepped gingerly over Kira’s toppled form.
Hell, he imagined he probably even knew what it was: “Oliver, what’s going on? What’s that on screen, Oliver?”
Oh yes, he knew: But he didn’t hear it.
No, as he threw his eyes up onto the Moderator’s logo, the only sound he heard was the thundering of his heart in his chest; The relentless pounding of adrenaline as it surged through his veins like lifeblood, and the rattle of his hurried breath as it quaked his ribcage in short bursts.
This was it. This was their time.
He lurched and staggered unsteadily over to the opening wall platform, in silence, with his chest constricting and his eyes obscured by the glare of his glasses.
Then, he leaned against the sliding wall panel, rigid and still as the door slowly slid aside, to reveal the secret HQ had dared not speak of…
It was a corridor.
A sleek, black tunnel: Long, trim and extending further than the eye could fathom, as though it were the base of a fallen skyscraper.
All four surfaces were gleaming ebony, lustrous as a maiden’s hair and prettified further by the addition of deep, pulsating grooves of golden light, streaking across the hall like the burning flakes of dawn and fading slowly into the dark distance.
This was a thing of myth to most, a network through which people- converted momentarily into data- could travel hundreds of miles in moments.
An artery, fed through the heart of every major city in secret.
“An Ethernet Corridor,” Oliver breathed.
And then he knew what they had to do.
A few seconds passed, before Oliver pushed off of the wall, and heaved a few deep breaths, steadying himself, and his vitals.
Then, he turned to his friends, and took a resolute stance, slamming his foot into the floor in the process.
“What’s going on?”, he parroted, clearly fighting still to keep his voice from shaking.
“We’re Moderators is what’s going on,” he began, shrugging off his leather jacket and dropping it to the floor behind him, revealing his sicklier frame in a little more thorough a light.
Then, he lifted his arm skywards, revealing his Initialiser, which was exuding a faint red aura, “And we just got our first job.”
He then lifted his other arm horizontally, placing two fingers against his Initialiser’s touchscreen, on which a light-red power symbol lingered, glowing softly, fading in and out.
“Moderators? It’s time to log in!”
”Initialiser Activated: Issue Voice Command.”
“Red 101, Logging In!”
And with that, Oliver was gone.
Or at least, his features were: From his wrist there spread a searing red light, so very bright and pure that it seemed almost to make the shadows of their headquarters cringe upon their retreat…
And it engulfed him, his body made smooth and featureless, like a doll not yet painted: Glowing as though filled with energy, and levitating just a few inches from the ground.
Oliver found himself floating in the ceaseless void: A black space, extending into the infinite and unnervingly motionless, and still.
At first, there was nothing.
And then, there was everything.
From seeming nowhere they came: Streams of data, of binary, code and captcha, flowing past him in all directions.
Every single IM, every phone call, text message and key stroke was here: All in the form of number upon number, surging past and tinted- for him at least- in a very vivid red.
Then, it started to disintegrate, crumbling before his eyes and taking the form of small, red, translucent cubes: Pixels, the building blocks of all data.
And they sped to him, and lingered, orbiting him like water does a maelstrom.
This, too, was momentary: Soon, they’d begun to rush together, clustering around him and thriving like one large, moving organism.
Suddenly, Oliver found himself stripped bare, before the pixels overwhelmed his form, surrounding him and spreading, filling him with warmth.
In moments, he found himself in a silken red suit: Strong enough to deflect bullets, and yet so thin as to be mobile.
Then, a gauntlet in two parts formed at either end of his left hand, and hovered there a while, before clamping suddenly and down sealing itself shut around each digit: The same happened to his right hand, and then his boots formed in a similar manner.
Oliver turned his head, and wiggled his fingers very faintly: There was a warm sensation in each of them, a tingling…
And then suddenly, euphoria. A surge of total ecstasy passed through him, climbing up his spine and arching his back.
Oliver threw his head back, as a red visor formed across his eyes, and clamped itself around his ears.
When he lowered his head again, this moment of intensity finally passing, he found that- now- all the data made sense…
Now, he was a Moderator.
In one hand, a brassic, basket-hilted broadsword formed slowly from data of a bluer persuasion, and in the other, a familiar looking Hookshot made its presence known.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was all over…
Oliver dropped to the floor, fully clothed in his new Moderator’s gear: The whole transformation had taken only seconds, but done him years of good.
As Oliver got back to his feet, it became clear he’d been empowered: The Moderator’s Suit would raise its wearers strength to up to twenty times their average, and render them fit and quicker for it.
He grabbed his leather jacket as he got up, throwing it back on over his newly acquired outfit, adding a nice contrast to the bright red of his garb.
Then, he took off his glasses- the visor correcting his sight- and put them into his pocket, before turning to face his team again.
“Moderators, follow me,”
And with that, he backed into the Ethernet corridor, and was gone in a bright flash of golden light.
Hell, he imagined he probably even knew what it was: “Oliver, what’s going on? What’s that on screen, Oliver?”
Oh yes, he knew: But he didn’t hear it.
No, as he threw his eyes up onto the Moderator’s logo, the only sound he heard was the thundering of his heart in his chest; The relentless pounding of adrenaline as it surged through his veins like lifeblood, and the rattle of his hurried breath as it quaked his ribcage in short bursts.
This was it. This was their time.
He lurched and staggered unsteadily over to the opening wall platform, in silence, with his chest constricting and his eyes obscured by the glare of his glasses.
Then, he leaned against the sliding wall panel, rigid and still as the door slowly slid aside, to reveal the secret HQ had dared not speak of…
It was a corridor.
A sleek, black tunnel: Long, trim and extending further than the eye could fathom, as though it were the base of a fallen skyscraper.
All four surfaces were gleaming ebony, lustrous as a maiden’s hair and prettified further by the addition of deep, pulsating grooves of golden light, streaking across the hall like the burning flakes of dawn and fading slowly into the dark distance.
This was a thing of myth to most, a network through which people- converted momentarily into data- could travel hundreds of miles in moments.
An artery, fed through the heart of every major city in secret.
“An Ethernet Corridor,” Oliver breathed.
And then he knew what they had to do.
A few seconds passed, before Oliver pushed off of the wall, and heaved a few deep breaths, steadying himself, and his vitals.
Then, he turned to his friends, and took a resolute stance, slamming his foot into the floor in the process.
“What’s going on?”, he parroted, clearly fighting still to keep his voice from shaking.
“We’re Moderators is what’s going on,” he began, shrugging off his leather jacket and dropping it to the floor behind him, revealing his sicklier frame in a little more thorough a light.
Then, he lifted his arm skywards, revealing his Initialiser, which was exuding a faint red aura, “And we just got our first job.”
He then lifted his other arm horizontally, placing two fingers against his Initialiser’s touchscreen, on which a light-red power symbol lingered, glowing softly, fading in and out.
“Moderators? It’s time to log in!”
”Initialiser Activated: Issue Voice Command.”
“Red 101, Logging In!”
And with that, Oliver was gone.
Or at least, his features were: From his wrist there spread a searing red light, so very bright and pure that it seemed almost to make the shadows of their headquarters cringe upon their retreat…
And it engulfed him, his body made smooth and featureless, like a doll not yet painted: Glowing as though filled with energy, and levitating just a few inches from the ground.
Oliver found himself floating in the ceaseless void: A black space, extending into the infinite and unnervingly motionless, and still.
At first, there was nothing.
And then, there was everything.
From seeming nowhere they came: Streams of data, of binary, code and captcha, flowing past him in all directions.
Every single IM, every phone call, text message and key stroke was here: All in the form of number upon number, surging past and tinted- for him at least- in a very vivid red.
Then, it started to disintegrate, crumbling before his eyes and taking the form of small, red, translucent cubes: Pixels, the building blocks of all data.
And they sped to him, and lingered, orbiting him like water does a maelstrom.
This, too, was momentary: Soon, they’d begun to rush together, clustering around him and thriving like one large, moving organism.
Suddenly, Oliver found himself stripped bare, before the pixels overwhelmed his form, surrounding him and spreading, filling him with warmth.
In moments, he found himself in a silken red suit: Strong enough to deflect bullets, and yet so thin as to be mobile.
Then, a gauntlet in two parts formed at either end of his left hand, and hovered there a while, before clamping suddenly and down sealing itself shut around each digit: The same happened to his right hand, and then his boots formed in a similar manner.
Oliver turned his head, and wiggled his fingers very faintly: There was a warm sensation in each of them, a tingling…
And then suddenly, euphoria. A surge of total ecstasy passed through him, climbing up his spine and arching his back.
Oliver threw his head back, as a red visor formed across his eyes, and clamped itself around his ears.
When he lowered his head again, this moment of intensity finally passing, he found that- now- all the data made sense…
Now, he was a Moderator.
In one hand, a brassic, basket-hilted broadsword formed slowly from data of a bluer persuasion, and in the other, a familiar looking Hookshot made its presence known.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was all over…
Oliver dropped to the floor, fully clothed in his new Moderator’s gear: The whole transformation had taken only seconds, but done him years of good.
As Oliver got back to his feet, it became clear he’d been empowered: The Moderator’s Suit would raise its wearers strength to up to twenty times their average, and render them fit and quicker for it.
He grabbed his leather jacket as he got up, throwing it back on over his newly acquired outfit, adding a nice contrast to the bright red of his garb.
Then, he took off his glasses- the visor correcting his sight- and put them into his pocket, before turning to face his team again.
“Moderators, follow me,”
And with that, he backed into the Ethernet corridor, and was gone in a bright flash of golden light.
