Around five miles above an indescriminate desert slap dab in the middle of shitfuck nowehere, Operative 'Lone Wolf' (or informally 'Gun') was dodging two pairs of guided missiles like it was clockwork, the bulky and clunky munitions simply not tailored for the pursuit of of such a small target being able to skillfully access more oblique planes. Halo's of light were issued around him from an out of place golden blade that rested on his back, halting all of his inertia and speed suddenly before pulling up in a fashion only capable by an in-human beast(for those sudden G-forces to not explode him all over the place) as the gunsteel-grey Grim Anarchy III's propulsion system redirected bursts of force about his axis of gravity, that in conjunction with some fine ass motor control skills allowed him to dodge out of their path, and instead direct them into each other. 

The F22's in chase of him lag pursuit style weren't so easily swayed, however, as they sprayed relatively harmless 30mm caliber bullets that dinked off of the Grim's thick carapace-like backplate and smoothed aerodynamic helm like rubber. A single glance over his shoulder would be the last thing the fighter pilots would ever see as he suddenly maneuvered into a Pugachev's Cobra after deactiviating his G-limiter for precision control, causing them to overshoot him completely as his Mark II 'Obelisk' Railcannons unslid from under his arms and lined up perfectly. A fraction of a second passed between pulling the triggers and the jets being blasted out of the sky into glorified shrapnel. Where he would have normally veered back off to wherever his destination was, something instead caught his eye that made him raise a brow. A green symbol on a piece of the shrapnel that fell to the desert floor. Specifically, a rapier being plunged through the world, the hilt enthralled by the grip of a snake.

He turned off his main thrusters as he descended to the floor where he sifted through the disjointed junk until he got to the symbol. "Well shit, I guess they really didn't want me to have you." Gun said as he stabbed the blade into the sand and pocketed the symbol emblazened shrapnel. The organization was named Templar, and was the second to most recent in his long list of people that wanted him dead and vice versa. After all, he couldn't blame them. He did defect before ransacking their research fatility, stealing their new fancy sword, and then proceeded to run an intergalactic group of vigilantes that made life an overall chore for them. But still, he didn't think they'd track him all the way out here near the Rim. That's where the most recent group that wanted him dead comes in.

A few days earlier, he was contracted by the speakers of a particular area in space that served as a back door to the Multiverse. Apparently Templar got the memo, too. Whatever wannabe spatial conquistador was knocking on the multiverse's door, he was close. Very close if Templar was all the way out here scouting him. And Gun would be a terrible killing machine for good if he didn't go deal with it.

***

Gun landed on an adjacent building to the Student and his apparent master, separated by some odd five blocks or so, the crimson light that escaped the visor to his helm gleaming like headlights. From behind the helm, atmospheric and chemical information were fed to him in transluscent digital panels of techno-jargain as he went over the gleamable properties of those present. He took stock of the others. The time-lord, and the raving half-naked neanderthal, to be exact. [I]This is what I have to work with? No fucking wonder they called us for help.[/I]

He drew the blade from its panel on his back, holding it outstretched so its edge faced the base of the rooftop. It bled opulescence from his hands, a shimmering curtain of light that would be registered with the intensity of a flash grenade to those with quotidian sight, but like piercing needles to those whom employed sight beyond sight, as the world would collapse and fold upon itself in a keleidescopic, crystalline view. In the second or so that permeated the surge, thousands of S-Cells began to pool into his hands like water into a glass, taking the shape of a sickly misshapen javelin, their overstretching ability creating a dense electromagnetic current about itself and Gun's arm. 

In the same moment Seraph expanded her undying will across the land, only edifying it further and becoming a secondary boon to his perceptual frameworks. A low pinging rung like bells in the back of his mind, and from within its eldritch tombs, its conscious moved in unsettling motions. His head cocked back to the Sandman whom clasped his hands together, and not that he needed seraph to draw the connection, but it became quite clear he was being warned of a hostile psychospiritual presense. A fanged smile would creep on his lips from behind the Grim's helm. 

When the curtain of light would have fell(only ever lasting about a second), what would be standing there instead of a single person would now be two. Though Gun now no longer held his sword, but a crude javelin in its place. 

[i]"Oh my, oh my. An invasion, indeed."[/i]