Hexaflexagon

Spiritum

@AlexStarsion


Nah you good fam.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

_{◄ All These Things That I've Done, O Magnum Mysterium ►}

C O R R R H I N E B E C K

^{Twenty-Seven | 13th of March | 198 cm / 6'6" | Commander}

_{A P P E A R A N C E.}

Legends say that there are rare occurrence when mountains tire of their eternal perches and walk amongst the people. Such myths may be the only possible explanation for the behemoth that is Corr. A creature born from the explicit dance of well tuned genetics and the blunt repetition of hard work. Musculature is not formed in an well balanced aesthetical decree, but brought forth by the stalwart mentors of wheelbarrow, axe upon hard bark and sledgehammer smashing down upon heavy stone. Such facets are further highlighted by the damage worn upon the body, damage from sun and wind, heavy callouses in a constant state of death and rebirth. Scar tissues runs across the body some thin and pale barely presents ghosts faded by the hand of time, others are crimson splashes, angry unyielding patches of torn and beaten flesh.

Despite an appearance which would otherwise suggest an consuming aura of severeness and rigidity, his face tells another story. Looking up beyond the nose crooked and perceptually swollen are two spheres one brown and the other a deep orange that of a dying ember, a faint reminder of the Aeon's touch, deepest into the rugged mountainside. Yet they glimmered with something that contrasted the image set forward, a sense of wrenching nostalgia and acute empathy. As if those eyes alone understood the weight of the world that had been pressed upon your shoulders. This lighter appearance is further accented by the smile that appears behind the well-kept beard. Welcoming and kind, it came without much provocation and was typically accented with a warm bouncing laugh that seemed to consume the entirety of the room.

Choices of attire articulate this more humble appearance. Loose fitting and ragged they either came from a perspective that did not have money or did not care up putting on airs. The only other particularly in the arrangement is the ink strewn across the flesh. Their rough and rugged presentation gives off the assumption that they were done by the self. If asked the man would simply explain that the process helped him think. The exact patterns and drawings holding no particular meaning except to the mind in the moment that they were birthed.

_{P S Y C H E.}

How does one rectify a belief in a faith which deems them an abomination. This is the keystone at the heart of Corr's emotional ensemble. Due to the nature of his birth and upbringing the teachings of the Fayth have been firmly interwoven into the man's own outlook towards the world. He believes in balance, unity and maybe most importantly of all redemption. This makes him somewhat reserved in the process of vilification and damnation for he at least holds true to the ideal that for every ounce of evil and corruption within that there must on the same course of logic be an equal amount of good that has been repressed. He does not force these teachings with the fiery words of sermon, he embodies his faith rather than try and explain it.

Yet now he has become what even the Fayth has deemed irredeemable. An unholy creature born of union with that which is Sin. At first this caused considerable angst as you may very well imagined. It lead to a certain level of self-destructive behavior and internally spiraling collapse. The only word that was heard was that of the bottle continually whispering its chant of soothing hypnagogia. Yet as time progressed and he was able to think and dwell upon these thoughts there was a peculiar epiphany. Forsaken by the institution he still believed in its teachings and one those tenets was that of redemption. That the dark and the light could always be brought back into harmony. And he saw a world of disharmony ahead of him. Being damned as he were there was nothing left to lose. He could throw himself fully at the challenges ahead of him and use the power of the Aeon to fix the great disharmony bubbling forth in the world and maybe in that way find his own sort of penance. To continually become more efficient, a better fighter, a better person. Learning slowly to love the straight line paths through life, create opportunities and grasp them. Continual refinement.

Despite his own internal crisis Corr has always been something of a jovial and kind hearted soul. Partly from the teachings and partly because of his own natural deposition. A natural sense of self and an empathic ear when needed. This combined with miraculous levels of self-restraint cuts him usually into something of a paternal figure towards his fellows whether he likes it or not. This typically has the result of some tending to view the man as soft and unfit for service. But it takes a particular kind of undying flame to refuse to surrender one's conscience to another's keeping. Corr may not look for a fight and welcomes a diplomatic solution when it is available, but force his hand and you shall feel the wrath of the heavens fall down upon you. So while he may lack the efficiency of some in his ill-fated attempts to keep his moral center, the mission will always still be completed, the duty always done.

The relationship with his Aeon has evolved from a natural untrust and hatred towards something a little more pragmatic. Corr has come to understand he is a tool to it as much as it is a tool to him, and together they have the ability to meet both parties respective goals.

_{B A C K G R O U N D.}

The story begins on a storm swept evening in central Gatrea. When a storm does fall upon the typically dry continent it is one that rages and bellows for all to hear, hence the footsteps leading up the old stone steps carved from the cliff face that lead up to the Weissbern Monastery were hidden. It was only sometime later that Father Jerome Rhinebeck, that man of the Fayth in charge of the house of worship heard the small cries cutting through the night. Here in the darkness and the cold, he found a child wrapped in a small bundle. Taken the small speck of life into the dwelling the Father and the other monks cared for the child that had developed a fever from the resulting exposure. By some form of a minor miracle the child survived and the monks collectively decided to raise the child naming him Corr after Saint Corr the Redeemer.

And so this was the life that Corr was raised into. It was simple life where the twenty or so monks that lived, studied and prayed within the walls of the ancient building became a family all into its own. A world of seemingly endless books in the centuries old library that was the original genesis of the Monastery's entire existence and the sprawling wilderness which stretched on for miles in every direction. It was a place where adventure could be found quite easily if you looked hard enough around every corner. Yet despite its simplicity it was not a particularly easy life. The monks came from a certain sect of the Fayth that believed enlightenment and salvation came through the breaking away from earthly possessions and living in a state of continuous refinement and betterment. This translated to not only much reading and studying that had to be done on Corr's part but great levels of physical exertion. Felling trees and dragging the logs back to the Monastery to fuel the fire, breaking stones to use to repair holes in the building, and climbing down the cliff side to fetch water from the river and bring it back up without spilling anything.

Despite the hardships that were presented, Corr took to the life like he had been doing the motions for a lifetime. He studied the religious texts with a level of vigor and earnestness surprising giving his youth and the physical labor only served to mold his form into the hulking mass that serves him well today. It was fairly well assumed that Corr would take up the mantle of a priest within the Fayth, continuing his spiritual studies at the Temple proper. Yet before that was to be done, he was to travel an idea set forth by his adoptive Father and that was fairly common practice. The youth would leave Gatrea becoming missionaries of sorts and helping those that needed it to give them a greater understanding of the world before they fell into greater study. And so it was for that reason that Corr left the monastery with only a few coins to has name and the clothes on his back learning to live off the kindness and charity of others.

His travels would eventually take him to the outer ghettos of Faelan. It was here that Corr would help a woman beset by a group of thugs. The woman turned out to be a recruiter for the SOLDIER program sent to look through the ghetto for possible candidates that may have escaped the government's traditional testing sweeps. Seeing the ease at which Corr dealt with the thugs, she give him an offer to help the whole the world. All Corr knew really was that it was a military test of some sort. Something inside of him drove him to accept the offer after a week of pensive thought. To help, to bring unity that was the purpose of the Fayth or at least the Fayth in his eyes and to turn down an offer to help an unimaginable number of people could not be passed up. And so that was how Corr attend the primarily trails designed to weed out those unfit for the program and was brought to the Fort.

All he remembered of the actual 'joining process' was the particular sensitization of burning like being thrust into a pool of molten glass. Yet somehow he survived though not untouched with the permanent discoloration of his left iris being the mark of his own self-damnation. In hindsight knowing what he knew now, he would've never taken the woman up on the offer, but that was the problem with hindsight. Essentially becoming all that the Fayth called irredeemable and demonic wasn't something he took well at first. He took to basic primal instincts in a self destructive downward spiral reaping his own flesh and soul to fuel his own death. Eventually this lead to a stint in the medical ward from death due to near self-induced starvation. It was during this time of near death that a moment of clarity broke through the darkness that had surrounded him. From that point forward Corr seemed to be a changed person and threw himself with vigor at the tests and the training. The years of monastic toil had proven the perfect base as he we used to the rigor and intensity presented to him. The Aeon which had up to that point rejected began to easily bond and fuse with the empowered soul now that its walls had been broken open. They found in his level-headed and controlled mannerisms, a natural leader able to keep his cool in the heart of battle and willing to go above and beyond to get the job done. Corr became the weapon that he was born to become.

_{R E G A I L I A.}

Come the whirr and gnawing crash of death. Corr prefers adaptability and flexibility over brute force in terms of combat. Using his natural strength and durability he draws foes towards pitched duels and battles to draw them away from his compatriots and aims to keep those in his sights from moving further. In this regard he uses a strange weapon that comes originally from Rabanastre. A large churning and ripping saw blade atop a large pole of meteoric ore designed to tear flesh and bone asunder. (For ease of reference imagine a chainsaw on a six foot long pole) The manner of its construction allowing for mid to close range combat and keeping the enemy away from striking distant with well placed pokes and stabs.

His magic comes in a similar flavor designed to draw in foes and shield allies and self with enhanced defensive capabilities

_{Erronka [predatory. order. savage.] A flash of light projects outward from Corr's body as if exploding from the spine. The creature Erronka is directed at becomes consumed by predatory rage enhanceing its strength, but now directing its attacks in earnest towards Corr forgetting whatever foe it may have been challenging previously.}

_{Zilzal [strength. justice. law.] Corr's right arm becomes distorted and morphed by the power of the Aeon, rock suddenly bursting through the flesh. By making physical contact with this morphed hand to self or ally, the individual is bestowed higher defensive properties for a short period of time}

_{Garde [morality. protection. unthinking.] Corr seems to vanish in a flash of light that is produced from his core. He reappears next to a close ally (within thirty or so feet) in a protective stance taking whatever blow may have been attended against them towards his own form.}

_{A E O N.}

_{ādanyi ║ green/white
life, predatory, protection, order}

The creature was gargantuan in size having originally thought to be an island. In actually the island was the crest of its head and when drawn out from its depths they found a gargantuan creature. A writhing mass of vines and stone interlaced with detailed rune stone like patterns that glowed white with unknown power. Deeper analysis found the creature to be male if male could be such a designation. To many's surprise, the great creature seemed to have taken on the shape of a colossal sized human yet one of earth and light rather than flesh and bone.

_{C O R E.}

^{SENTINEL: Physical resistance by 100%}

_{O V E R D R I V E.}

In an explosion of fury and power, the energy held within Corr begins to leak in glowing pulses. Allies within range of the pulse receive a surge of energy and power increasing their strength and speed to levels which allow them to easily tear their foes asunder. Yet bestowing such amounts of energy upon others drains it twofold from Corr, sapping away his own life force to the point of death or something close enough too it.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

@Rockette
I try my best. Glad you dig it.

Mostly cause that means I get to use this now.



Though I guess technically the Fayth doesn't have a singular god but has more of a Zoroastrianism thing going on with the Duotheism thing. If I'm understanding it correctly. But hey still counts!

Edit:
But yeah it'll differently be an interesting experience with all these morally ambiguous hooligans rummaging about.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

boop.

boop boop

_{◄ All These Things That I've Done, O Magnum Mysterium ►}

C O R R R H I N E B E C K

^{Twenty-Seven | 13th of March | 198 cm / 6'6" | Commander}

_{A P P E A R A N C E.}

Legends say that there are rare occurrence when mountains tire of their eternal perches and walk amongst the people. Such myths may be the only possible explanation for the behemoth that is Corr. A creature born from the explicit dance of well tuned genetics and the blunt repetition of hard work. Musculature is not formed in an well balanced aesthetical decree, but brought forth by the stalwart mentors of wheelbarrow, axe upon hard bark and sledgehammer smashing down upon heavy stone. Such facets are further highlighted by the damage worn upon the body, damage from sun and wind, heavy callouses in a constant state of death and rebirth. Scar tissues runs across the body some thin and pale barely presents ghosts faded by the hand of time, others are crimson splashes, angry unyielding patches of torn and beaten flesh.

Despite an appearance which would otherwise suggest an consuming aura of severeness and rigidity, his face tells another story. Looking up beyond the nose crooked and perceptually swollen are two spheres one brown and the other a deep orange that of a dying ember, a faint reminder of the Aeon's touch, deepest into the rugged mountainside. Yet they glimmered with something that contrasted the image set forward, a sense of wrenching nostalgia and acute empathy. As if those eyes alone understood the weight of the world that had been pressed upon your shoulders. This lighter appearance is further accented by the smile that appears behind the well-kept beard. Welcoming and kind, it came without much provocation and was typically accented with a warm bouncing laugh that seemed to consume the entirety of the room.

Choices of attire articulate this more humble appearance. Loose fitting and ragged they either came from a perspective that did not have money or did not care up putting on airs. The only other particularly in the arrangement is the ink strewn across the flesh. Their rough and rugged presentation gives off the assumption that they were done by the self. If asked the man would simply explain that the process helped him think. The exact patterns and drawings holding no particular meaning except to the mind in the moment that they were birthed.

_{P S Y C H E.}

How does one rectify a belief in a faith which deems them an abomination. This is the keystone at the heart of Corr's emotional ensemble. Due to the nature of his birth and upbringing the teachings of the Fayth have been firmly interwoven into the man's own outlook towards the world. He believes in balance, unity and maybe most importantly of all redemption. This makes him somewhat reserved in the process of vilification and damnation for he at least holds true to the ideal that for every ounce of evil and corruption within that there must on the same course of logic be an equal amount of good that has been repressed. He does not force these teachings with the fiery words of sermon, he embodies his faith rather than try and explain it.

Yet now he has become what even the Fayth has deemed irredeemable. An unholy creature born of union with that which is Sin. At first this caused considerable angst as you may very well imagined. It lead to a certain level of self-destructive behavior and internally spiraling collapse. The only word that was heard was that of the bottle continually whispering its chant of soothing hypnagogia. Yet as time progressed and he was able to think and dwell upon these thoughts there was a peculiar epiphany. Forsaken by the institution he still believed in its teachings and one those tenets was that of redemption. That the dark and the light could always be brought back into harmony. And he saw a world of disharmony ahead of him. Being damned as he were there was nothing left to lose. He could throw himself fully at the challenges ahead of him and use the power of the Aeon to fix the great disharmony bubbling forth in the world and maybe in that way find his own sort of penance. To continually become more efficient, a better fighter, a better person. Learning slowly to love the straight line paths through life, create opportunities and grasp them. Continual refinement.

Despite his own internal crisis Corr has always been something of a jovial and kind hearted soul. Partly from the teachings and partly because of his own natural deposition. A natural sense of self and an empathic ear when needed. This combined with miraculous levels of self-restraint cuts him usually into something of a paternal figure towards his fellows whether he likes it or not. This typically has the result of some tending to view the man as soft and unfit for service. But it takes a particular kind of undying flame to refuse to surrender one's conscience to another's keeping. Corr may not look for a fight and welcomes a diplomatic solution when it is available, but force his hand and you shall feel the wrath of the heavens fall down upon you. So while he may lack the efficiency of some in his ill-fated attempts to keep his moral center, the mission will always still be completed, the duty always done.

The relationship with his Aeon has evolved from a natural untrust and hatred towards something a little more pragmatic. Corr has come to understand he is a tool to it as much as it is a tool to him, and together they have the ability to meet both parties respective goals.

_{B A C K G R O U N D.}

The story begins on a storm swept evening in central Gatrea. When a storm does fall upon the typically dry continent it is one that rages and bellows for all to hear, hence the footsteps leading up the old stone steps carved from the cliff face that lead up to the Weissbern Monastery were hidden. It was only sometime later that Father Jerome Rhinebeck, that man of the Fayth in charge of the house of worship heard the small cries cutting through the night. Here in the darkness and the cold, he found a child wrapped in a small bundle. Taken the small speck of life into the dwelling the Father and the other monks cared for the child that had developed a fever from the resulting exposure. By some form of a minor miracle the child survived and the monks collectively decided to raise the child naming him Corr after Saint Corr the Redeemer.

And so this was the life that Corr was raised into. It was simple life where the twenty or so monks that lived, studied and pried within the walls of the ancient building became a family all into its own. A world of seemingly endless books in the centuries old library that was the original genesis of the Monastery's entire existence and the sprawling wilderness which stretched on for miles in every direction. It was a place where adventure could be found quite easily if you looked hard enough around every corner. Yet despite its simplicity it was not a particularly easy life. The monks came from a certain sect of the Fayth that believed enlightenment and salvation came through the breaking away from earthly possessions and living in a state of continuous refinement and betterment. This translated to not only much reading and studying that had to be done on Corr's part but great levels of physical exertion. Felling trees and dragging the logs back to the Monastery to fuel the fire, breaking stones to use to repair holes in the building, and climbing down the cliff side to fetch water from the river and bring it back up without spilling anything.

Despite the hardships that were presented, Corr took to the life like he had been doing the motions for a lifetime. He studied the religious texts with a level of vigor and earnestness surprising giving his youth and the physical labor only served to mold his form into the hulking mass that serves him well today. It was fairly well assumed that Corr would take up the mantle of a priest within the Fayth, continuing his spiritual studies at the Temple proper. Yet before that was to be done, he was to travel an idea set forth by his adoptive Father and that was fairly common practice. The youth would leave Gatrea becoming missionaries of sorts and helping those that needed it to give them a greater understanding of the world before they fell into greater study. And so it was for that reason that Corr left the monastery with only a few coins to has name and the clothes on his back learning to live off the kindness and charity of others.

His travels would eventually take him to the outer ghettos of Faelan. It was here that Corr would help a woman beset by a group of thugs. The woman turned out to be a recruiter for the SOLDIER program sent to look through the ghetto for possible candidates that may have escaped the government's traditional testing sweeps. Seeing the ease at which Corr dealt with the thugs, she give him an offer to help the whole the world. All Corr knew really was that it was a military test of some sort. Something inside of him drove him to accept the offer after a week of pensive thought. To help, to bring unity that was the purpose of the Fayth or at least the Fayth in his eyes and to turn down an offer to help an unimaginable number of people could not be passed up. And so that was how Corr attend the primarily trails designed to weed out those unfit for the program and was brought the Fort.

All he remembered of the actual 'joining process' was the particular sensitization of burning like being thrust into a pool of molten glass. Yet somehow he survived though not untouched with the permanent discoloration of his left iris being the mark of his own self-damnation. In hindsight knowing what he knew now, he would've never taken the woman up on the offer, but that was the problem with hindsight. Essentially becoming all that the Fayth called irredeemable and demonic wasn't something he took well at first. He took to basic primal instincts in a self destructive downward spiral reaping his own flesh and soul to fuel his own death. Eventually this lead to a stint in the medical ward from death due to near self-induced starvation. It was during this time of near death that a moment of clarity broke through the darkness that had surrounded him. From that point forward Corr seemed to be a changed person and threw himself with vigor at the tests and the training. The years of monastic toil had proven the perfect base as he we used to the rigor and intensity presented to him. The Aeon which had up to that point rejected began to easily bond and fuse with the empowered soul now that its walls had been broken open. They found in his level-headed and controlled mannerisms, a natural leader able to keep his cool in the heart of battle and willing to go above and beyond to get the job done. Corr became the weapon that he was born to become.

_{R E G A I L I A.}

Come the whirr and gnawing crash of death. Corr prefers adaptability and flexibility over brute force in terms of combat. Using his natural strength and durability he draws foes towards pitched duels and battles to draw them away from his compatriots and aims to keep those in his sights from moving further. In this regard he uses a strange weapon that comes originally from Rabanastre. A large churning and ripping saw blade atop a large pole of meteoric ore designed to tear flesh and bone asunder. (For ease of reference imagine a chainsaw on a six foot long pole) The manner of its construction allowing for mid to close range combat and keeping the enemy away from striking distant with well placed pokes and stabs.

His magic comes in a similar flavor designed to draw in foes and shield allies and self with enhanced defensive capabilities

_{Erronka [predatory. order. savage.] A flash of light projects outward from Corr's body as if exploding from the spine. The creature Erronka is directed at becomes consumed by predatory rage enhanceing its strength, but now directing its attacks in earnest towards Corr forgetting whatever foe it may have been challenging previously.}

_{Zilzal [strength. justice. law.] Corr's right arm becomes distorted and morphed by the power of the Aeon, rock suddenly bursting through the flesh. By making physical contact with this morphed hand to self or ally, the individual is bestowed higher defensive properties for a short period of time}

_{Garde [morality. protection. unthinking.] Corr seems to vanish in a flash of light that is produced from his core. He reappears next to a close ally (within thirty or so feet) in a protective stance taking whatever blow may have been attended against them towards his own form.}

_{A E O N.}

_{ādanyi ║ green/white
life, predatory, protection, order}

The creature was gargantuan in size having originally thought to be an island. In actually the island was the crest of its head and when drawn out from its depths they found a gargantuan creature. A writhing mass of vines and stone interlaced with detailed rune stone like patterns that glowed white with unknown power. Deeper analysis found the creature to be male if male could be such a designation. To many's surprise, the great creature seemed to have taken on the shape of a colossal sized human yet one of earth and light rather than flesh and bone.

_{C O R E.}

^{SENTINEL: Physical resistance by 100%}

_{O V E R D R I V E.}

In an explosion of fury and power, the energy held within Corr begins to leak in glowing pulses. Allies within range of the pulse receive a surge of energy and power increasing their strength and speed to levels which allow them to easily tear their foes asunder. Yet bestowing such amounts of energy upon others drains it twofold from Corr, sapping away his own life force to the point of death or something close enough too it.

Spiritum

@HeySeuss@vietmyke@Mercenary Lord@Draken@AlexStarsion@Mike73

For a Fistful of Credits: A Star Wars Story

@Gowi
We can certainly try.

@Sep@Gunther@DepressedSoviet@Redd@Paraffin@jumpadraw
Anybody alive? If you aren't alive or have lost interest just don't respond to this message and leave me alone to cry.

[♛] 𝓡equiem. // the rise of soldier.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

Hey look at that another post. In other news my only other character application. Cause anymore and none of these stories would get done. But this is a fun one I promise.

---

Hey look a thing!

Bruiser

---

^{“Even when you self-destruct, you want to fail more, lose more, die more than others, stink more than others.”
~ Don DeLillo}

^{M O L L Y H A Y E S ♦ J U N E 1 6T H ( 13 ) ♦ F E M A L E ♦ C H A O T I C G O O D}

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

---

The only other story I want to tell at the moment really. Here is the high concept elevator pitch: Huckleberry Finn but with a girl that can throw tanks. Though honestly if you want a more in-depth idea basically post Runaways(save for some flashbacks here and there) hence why Molly is a little bit older. The others may pop up from time to time but are fair game for anyone elses that needs them. We begin as Molly goes out on her own again as the A.R.G.U.S provided foster family thing doesn't really work out, nor does the school thing, or the stop punching fist size holes through the floor thing. What follows is a story about nothing which is sorta about something. May involve: coming to terms with responsibility, aliens, eldritch abominations, and of course shenanigans.

N O T E S:

---

I'll put some notes here eventually. Maybe.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

Part 1

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste

Mexico

---

Despite Tony’s own experience in the dregs of high society, the executive suite of Un Hotel felt huge on a different scale of metrics entirely. It spanned the entire expanse of the top floor of the building, a labyrinthine complex of interconnected hallways and rooms. A women of southeast Asian descent dressed in a sleeveless black pullover stalked her way into the lounge and placed a pot of coffee onto the table. It took Tony a moment to notice that her arms were in fact cybernetic replacements, trained eyes catching the seems on the synthetic flesh.

“The coffee may be in your best interest.” Ms. Frost commented off-handedly as she sat down in a cube shaped chair, lines aggressively straight. Her attention turning away from Tony as she pressed a button on the side of the chair, holographic display flickering to life as she typed away on a hard light keyboard. She seemed perfectly at ease in her current environment blending in perfectly with the spotless walls and polished wooden floors that squealed with every shifting sole.

“Mister Stark.” Tony looked up, seeing the man across from him for the first time. “My name is Sunderland. You may have heard of me.” He wore a navy blue yukata open to the waist, broad chest splashed with specks of white hair, the stomach flat and rigid. Green eyes dark as the depths of the Schwarzwald.

“Avery Carlton Sunderland, President and CEO of the Sunderland Corporation, former four-star general and Supreme Allied Commander of NATO.” Tony listed in an unamused monotone as he poured some coffee into an unremarkable periwinkle coffee mug. “Ties to several criminal organizations including the Dai-Ichi Doku, Solntsevskaya Bratva, and Lucky Hand Triads among others.”

“Alleged connections Mister Stark.” Sunderland insisted running a large hand through his phantom white hair. “Such allegations were never proven.”

“Oh I remember now.” Tony started as he took a sip of the coffee limbs feeling like they were moving underwater. “The lead prosecutor died. Car accident wasn’t it? Wonder how much money it took for the police to look the other way?” As he felt the tension begin to increase Tony took another swig from his coffee to hide the smirk cracking across his face.

Sunderland smiled. “Business is business Mister Stark. Some of us fly around ‘saving the world’ and the rest of us try and make an honest living.”

“And your business now involves me?” Tony stated behind the rim of his mug.

“Something like that.” He snapped his fingers and Ms. Frost typed something into her holographic display as the lights in the room began to dim. Another display flickered to life showing a flickering satellite picture of large facility. “What you are currently looking at is one of our production houses in Kyoto. Last night at zero one hundred hours, an assailant destroyed a large section of our facility and made out with material sensitive to our corporation.”

“Still don’t see where I come in Sunderland. Call the police, or maybe one of your alleged associates. I’m sure they'd be willing to help you.” Tony suggested, though he already knew there was more there was always something more.

“I’d love to Mister Stark but if I did then we’d be forced to release this footage to the public.”

The still image transformed into recording taken from a security camera. It showed what Tony assumed to be a research floor consumed by fire and smoke. A group of scientist were running away, the camera automatically tracking their motion as they came to a locked door. Pounding on the glass they looked back in horror as a figure dressed in what appeared to be an advanced form of the his own armor stepped out of the smoke. Casually the ‘iron man’ raised his right hand and a bolt of energy was released slamming into the nearest scientist causing him to explode in a violent display of viscera. Tony fixated on the mouth’s of the scientist watching the silent screams as the short clip played on repeat

Sunderland face broke into one of unbridle amusement as the shift of power fell straight into his lap. “We know his name.”

Tony looked up at him without speaking.

“Ezekiel Stane, we hired him as a consultant on one of our projects. I’m told you were associates with his father Obadiah.”

_{Nine Years Prior}

---

The wall behind him shattered drywall kicking up into the air as he smashed his way through several rows of cubicles. He dug his fingers hard into the ground creating inch deep divots as he drag himself to a halt. His vision tilted and blurred as he looked down, the face of a poodle on a puppy calendar looking back up at him. His ears rang and he closed his eyes to block out the pain if only for a moment. Warnings flashed across his heads up display as the suit voiced its protest at the beating it was receiving.


╪ Armor compromised.
╪ Internal energy system failing
╪ Right thruster fifty percent.

He flicked the warnings away and pushed himself to his feet. He watched as a colossal silhouette step through the hole that he created. Plates of metal forged and pounded together far flung from the seamless design of his own suit. Glowing eyes of white like the high beams of a car peered down at him. A voice came from within the machine distorted and impossibly loud - a slow moving rockslide.

“You’re not getting away Stark.”
Stane ripped off another child-sized portion of wall and threw it overhand towards Tony. The suit’s targeting computer whirred to life almost immediately upon detecting the projectile. Data began flashing across the screen as it made mathematical calculations at the speed that only a supercomputer could before the reticule around the rock finally flashed green. Seemingly at the last possible moment Tony shot his hand upward and fired a pulse of energy from his gauntlet. The chunk of walls exploded into harmless superheated debris that spattered against and around tony.

Not waiting from the reprise he shot forward thrusters blaring straight towards Stane. Metal slammed against metal like an unholy car wreck as Tony smashed his fist into Stane’s chest plating. The force of the impact combined with the general top-heaviness of the Iron Monger suit, was enough to send the giant colossus onto its back. He landed atop driving a knee further downward as he leveled his gauntlet downward towards Stane’s head. It would of been so easy to just let it go. At this range even with the plating, Tony knew that Stane’s head would splatter like an egg slamming into the pavement.

The rage snaked through his body sinking its fangs in. He could do it. He could kill this man, this man that he had once called a friend. He could kill this man who had brought him only hell and torment, who had tried to kill his friends and family, who had tried to destroy his business. Nobody would care, nobody would mind. It would just be putting down another monster. One flick and it could all be over.

But dammit it all he couldn't.

At the last possible second he moved his hand and the pulse of energy punched a smoldering hole right next to Stane’s head. “Dammit Stane! This can end here. Nobody has to fucking die!”

“It aint that easy Stark.” The distorted voice responded and drove a fist upward knocking Tony away once more.

---

Tony realized that he had been idly tracing the perimeter of his mug in silence for what had to be at least a few minutes. “You could say that.”

Sunderland paid no mind to the delay as he leaned the light from the projection cast across the crevasses of his worn face. “What would the news think Mister Stark, if a so called ‘Iron Man’ was seen destroying the property and killing the employees of a competitor. We wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea would we? “

Something broke at that moment. Whatever last strand of restraint that was keeping him from flying off the handle broke as Sunderland’s smug grin of perfect white lasted just a fraction of a second too long. As he reached to pour himself another cup of coffee, he jerked his hand towards Sunderland sending a cascade of scalding hot liquid towards Sunderland’s face.

The retired general easily dodged it pivoting his body with ease never losing eye contact as the liquid splashed against the wall and dripped down writing unintelligible messages as it went. Tony was painfully aware that he know had the barrel of an Astra A-60 now pointed directly at his skull. Frost having produced the gun from seemingly out of the ether. As Sunderland readjusted himself in his seat, his gun-toting companion spoke her voice never changing from the smooth bored tones that she had introduced herself with.

“Everything is going to be okay Mister Stark, provided that you stop being an ass.”

He could escape. Nothing more than a sideways glance and he could activate the autopilot on the Suit that he and Happy had stashed in a farmhouse five miles out of town. It would be here within seconds and Happy would be alerted immediately to meet him at the extraction point. Judging by their location within the hotel and the general thickness of the walls, Ms. White would have less than one and a half seconds to react before the suit slammed into her and knocked the gun from her hands, before it deployed a smoke screen to allow him a chance to escape. He could get away and yet he figured they already knew that.

And yet there was something more. Something that was pushing him forward like an itch on an arm that had been entrapped in a fiberglass cast for weeks. Maybe it was the need for closure. Maybe it was some repressed desire for atonement for the past. And maybe it was the challenge, as this child of ghost he thought long since dead killed those with technology so apparently similar to his. As if he was calling him out. As if he was telling him to catch him if he could.

Slowly he placed the coffee pot down the table and looked at Sunderland. “What do you need?”

Sunderland smiled and brought his hands down upon his legs with a loud slap. “It’s simple Mister Stark. You and Miss Frost will be tasked with bringing Stane back to me alive. So that we can recover the research that he stole and then you can hand him over to whatever authority you may like.”

“I don’t need help.” Tony replied as he flicked his head towards the woman who still had a gun pointed at his head.

“Considered it an... insurance policy on my part.

A moment of silence passed and another. Finally Tony shrugged.

“When do I start?”

Spiritum

@HeySeuss@vietmyke@Mercenary Lord@Draken@AlexStarsion@Mike73
It's late. (I'm terrible sorry)I haven't proofread it and it probably sucks but that's okay. Because its finished!

*Proceeds to crawl into bed*