Lugubrious

World of Light

Death

Name: Death
Game Origin: Darksiders 2
Appearance:

Death

Personality: Death is an arrogant, sarcastic, cold and calculating anti-hero who is resourceful and opportunistic. He can also be cunning, such as when he devised a plan during the Abomination crisis, deceiving both his enemies and allies in order to achieve his goal. He is usually very ruthless, much preferring to achieve victory by any means than lose. Despite his seemingly harsh nature, Death can be kind. He can (and has in the past) help people in their endeavors, even if the end goal does not benefit him personally.

Background: After War was accused by The Charred Council of starting the Apocalypse prematurely and imprisoned, Death would not believe this and set out on his own to find some way to save the younger Horseman. Unknown to the Council, Death traveled to The Veil in search of the Crowfather. He intended to speak to the Crowfather in hopes he would know of a way to resurrect the human race and prove War’s innocence. The Crowfather told Death that the key to proving War’s innocence would be found in The Tree of Life and opened a portal there.

Before Death could enter, the old one closed the portal and refused to open it again. A ferocious battle ensued, in which Death would have defeated the Crowfather. An amulet that the Crowfather had around his neck fell and shattered on the ground, it’s glowing green fragments shooting out and imbedding themselves within Death. The Horseman was rendered unconscious and the Crowfather died, a dark vortex forming around the two and consumed them. When Death awoke, he found himself in the Forge Lands, home of the Makers. Soon, he found out that this land was filled with Corruption and this corruption would soon destroy the Tree of Life and the rest of the land along with it.

After a long and perilous journey, Death was close to reaching the end of his quest. He came face to face with the Avatar of Chaos, the thing that was spreading all of the corruption. A brutal fight commenced with Death prevailing over the Corruption. The Horsemann made it to the Well of Souls where he knew he had to plunge himself into it to resurrect the Human Race and save War. But before he could do so suddenly a bright light came forth and overtook him and everything around him.

Specialty: Melee Combat
Level: 1
Experience: 0/10

Powers: Death Grip - A power that allows Death to use a ghostly hand to pull items towards him or pull himself up to certain points he cannot reach regularly.

Strengths:
Agile - Death can use his tremendous agility to climb, run on walls and leap large distances.

Weapon Combat - Death can wield a variety of weapons such as armblades, gauntlets, and claws to maces, axes, and spears.

Crafting - Although not nearly as good as a Maker, Death has learned to craft and can create weapons and potentially other items as well.

Weaknesses:
Ranged Attacks - Death much prefers using his signature scythes or other close-range melee weapons to fight his enemies. Because of this, he is extremely inept at using any type of ranged weapon. He can also have a difficult time dealing with enemies that mainly deal damage from afar.

Glass Cannon - Death isn’t too tough and has trouble when it comes to receiving damage. Although not super weak, he can’t take much damage before he cannot continue to fight any longer.

Spirits: None

Kindred Spirits:
War - One of Death’s fellow Horseman,The Red Rider, War.

Strife - Another of the Horsemen, the gunslinger Strife.

Fury - The last of the four, Fury.

Inventory: Death carries his scythe The Harvester with him. The Harvester has the appearance of two short dual-wieldable scythe blades that can be joined together to form a double bladed scythe staff.

@Hokagae

It's been a year since you last left, without much in the way of a farewell. Is there any context that you might want to give along with that sheet? Consistent participation is something I ask of all my players.

Overlord: Momento Mori

With my latest post, I'm introducing the realization of something Brushen Penn did when in the game, as a result of Penn's own character flaws. People do all sorts of things in games since they're not real, but in a setting like this the echoes such actions can be dire.

Overlord: Momento Mori

Barely had the Director taken a step toward his new location of interest than a hail from behind demanded his attention, and he didn't need to see the owner of the voice to identify her. “Well, if it isn't Light.” He span around to face her and planted his cane before him to lean on it with both hands. He fully intended to say more, as a man more than comfortable hogging the limelight, but the eldritch thing didn't let him get another word in before proceeding in earnest to outline what she wanted. Fixing her with a coy smile, he intoned, “Well certainly! We here in the factor cater to all manner of clientele, even offering custom items. For the right price.” Unless ordered otherwise but a sufficient authority, the industrialist harbored no intention of doing a smidgen of work for free. He wondered how Light would take it; she didn't exactly seem the sensible type. Indeed, she instead started listing off potential items while rocking back and forth, fidgeting ceaselessly.

The last thing in the list got a sincere chuckle out of Graft, mostly due to its phrasing. “Deadly blades, of course. Explosives, definitely. Hugging...who knows? There isn't anything a sharp mind and willing hands can't do.” He pronounced the axiom with gusto, then gave Light a wink. “If sufficiently motivated.” It occurred to him: did she even have money? As a vault guardian it seemed like a must, but one could never tell anything for certain with Light. Ultimately, it did not matter, since Graft happily dealt in anything of value. Right now, no propositions lay on the table, however much Salem appeared to be hyping Light's request up.

Graft snuck a glance at the unreal boy. Surely, referring to Light as a sibling was a precept of his instilled by his creator? Who in their right mind could think of such a creature so fondly? Why, just standing here being civilized with her gave him a headache. No doubt he meant it in a mocking way, which summarized the doll's behavior rather thoroughly. Squeezing the bridges of his nose, Graft shook his head to clear the gnawing haze. “Really, that aura,” he remarked to the eldritch one, his tone chiding. “I simply must develop a dampener at some point. Having that would be its own reward.”

With a final shake of his head and blinking of his eyes, he put on another smile and turned back toward the far end of the Processing Center. “But one thing at a time. Let's see what's behind Lady Penn's special door. Follow if you wish, but if she returns I shall have grounds to insist you made me do it.” Snickering, he waltzed onward, circling around the enormous, bulging core that hummed away busily. A number of Guards stood around it, watching from grotesque masklike faces with weapons in hand. Had Light not been on the whitelist, her arrival in the Factory would have triggered an alert the moment a Guard or sensor discovered her, turning the whole place into a deathtrap. Graft expected that various Guards watched over her as she found her way through the place, but none would have given her any trouble. He prided his domain on treating welcome guests with a sense of decency, unlike some Chapters.

In short order Graft reached the other side. There, the ribbed wall narrowed down to a singular point, where singular door lay hidden in the darkness. As Graft approached, a woman stepped from the shadows. Shorter than him by a head, she wore an elegant but smart dress, like a particularly fashionable doctor. Most notably, instead of a head, the woman featured a giant heart instead, its many protruding arteries arranged like cords of hair with the help of metal clasps. She had no face, merely a few blue veins in the vague shape of eyes that pulsed with light to the beat of her heart, but a bubbly voice issued from it regardless. “Hello, Director.”

Graft inclined his head to her. “Papillary, my faithful assistant,” he greeted. His eyes remained on her for only a second before landing on the murky, ominous door. “So, here we are. Ready to investigate the strange banging noises coming from our creator's forbidden door, hmm?”

Papillary winced, clamping her hands together in front of where a human's heart would be. “Sir...are we really going to do this? It's so...unwise. She'll surely find out, and when she does, what then?”

Unperturbed, Graft blew off her worries with a wave of his hand. “Pshaw. Rodias gave us his word that the other Sable Lords are interminably indisposed. Besides, maybe she intended for us to find it. A keepsake. No, a legacy! And think of the possibilities, dear Papillary! There could be a wondrous treasure, worth millions. A brilliant technology that could revolutionize the Factory. A spectacle so incredible that we can charge admission just to see it, like an attraction in a county fair!” Graft's eyes glowed with greed. “That last one I plan to do anyway, by the way. Make a note of it.”

His assistant produced a notepad and hurriedly jotted that notion down. Graft wanted for her to finish and put away the pad, then motion to the door. “Now, if you'll do the honors.”

For a moment Papillary stood still, then pointed to herself and squeaked, “M-me?”

Graft crackled. “Yes, you! What are you waiting for, the grass to grow? Grass is a feature for next quarter! Get it open, would you?”

“O-of course!” Papillary rushed over to the handle, hesitated, then tried it and found it locked. A moment's examination determined that it was locked from her side, so with ginger hands she undid the lock. She then took a deep breath, her heart pounding, and heaved the door open.

Inside Graft saw a small chamber lined with identical furniture, mostly couches. It was carpeted, with wooden walls, and softly lit, a far cry from the adjoining Factory in style. However, Graft wasn't looking at the furnishings. Lying in a heap on the floor was an extraordinary woman with stone-gray skin, black-and-purple hair, and tubular black horns, tail, and wings. She could only be some kind of demon, but she wore a pure-white dress, now disheveled, that accentuated a gratuitous bust. Graft guessed she had once been strikingly beautiful, but the woman was badly wounded. Bruises, gashes, and other marks practically covered her. Her face in particular was a mess of welts and swelling. Everything about his screamed broken, battered, and weak. Graft wasted only one second taking this in, stony-faced, before tendrils erupted from beneath his coat. The technoorganic tentacles spread out in a fan formation in the doorway, completely blocking it.

“What's in there?” Papillary asked in a shaky voice, clearly concerned by Graft's sudden action, and one that exposed his true nature at that.

The words prompted the crumpled woman to shift slightly, feebly trying to look up at the figure in the doorway. Graft didn't need to look at her eyes to confirm his suspicions, but he did anyway. “I'll handle it,” he told his assistant as he held out a hand. A complicated apparatus appeared and Graft deployed it, tossing it onto the ground to unfurl and rise up. Inside the mechanism a technoorganic heart began to beat, and after another moment of setup it extended its tendrils to inject the prone figure. Restorative blood began to flow, and as he watched Graft noticed that the demon's wounds appeared to heal much faster than they should. Low health, low defenses, easily hurt by basic interactions of a high-level entity. She must be very low level. Created for a singular purpose. “Attend to my guests. I'll be along shortly,” he continued for Papillary, before addressing his guests. “My esteemed compeers. The Factory is yours to explore. I would ask that you avoid the Production Center specifically, but you can go with Papillary to the laboratory if you want to see me work, or have her set things up if you'd like to contribute to progress by testing my latest specimen's mettle.” Neither could have missed the technoorganic wyvern laying in the middle of the Testing Room as they made their way through.

The machine worked for another couple of seconds until it could do no more, then retracted its arteries to wait for its duration to run out. When the others were gone, Graft pulled back his own tentacles and knelt. “From this moment on, you're hired.” She stared at him, uncomprehending, through half-lidded pink eyes. The corners of his mouth tightened. Low intelligence too. “That means you're under my protection. I intend to look after my employees, as a good boss should. Let us put aside costs and duties for now and get you to my office for treatment.” He used his throat to release a distinctive tone and the nearest squad of Guards came running. At Graft's instruction, they picked her up with utmost care, and the director himself took off his coat and laid it over her to hide her from view. He led the group toward his office with his upper both clad in only vest and shirt, both backless, the mottled nanoflesh and carpet of tentacle heads clearly visible.

World of Light

Post made! The midboss fight in the Land of Adventure is almost done, and the Police Station isn't too far from being finished either.

@Gentlemanvaultboy, your story was great! Struck at something that's really a core theme of Linkle's character. Please enjoy your 20 dream EXP.

Since there was only one counting participant in that last event, events are going to be retired for the foreseeable future, which works just as well since there aren't any more holidays for a while, either.

World of Light

Ancestral Farmstead

Level 5 Tora - (37/50) EXP and Level 4 Poppi - (35/40) EXP
Tora Stress: 95/100 and Poppi Stress: 35/100
Location: the Land of Adventure
Word Count: 1083

Dodging out of the way of a perilous Koopa shell, Peach called out to Linkle in reply. “Got it!” After the heroic efforts of Tora and Poppi to keep fighting despite the heavy damage taken by the Nopon, she wasn't about to let a hair on his furry head be harmed. With the moment of peace offered to her by the Bowser crew's gambit, she took the chance to survey the hilltop. The sky, still a spectacular infinity of undulating gold, looked down upon a scene almost devoid of husks. After helping to fell the Thing from the Stars, the Centurion kept the momentum up, taking out the stragglers one after another. On the other side of the bucking Brachydios, which fought to dislodge the young men clinging to its back, Geralt seemed to be dispatching the last few. Another shell bounced Peach's way, and this time she stepped forward to plant her new boot right onto it, kicking it toward the last farmhand. The rock-hard puck swept the fossilized human's legs out from under it, sending it to the ground in a heap. Peach then sauntered up, planted the barrel of her scattershot against its back, and casually pulled the trigger. The recoil of the bone-jarring blast forced her to looked away, but when she looked again she saw only ash and crystal shards reassembling themselves into a Crystalline Aberration. Sighing, Peach reloaded and fired again.

One to go.

At least, she thought so. An agonized yell from one corner of the battlefield sparked panic in Peach and drew her gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something ghastly floating above Michael, reeling from pain on the ground, but when she looked straight at it the monster disappeared. Linkle and Franklin saw it too. The latter, egged on by fear and rage, sprinted in to try and attack it straight-on, but his hurled machete missed its invisible mark. Linkle, however, fired off a couple bomb bolts in the general area. As they detonated on the ground in two subsequent plumes of flame and smoke, somehow leaving the nearby men completely unharmed, the explosions' area of effect caught the unseen entity in the blast. A distorted whinny pierced the air, and after another moment the Plow Horse reappeared about six feet to the right of where Michael lay—and within sprinting distance from Peach.

Before, the princess might have not seized the chance, but she was not the same as before. New battle sense galvanized new muscle to action, and Peach sprang forward. She dashed a short distance, momentarily leaving behind Bowser, Hat Kid, Junior, and Tora, and tossed a Grenaduck. The yellow, rubbery explosive bounced off the ground, over the horse, and behind the Plow Horse. Its small burst left Michael unharmed, but it pushed the airborne husk Peach's way, and more importantly got Michael out of her scattershot's gratuitous line of fire. Thunder and flame erupted from her weapon and ripped straight through the beast, tearing it into two hovering halves. They still moved, still alive, but Peach doubted they'd be much trouble to dispatch. The team had more pressing matters on its hands.

When she turned her attention to the Brachydios, however, she found her teammates already on the job. The Ace Cadet had shimmied onto the monster's head to offer his knife more tender targets, and as Peach watched Courier 6 approach the head from another angle. Cadet's dagger slid into the soft, thin scales behind the Brachydios's eye, making it rear its head back, and amped up on chems 6 took his shoot. Five of them, in fact. Almost a half-dozen slugs slammed into the monster's throat, spraying blood and provoking a wet, muted growl. The next moment a cubic arrow lodged there, launched by Linkle a fair distance away, and she sent a friend to join it soonafter. All the mounting injury reached a boiling point, and the already-temperamental monster went mad. It let loose an eardrum-rattling roar, forcing anyone without protection to clamp over their ears to avoid headsplitting pain, and charged. Literally steaming mad, it stomped toward the Courier to throw out a hefty sideswipe before thundering toward Linkle. It threatened to trample the Centurion on the way, bulling mindlessly toward its target until it stepped foot on the volatile ground left by the buried Aberrations.

The timing was perfect. Earth burst up as the interred crystals exploded, sending spiky fragments and maddening Color upward in a huge arc. Linkle herself barely avoided the chaos, but the Brachydios took it wholesale, and those gripping its hide took a portion, too.

Ace Cadet and Euden gain 20 stress

Head spinning, Euden watched as the Cadet seized the opportunity. This time his knife hit the monster's unguarded eye. The Brachydios staggered, its rage muddled into confusion by the Aberrations. Like a bolt from the blue the realization hit Euden, too: this was his chance as well. Draconic power flowed through him, begging to be unleashed. He took a deep breath to steady himself, released his grip on the monster's scales, and jumped into the air. Around him the wind surged, and then, in a gale-force whirlwind, he transformed.

A giant green dragon appeared and dropped with its full weight on the Brachydios. The monster wanted to run, to flee from the losing fight and nurse its wounds, but thanks to Midgardsormr he was going nowhere. Employing his full strength, the dragon planted an elbow across Brachydios' neck, splayed its limbs with his own, and ensnared a back leg at a bad angle with his tale. Splashing slimy spittle everywhere, the Brachydios struggled, but could not escape the pin. The path to victory lay open.

Peach did not intend to squander it. The princess hustled over, scattershot in hand. Poppi looked down at Tora, both having gotten a minute or two to compose themselves, and the Nopon nodded his encouragement. “Now is Poppi time to shine!”

“Roger, roger.” With an affirmative nod of her own Poppi stood, switched back to QT mode, and boosted into the fight. Once in range she started hammering the beast's back with her Mech Arms, aiming to break bones while leaving its exposed belly for allies with cutting weapons. Her flaming metal gauntlets careened into the blue scales again and again, a constant barrage that turned scales into slivers and mashed the flesh beneath. Peach ran up to the monster's head and fired into its slimy horn, tearing a huge chunk free.

Nero

Location: Chief's Office, RCPD, Dead Zone

The pair searched in a near-total silence, hearing only the ticking of the elaborate grandfather clock in the chief's office and distant rumblings from somewhere in the building. Nero found nothing that might be used to open the strange lock on the gate barring the way into the adjunct attached to the private collection room, not even a hint. Joker remained quiet as he examined the place, taciturn and contemplative, but the devil hunter's patience wore thin. With the situation bearing down on the police station, he could not afford to waste time. After shaking his head in resignation, he strode over to the gate. “Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat.” He reached up with his prosthetic hand, closed it around the edges of the locking mechanism, and yanked it off. It tore free with a wrenching noise of protest, and after a few more choice applications of force, the gate swung open.

Inside he found a miniature treasure trove. An honest-to-goodness chest lay nestled in the middle of various supplies, including emergency rations, ammunition, and medicine. Curious despite himself, Nero went ahead and opened the chest, which took a little more doing than he expected. When the lid flung open after a moment, the chest itself broke down and five items flew out to lie on the ground. There was a ceremonial dagger with a thin black blade, a handsome crucible, a brisk-looking scarf, and -though Nero didn't know what it was- an alternate costume contained within a police badge.

Nero shrugged. “Well, nothing really interesting, but at least we won't be going back empty-handed after all this time.” He grabbed as much as he could carry, figuring that Joker would do the same, and headed back out of the room toward the Main Hall.

Maximilian Howard

Location: Main Hall, RCPD, Dead Zone

Groaning, the police captain rubbed his head. Just when everyone got together with all their information and a resolution to this crisis was visible, something terrible had to happen. From the moment Blazermate gave the assembly her news, the mood over the entire hall had transfigured from cautiously optimistic to massively dreadful. It reminded Howard of something that happened in a lot of movies: someone asked 'how could it get any worse?' and just like that, it got worse. This time, of course, nobody had asked. Yet misfortune arrived all the same. Losing Louis hit Howard especially hard. Since his arrival the soft-spoken but extremely capable young man did everything in his power to help out those trapped in this hell, and now he was dead.

While he struggled to get his thoughts together, Donnie filled the dead air. He summed up every clue at the survivors' disposal and suggested a course of action, mentioning the station's surveillance system as well. Ratchet and Clank's postulation of radio use reached him as well. “Yeah, good calls. Radios were outdated where I'm from, so it didn't cross my mind, but there must be some in the east office, where we keep the various equipment. We can figure out who took the pages, too.” With a nod Howard turned to assign the task, only to find Jill already at work on the computer. Her eyes moved like hummingbirds, poring through four camera feeds at once for anything that might help to solve any one of the problems facing her team. Howard threw her an appreciative look, whether she saw it or not, and turned back. “Alright then. Form your own teams if you like, but do it fast. We've still got some units in the station somewhere. Nero and the kid, Lucatiel, Leon, and the guy with the cane.” Four more faces flashed in his mind, reminding him. “Plus that guy who went with Olivia. Fox went looking for Lucatiel and Leon, too.”

Howard rolled his neck and pivoted his shoulders, working out a few cramps. The others discussed a few advantages they did have, such as Jak's recovery of somewhat confusing ammo-generating capabilities, and Ratchet and Clank's apparent immunity to time-stopping. The entire idea of stopping time made Howard's head hurt, but he trusted the others knew what they were doing. When he stilled himself again, his collapsed x-baton was in his right hand. “Nowhere's safe anymore. We need to get all the civilians in one place. Damn it, we don't have enough people. Ghalt, stay here with Jill and I.” The shotgun-wielding mad nodded stiffly. “Eddie, Tess, get to the civvies on the east side, including the stair guard. If that dog's still in the break room, get him, too.” He scanned the area, searching for more fighters. He found only Fortune, aside from the new arrivals, but their previous conversations had made it clear she didn't exactly expect authority. “Can anyone grab the civvies on the west side?”

“Captain!”

Howard turned to look at Jill. She launched into her discovery without any need for prompting. “Found them. Both of them. Whoever this killer is, he's been posing as a civilian. There's a good chance he's with one of the civilian groups now. There's a fight in the Operations Room, I can't make out the details in the chaos. And I got who took the pages.” Narrowed brows overlooked hard eyes. “It was the swordfighter. Lucatiel.”

V

Location: Operations Room, RCPD, Dead Zone

Taking hold of Griffon's talons, V jumped into the air and allowed the bird to carry him backward. Not a second later, the fist of Mr. X crushed the metal desk he thought he'd pinned his quarry against. His eyes followed V as he fled, dead and unfeeling in a stony gray face. V clenched his teeth and glanced again at the red orb hovering above a black ashen spire near the room's door. Shadow needed another few moments to recuperate, but with X on the offensive, he might not get that time. Even with one of the dividing walls smashed by the brute giving him more space to flee in, he could not retreat forever.

X took a half step back before bodily kicking the crumpled desk. It tumbled through the air and struck V in the chest, knocking him to the ground in a wheezing heap. A few yards away, Leon pulled himself to his feet using the wall, and shouted, “Hey!” to get the tyrant's attention. X glanced his way and got a bullet in the face for his efforts, though Leon's second and third missed, and the next pull of his pistol's trigger gave up only a despairing click. Empty. Ignoring him X moved forward, shouldering debris aside as he approached V. Griffon fired off a volley of purple bolts, but none so much as phased X as he advanced.

Another shout from behind alerted X, prompting him to turn and catch Lucatiel's greatsword on his arm. Its blade cut through cloth and flesh, but not nearly far enough, and X unhurriedly brought up his other arm to sock the hollowing woman in her masked face. She staggered sideways and X resumed his march toward V, now only a couple feet away and still fighting to work his bruised lungs. Lucatiel, however, stopped her fall with a hastily-planted foot, and with a guttural scream she pivoted around to shove the tip of her greatsword into X's back.

Without a word the silent man spun around, wrenching the weapon out of Lucatiel's grasp, and delivered a blistering hook to her back that sent her sprawling, down for the count. Her mask clattered to the ground, bounced one, and stopped. Leon appeared, having limping his way over, but X elbowed him aside. Then nothing remained in the way.

He bent to pick up V by the neck and held him against the wall. V grabbed at his hand, his efforts to break free futile. Tighter and tighter the tyrant squeezed, until the darkness closed in around V. Griffon clawed at his tormentor, screeching an incoherent series of insults in a vain attempt to get X's attention, but nothing was working.

Just as his vision was about to go dark, a red laser blast struck X in the back, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the source of the disturbance. In the open doorway to the Operations Room stood an anthropomorphic fox, holding a blaster trained on X. “Put that man down!” he screamed.

V's eyes weren't on Fox. They lay on the red orb floating right by him, a cone of black sand whirling beneath it. He watched it break, the crimson magic inside released, and called his demon to his side. Reaching for the last of his air, he croaked, “...Gouge him.”

Shadow burst from below in the form of a huge maw, like a nightmarish venus flytrap, and bit down on X from behind. A pivot of the vice's thick stem yanked the tyrant off his feet, through a backward arc, and onto the ground head-first. He went to get up as though nothing happened, but Griffon flew over him, charging his magic. “BUUUUUUURN, LITTLE PIGGY!” A sphere of brilliant purple lightning expanded from him, electrocuting X until steam rose from his coat, and his nervous system failed. Like a giant puppet his toppled over, and Shadow was waiting beneath him.

Transforming into an ashen saw, it caught X as he fell, keeping him suspended on top of the ripping blade. Black needles rose beneath X as he was sawed, piercing both forearms and calves to hold him up on the living sawblade. Laboriously Lucatiel rose again, lifting her sword from the ground a she lurched neared. She upended the blade, placing it right next to X's neck with its tip against the ground, and with all her strength she pulled from the other side. Leon, sporting a nasty bruise on his face, joined in to help her pull, and together they dragged the greatsword's blade through X's neck and out the other side. His head hit the floor and rolled, no more dead than his still-thrashing body.

But it was faded.

An unhealthy, whitish-violet pallor had overtaken X. Still rubbing his neck, V almost laughed when he recognized it. With a flourish of his cane he blinked over to where the head lay, glaring at him with baleful, soulless eyes. V cleared his throat, raised his cane and told it, “He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star. Die.” He plunged his cane's blade into the stony face, creating an impression like cracked glass that gave forth lavender sparks. When he withdrew it, the monster died.

Exhaling, V collapsed onto the ground, where he held himself on his side. Fox approached, clearly appalled by the brutality of the tyrant's execution, and swallowed before speaking. “I...was, uh, wondering where you guys were. Are you...okay?”

He let the somewhat rhetorical question hang. Nobody before him was okay, but they were alive. That, he knew, beat the alternatives. After a few seconds he continued. “I needed to ask. Donovan found a book that might tell us about the ghost, but it's missing pages. Do any of you know where they are?”

In turn the three shook their heads. Lucatiel, however, narrowed her eyebrows after doing so, thinking hard. A couple of second later her expression turned into one of realization, and shame. “I...am sorry. I must have forgotten. It is so damnably hard to remember...these days.” She rummaged in her pockets, and turned up a couple papers. “There are ghosts where I am from. I saw the writing and thought I should take them to be prepared.”

She held them out to Fox, who took them excitedly. “Great!” He read quickly, checking each entry for familiar information one by one. “Oh, this is it! 'Preta'!” Filled with vigor he took off running, only to stop for a moment at the door. “Hurry back to the main hall. We need to get rid of this thing, pronto!” Then Fox disappeared, though the echo of his frenzied footsteps through the corridor could still be heard.

The others picked themselves up to leave, moving slowly to relieve their collective wounds. Through the ajar door to the records room a single eye above a humorless smile watched them go, the other sightless and hidden beneath its owner's hairdo. “Inspirational,” he breathed, before vanishing in a plume of blue smoke.

World of Light

Merry Christmas, everyone! It's been a full week since my last update. Since it's the most wonderful (and for many most busy) time of the year, I won't be enacting Prompt Failure for a while longer, even if your character was in direct danger this last round. Still, please do not neglect your posting!

World of Light

Tora's Christmas Dream: "Heart to Heart"

“Cheers!”

A great many voices swelled at once, and a host of cups thrust into the air. Every face held weariness, scarred on the inside and out from the months-long campaign, but today they held joy, too. Enough days had passed since the end to let the numbness fade away and the scars scab over, and now the veterans had gathered to celebrate. They'd come from their chosen homes all over the World of Light, from the cities, villages, remote reaches, and pitstops alike, to this gorgeous terrace atop Lominscuttle Town overlooking the western sea.

Tora drank deep from his glass, emptying the whole thing in one long gulp, his eyes closed to savor the sweet taste. “Aah!” With a smack of his lips he set the cup down, the impact reverberating through the giant ring-shaped table so that everyone else could feel it. Their motions reached him too, thanks to the table's design. It was a reminder that everyone was linked, close together in ways despite how far apart they might seem. Even someone on the opposite side could feel what Tora was doing, and he could feel them. Of all the things he'd designed, it stood out as a particular point of pride to Tora, though of course he treasured a few things more.

Beaming, he looked around. He saw quite the assembly. Several dozen faces, some new and some old. A few from the very beginning, but just as the Master of Masters promised so long ago, none exactly the same as back then. Even with all of her acquired parts uninstalled, Blazermate looked totally different from how he remembered her. Like a next-generation model of a device, versus one that had been in production a few years. Plus, ever since she embraced becoming technoorganic, she'd been alive, too. A big change, one that took a long time to settle in. Tora saw Junior living it up as well, enjoying a meaty feast. Well, he wasn't so junior anymore. With all the spirits he'd taken in, one couldn't say he was the spitting image of his father, but he carried the torch proudly. As Tora looked at the others in turn, he tugged at his whiskers absently. A full two months, and he still hadn't gotten used to the facial hair gained from absorbing both doctors Wily and Light. Or the nose, for that matter, but he tried his best to forget about that. At least Light had helped him maintain his roundness, which Tora was grateful for. All this time, and he was still a Nopon. Still himself.

His eyes fell upon a familiar shape, one that filled his heart with pride and joy every time he saw it. The one and only Poppi, his greatest creation. He remembered with a twinge of embarrassment the first time she accessed her third form—everyone's judgmental stares. But they learned to live with it soon enough, especially with how rarely she ever changed back nowadays, pretty much only for practical purposes. Tora could not deny the metaphor presented by those changes: that she was growing up. While still his Blade, now and forever, she had become her own person through and through. Those days of self-doubt and worries about real or fake were long gone. Sitting there, joking with Daxter with a smile on her face, she displayed a gratifying, confident self-assurance. For his part, Tora couldn't be happier.

A moment later he found himself looking at the sunset. A gorgeous orange against the horizon, it tinged the entire World of Light in yellow and gold. For a while the sunset instilled in him a touch of fear; not only did it remind him of that splendorous nightmare in the Ancestral Farmstead, but it also carried with it a measure of uncertainty. What would the night bring? And the next morning? But here they all were. Alive and well, changed but not undone, able to unconditionally appreciate the beauty of a vivid sun shining upon the endless sea. The sun's glow created a road of glittering white straight below it across the water, a path to the horizon. Tora gave a long sigh, glad for peace and happiness at last.

“Father?”

Tora turned, unaware of how long he'd been staring down at the flawless coast. Poppi stood beside his chair, hands clasped behind her back and that same smile on her face. It still sounded a little strange after all this time, but every time she said that word, his heart became full. There remained no doubt in his mind, no words like 'artificial' and 'unreal'. Like a father he had once created her, his beautiful girl, and here she stood—all grown up, far beyond the point of doubt. Beside her, there stood another familiar face, this one looking a little sheepish. Another machine that appeared human, with spiky brown hair and adventurous eyes above a genial smile. “Meh?” Tora said.

“I wanted you to say hi to Volnutt. You remember him, right?” Poppi put an arm around her companion, pulling the slightly-shorter fellow close. That provoked a very slight furrow of Tora's bushy brows, though he knew it wasn't the first time, since he did remember. Mega Man Volnutt, one of the many 'Mega Men' encountered during the long journey. A nice guy, earnest and spirited, he joined the team in the Ruined Metropolis and soon proved that the heart of a hero resided in that metal body. From the moment he and Poppi met, they'd been fast friends. Something else prodded at Tora's mind, like a snippet of the first half of a conversation, left in stasis some time ago.

Poppi broke into his reverie. “Could we talk in private?”

---

A few minutes later, the Nopon, the Blade, and the reploid stood by the water's edge, a story down from where the revelry on the terrace continued. A few feet away, the lapping waves separated land from a sea that stretched on forever, but Poppi wasn't looking at the beauty of the western coast. Instead Poppi looked conflicted, like she wanted to say something but couldn't. Only after a time did finally she start to speak. “I asked you something a while back, and you said we'd talk when the war was over.”

Tora nodded slowly. That sounded right.

“So here we are.” Poppi chose her words carefully. “I want...I want to spend my life with Volnutt. To be with him. To travel the World, to adventure, to see everything there is to see...together. I...we wanted to get your blessing.”

Tora held his breath steady. In, out. In, out. He closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. They gleamed like metal, steely black and implacable. “Tora cannot give blessing, meh. Cannot give Poppi up. Poppi too important to Tora!”

Wringing her hands, Poppi shook her head. Her cascading lavender hair flicked from side to side. The look on her face suggested that Tora's response was not unexpected, but it did not suggest compliance. “Father, please,” she pleaded. “I know you love me, and I love you too, but I'm not yours to keep. Volnutt is important to me, too. It's time that I walked my own path.”

Tears had formed in her eyes. Tora's, too. He meant to be stern and firm, but here he was, weeping, betraying himself. Somehow he knew his grip couldn't hold. “Poppi, no!” Rubbing his eyes with the back of a wing, he burbled, “Meh, meh, meh! Since creation Poppi has been whole life for Tora. Before, just shut-in loser who fiddle with machines. Poppi let Tora become hero. Poppi gave Tora a family. If Poppi go, Tora will be all alone!”

Poppi shook her head again, then affixed him with her amber gaze. “Father, look around. Look at all your friends. How could you be alone? Your days of being alone are gone. They've been gone forever. You're a hero without me. Just take a moment and think about everything you did! I helped you get where you are, but you don't need me anymore. You're more than Poppi's driver. And I am more than Tora's Blade.” Her creator fidgeted, trying to find the right words to describe what his heart was feeling, but Poppi stepped forward and knelt. She had to get on one knees to be level with Tora, who she now stood so far above. Her arms circled him in a great big hug and squeezed tight. “It's not like I'm disappearing,” she murmured. “We can still see each other. Get together, work together, laugh and cry together.” Tears flowed freely from both pairs of eyes now. “We might not see each other for a while, but we're still connected. Father and daughter. Driver and Blade. No matter how far apart we are.”

Tora remained silent. He was thinking about tables. About feelings that reached reached across great distances.

“Do you understand?”

The Nopon frowned and tugged himself free. Poppi watched him, still kneeling. A long moment passed, with only the murmur of friends and the soft sound of waves breaking on the shore to fill the silence. Then Tora reached a wing forward to wipe away her tears. First one wing, then the other. “Tora understand,” he said, his tone heavy and low. “It been good, long time. But now is time for Poppi to find own way. Live own life. Guess Tora knew all along, even back then maybe, but didn't want accept.” With the other wing he beckoned to Volnutt, who came over and knelt beside them. Tora took him by the hand.

“Young man, Tora is giving Poppi to you. Poppi is most precious thing in world to Tora. You take good care of her.”

Volnutt smiled and nodded his head in determined affirmation. “I will.”

He and Poppi stood. With a squeal of delight, Poppi embraced him, and the two stood like that for a long moment. Then another long moment. Tora didn't see any sign indicating it would stop, so he turned away, sniffing quietly. For a time it had felt as though a piece of him were being carved up, taken away, leaving a gaping hole behind. But the piece he thought he'd lose was still there. It would always be, no matter how far apart from the rest of him. A bond connected it to him that would stretch any distance.

Tora's stomach rumbled, and he started to waddle away, back to the terrace to find friends and food waiting for him. Dimly he sensed that some of them at least had been watching him. So much for a private moment. But he was happy, for himself and for Poppi. As he left, he didn't look back to see the two machines locked in each others' arms. He felt that he didn't need to. Whenever he needed to look, he knew, she would be there. No matter how far.

(1828)

Overlord: Momento Mori

Before long Graft and Salem met with their Sable Lord, and they got down to business straightaway. His niceties about being busy did not fall on deaf ears; Graft thought of the news given to him by his assistant, which riddled him with curiosity. The wishes of Rodias, of course, remained the number one priority, and the industrialist gave his master his full attention.

Tea arrived, as if on cue, and Graft took a cup almost too quickly. He downed the whole thing in a few seconds, heedless of temperature thanks to the overpowering thirst he only just now remembered having, but did not miss a word Rodias had to say. Just as expected, he would be cooperating with Salem, although the plan outlined afterward made Graft think that 'cooperate' was too generous a term. In order to gather intelligence on the Chateau's surroundings, he would be manufacturing a number of bodies for Salem to use for surveillance, especially populated areas. The nature of the arrangement, in which Graft would be making equipment that Salem would then be using, was the source of his verbal discontent. In no sense were they really working together. If Graft was offered a partnership, he expected full integration and utilization of both parties in the entire process. Of course, maybe he thought about terminology a bit too much, but when cutting a deal the terms were all-important.

With that preliminary problem shelved, the practical ones rose to the forefront of his mind. Rodias seemed to know it too. Before automata and replica vermin could be made, Graft needed to get an idea of what the fauna of this world looked like. To assume it identical to that of the last world would be the height of impetuousness. He intended to make no foolish mistakes. But to find out the fauna, those concerned in the Chateau would need to go out and look. Before him lay a circular dilemma, and he doubted that the noble ladies Ashara and Kath would be scouring the refuse heaps and filthy back alleys to observe this world's vermin.

Rodias went on to suggest birds instead, with such a theatrical show of thinking that Graft half-guessed the amended plan had been premeditated. It was a good change, since birds would be more mobile and easier for scouts to observe themselves, but they still needed to be cataloged before the machines could rumble to life. His stated reasoning for changing his mind, however, seemed faulty, and it formed the other half of Graft's guess. What did Salem care about encountering less-than-pleasant substances through a distant proxy? Aside from being inorganic, with nothing to worry about in terms of contamination, he would be experiencing it all with just one sense: sight. No revolting smell, no disgusting texture. And kids loved getting filthy, anyway. Graft felt sure of that, since Brushen Penn hated kids, and whatever she hated must be despicable.

As Rodias left, Graft tapped his foot, thinking. “Looks like we might be at an impasse,” he told Salem. “Until we know what this world's creatures look like, I can't start making fakes for you to put eyes in.” With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he gave his mustache a sophisticated stroking. “Of course, Lord Rodias must know this. And that we must know what to infiltrate before we can infiltrate it. Therefore the delay in production is understandable, and until we have the data, we can attend other matters.” Speaking as though it were a done deal, Graft waltzed into the elevator. Once in, he spun about and looked at Salem. “How'd you like a special tour of the Factory, young...one?” He grinned, more on one side of his mouth than the other, his eyes partially shut. “You can take a look at my R&D process. Maybe test out my latest amalgam. It'll be fun. Oh, but hurry. This special offer expires in three, two, one...”

Whether or not Salem joined him in the elevator, the door slid shut, and the box slid down, down, down.

---

A wave of distinctive air hit Graft as he emerged into a Factory hall on the lower level. Dingy, ribbed, and dimly lit, it held a vast quantity of air that boasted not just an unforgettable smell, but an unforgettable feel. Like it was crawling all over you. “Ahh, yes.” He sighed. “That warm, clingy vapor, that...oh, full-bodied odor. Like an entire complex full of exhaled breath. You never realize how much you'll miss it 'til it's gone.” He released a sound, as might someone shown something very interesting and important. “Hm...I really must can it and start shipping it around.”

Two paths lay before him. One went to his office, which contained the inventory node that he used to do his prototyping. The other led to the Factory's very own testing room, where that wyvern from earlier still paced restlessly. Graft didn't know where to begin. “Hmm...which one, which one. Get to work on something new, or visit something old.” He remembered the special matter mentioned by Papillary. “Or, I could get that out of the way...”

A Direct Line to Papillary manifested. Graft slid it close to his head, the floating magic rune bridging the short distance between his ear and mouth. “Papillary? Where are you now?”

“Production,” the hearty female voice responded immediately. “At the door.” Graft stared into the testing room. On the opposite side of that large, circular chamber lay. At its end, the core with its invaluable artifact. Behind that, the forbidden door. Penn's private chamber. That Graft considered investigating it at all spoke to his reliance on Rodias' assurance that he and he alone constituted the Board, with the other Bandersnatch Lords indefinitely absent. “Are you coming?” the voice asked.

Graft nodded to nobody. “I am.” He banished the Line, seized his cane, and set off toward Production.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Artemisia

Alymere Fort Exterior

Following her incantation, Einer moved forward to capitalize on Artemisia's provided opportunity. Before fully committing, however, he cast a glance back at her to offer a compliment. The dark mage permitted herself a smug smirk. “Of course. My magic is remarkably potent.” Then he was off, into the breach and striking out at the foes within, kicking and thrusting like he was being paid for it. Of course, she couldn't let him keep all the fun for himself, but she needed a moment to recover before casting again. Alnard himself arrived to sustain the attack, following Einar through the broken wall. Together they continued the attack, and when Hadrick appeared alongside Artemisia, they moved in one after another. Inside, the dust and dark particles had just about cleared, leaving just friend and foe to sort out their differences. Unfortunately for them, the brigands seemed outnumbered. Artemisia pondered her team's good fortune, wondering if the squatters lacked the manpower to repel the attack, or if the blasting strategy was just that good. Either way, while Alnard engaged the brigand, she could scoot freely to the side and ready another Flux. Smaller and more compact, she held it aloft and waited for a chance. If Alnard possessed even the slightest situational awareness, he'd disengage with a parting blow and give her the chance to sneak in a Flux that'd make his job that much easier. Maybe it would even kill the guy, after that fireball. Her plan went awry as the dynamic shifted. A full-bodied blow from the man fighting Einar brought him out of close quarters, and the swordsman went after Artemisia and Alnard's target instead. That left the other vagabond to deal with herself and Hadrick, but the dark mage hadn't counted on someone challenging her directly and was out of position. Undefended, she made for a tempting target, and she knew it. With a yell Artemisia flung her Flux at the free bandit, but her aim was high and her shot easily avoidable. She turned the movement of her arm into a sideways swing, pivoting to dart behind Hadrick for protection, but in her panicked state she harbored no idea whether or not she'd make it in time.

__________________________ Status: Alive but starting to fatigue Class: Occultist Inv: Vulnerary, Book of Secrets

World of Light

Ancestral Farmstead

Level 5 Tora - (35/50) EXP and Level 4 Poppi - (33/40) EXP
Tora Stress: 95/100 and Poppi Stress: 35/100
Location: the Land of Adventure
Word Count: 682

The Thing had fallen, but the battle continued. More enemies emerged from the Farmstead surrounding the hilltop battlefield, not in droves but in a steady trickle, and with how tough the husks were it made for daunting opposition. With Tora down and Poppi by his side, and the others forced back together, the situation looked grim. The color-infested things lurched over the bleached soil and grass, farm tools and tainted seed in hand, to finish what they started. Their foremen and scarecrows were turning the tide, striking from afar with biting lash and repugnant wails to tear down body and mind alike.

Behind the defenders, the others attempted to rally. Since landing her last attack, Hat Kid had been frozen stiff, her big eyes paralyzed by a color altogether too much for a young mind. Mimikyu and Kamek attended to Bowser Junior, but the light had left the young koopa's eyes. His limbs and eyelids were heavy, sore from bearing the weight of crushing despair, telling him to lie down and accept the futility of the battle.

Linkle took in the grim scene and chose to act. Overflowing with righteous anger, she took off like a top, spinning wildly as she unleashed a torrential fusillade of arrows. The night lit up with an awesome tornado of fireworks. Tora squeezed his eyes shut, and Poppi threw herself over him, protecting him with her body. Flame, force, and gunpowder filled the air, but miraculously her allies were totally unharmed. It was as if the breathtaking fury chose to ignore them. When Poppi looked up, eyes wide and wondering, she saw the fading smoke leave behind dust, ash, and crystal shards. Even the explosive aberrations had been vanquished by the onslaught.

But not all their foes. A quick headcount, initiated by the portion of Poppi's mind still calm and logical despite the bloodcurdling chaos, came up with nine farmhands, three foremen, and two scarecrows still standing. They were already under attack, with Michael evaporating one foreman and Franklin peppering a scarecrow with practically useless bullets, but there they were.

And one scarecrow was about to scream.

Tora couldn't take it. Poppi didn't know how she knew, but she did. No sensor or analytic routine told her, but she could still feel it. Her master was doing a two-part samba on the fine line between sanity and insanity, and he wasn't a very good dancer. Too round. One little tap could send him right over, and Poppi wouldn't let that happen.

Her heels burst into flame that scoured the earth, blasting her forward. In both hands a new Mech Arm materialized from her ether. Her eyes relayed the data to her mind, a deadly supercomputer, and it spat out exact numbers describing time and force. Poppi hit the scarecrow in just shy of a second with a right hook, her actuators at full tilt. Its head simply disappeared, becoming a spray of straw, cloth, and crystal. Instead of trying to stop the blow, Poppi let its massive force carry her around in a spin made wild by her still-firing boosters. At that point she needed only to extend her leg and catch a brief glimpse of the metal limb ripping the scarecrow's body into two raggedy pieces.

Stage one, complete. Stage two, begin. This wouldn't be as complicated. Still spinning, Poppi transformed into her Alpha form, shield in hand, and let it go at just the right moment. The massive centrifugal force sent the shield zipping like a massive, circular bullet at the second scarecrow, catching it square in the chest. It was carried backward a hundred yards before hitting an abandoned wagon and exploded into an indeterminable shower of debris, the wagon along with it.

Poppi eased off her boosters, falling to the ground. Her ether furnace, massively overclocked, struggled fitfully to remain operational. It must have been painful, as far as machines felt pain, but the artificial Blade dragged herself over to Tora. Once there she lay against his roundness, watching the fight. At this point, she trusted her friends to finish the fight.

Some were doing better than others. With only the will of others driving him on, Junior commanded his legion of minions to attack, but with their power already on the low end and their leader near-inert the koopa and goombas were slaughtered. They were simply out of their league against the husks, two different worlds of strength. Bowser took the fight to the enemy, a burly flamethrower on a rampage, and his own strikers lent their hammers to the cause.

Having put down one foreman Michael readied himself for another shot. As in every battle so far, he'd found himself a safe spot to set up shop and start hawking his wares in an opportunistic lightning sale—everything must go. But this time would be different. Above and behind the prone man, a gruesome shape moved like a dark cloud, unseen. If one tried to look at it straight-on, it disappeared, invisible and untargetable, but it could be seen in one's periphery, the corner of the eye: a plow horse. It snorted, pawing the ground, and raised a hoof to bring down atop his skull.

Not too far away from Michael's foxhole, the fight against the Brachydios continued. Things were getting messy. The heroes were spending their energy and taking hits, and enough husks remained to maintain the perilous divide in their focus. After burying three husks using his Donphan, Courier 6 mounted up to join his friends on the other side of the battlefield against the husks remaining there. Over by the Brachydios, however, four closed in on Geralt, the only ones that remained on this side other than a lone foreman. Euden couldn't break his gaze away from the blue-scaled beast to look at Geralt as he called, but he nodded and shouted in reply. “Right! Thanks!” Draconic power was building in him; he needed just a few more moments.

Unfortunately, the reality was that if he stood alone against the monster, even shapeshifted, he couldn't fell the beast. Midgardsormr possessed great strength, but it was fleeting, and not as overwhelming as might be hoped. Euden knew he could surprise the Brachydios and wrestle it to the ground, cut it up a bit with the dragon's claws, but just a few seconds later the window would close. Euden rolled out of the way of another punch, collecting himself to leap over the monster's now-stubbier tail sweep, and landed right in a puddle of goop. “Dang!” he said, a swear not at all appropriate to the gravity of the situation. The slime had already yellowed, and it would blow at any moment. He wanted to thrash around and wipe it off, but the monster would surely hit him. It had been some time since Ace Cadet grabbed the beast's focus, and since Geralt was on husk duty, that meant the prince had the monster's undivided attention.

The Brachydios stepped forward, couching an arm for a punch the size of Euden himself. Adrenaline punched, and time slowed down. One word flooded his mind: out. He needed to get out, no matter what. Aiming his blade downward, Euden slit the laces on his shoes. At the same time he dropped his shield to lie flat on the goo, and both sock-clad feet were on it before it hit slime. Then it exploded, launching Euden up into the sky, out of the way of the punch, the horn, and everything else. For a solitary moment, he was alone in the night.

On ground-level, one more husk was stirring. Way out of the reach of Linkle's bombardment, it was roused by the heavy concussions of feverish battle. It lofted into the air, glowing from within, and cracked open like an ancient egg to hatch a new cosmos.

The night sky evaporated, and was replaced by gold. Around the hilltop stretched an infinite expanse of glittering, gleaming golden light. Immaculate, awe-inspiring. Hearts skipped a beat; breaths caught in throats. The dazzling, gorgeous, beautiful yellow radiance cast the gray and brown of the remaining landscape in hues of dark purplish-red, perhaps maroon. Alien geometry floated and stretched through the boundless sky, islands and pillars and bridges, ornamentation for the opulent infinity.

The light has become Splendorous,
Enemies grow less resistant. Heroes' hearts swell with virtue, and stress-related skills gain potency.

Euden then fell, eyes full of wonder, and hit scales. Nearby, the Ace Cadet had a hold of the Brachydios' ridge, stabbing away with a knife. So that's where he went. Joining in, Euden started working the beast's upper body. Totally unreachable for the thing, he could build up the energy he needed quickly.

Nero

Location: Chief's Office, RCPD, Dead Zone

Nodding, Nero passed Joker a page. “Check this out. Probably stuff that doesn't matter anymore, given how things shifted around, but still interesting. The PD also owns and operates an orphanage, somewhere nearby. And this guy, the police chief. Brian Irons? He's been buddying it up with some guy from this Umbrella Corporation. I don't do business or anything, but that literally means 'cover up corporation', right?” He snickered and set it down. “Nothing on hungry ghosts though.”

A few more moments of searching turned up nothing. Nothing relevant, at least. The lack of findings drove Nero over to the other door, the one opposite the route taken by Blazermate and Louis. He tried the door. Locked, but not for a devil hunter. A little coaxing and the thing swung open, admitting the pair inside.

Inside, they found more stuffed animals and a wooden display case with all sorts of stuff, mostly leftover museum pieces. A number of plates stood prominently on it, and it held a drawerful each of long-disused cutlery (cheap, where one would be forgiven for expecting silver) and pristine candles. If the heroes had been putting on a lovely formal dinner it would have come in handy, but a brief search turned up precious little.

Nero shook his head. “Not right. There's got to be something we're missing. Secrets out there, so there have to be secrets in here. Right?” He looked around, giving a full second to each piece of furniture. He did not take a second glance at any of the taxidermy.

Louis

Location: Garage, RCPD, Dead Zone

Louis met the clawed zombie in a clash of sparks. It closed its fingers around the blade, jamming its hideous face against his own. A violently self-defeating act for anyone in the world of the living, but this undead seemed smart enough to use its body to its advantage. It commanded notable strength, too, but not enough that Louis couldn't hold it off with one hand. He held out his other to the side, and it started to change. Strips of leather wriggled across metal and flesh like worms, melding together in a giant, ghoulish mitt claws far bigger than the zombie's. Louis smiled. A drain attack took a long time to start, but once it got going, it would take a lot more than this zombie to stop it. It watched, deadpan, as he the ogre claw finished charging and swept into him like giant rake, tearing through cloth and mutated skin. In a mere moment the zombie was reduced to a pile of scraps, and Louis flicked the dangling forearms from his blade.

At that point he got the chance to watch, incredulous, while the weak zombies heeded Blazermate's command. They went for the giant, headless axeman all at once, alarming the imp. In a shrill voice it screamed for its protector to attack, and the monster swung at its former allies with mindless strength. Zombie parts splattered across the floor, yielding easily to the huge blade. It was no contest, but the skirmish bought Louis and Blazermate a chance to go to work.

The revenant cruised forward, like a dancer. He got in three punishing slices on the first trunked executioner before its overhead chop fell. Once again Louis morphed his arm, this time to block and parry, but when the axeblade made contact he found his efforts unnecessary. A stream of protected power, channeled from Blazermate, surrounded his body in a shining blue barrier that completely repelled the attack and sent the lost reeling. Louis looked down at himself briefly. “Oh. Well now...that'll be useful.” It extended to the medabot herself as well, which he saw as she flew forward to bash the executioner head-on. A tongue extended from her shield to embed itself messily in forsaken flesh, and while it struggled Louis readied his blade and cut into its legs. One, two, and the trunked beast was falling backward, its legs cut at the shins. An impressive display, but Louis had the tools at his disposal to do far better.

What followed could only be described as exquisite. He moved like a river, iridescent blue streaked with crimson. Louis made his way through the crowd in a hypnotizing series of slips, dashes, and blinks, each stroke cleaving through a zombie's dead hide whether it be ally or enemy. What he didn't put down, Blazermate cleaned up. The second trunked executioner swung horizontally at him, but he didn't even notice. He simply let it clang off him, then took an arm, the trunk, and the monster's left knee. On its other side, the axeman was winding up for a giant swing. Louis teleported to the other side of the executioner, spinning in the air to slice off its head before using its failing body as a springboard to leap up. Louis took the axe square in the chest, felt nothing, and clambered atop it to get another boost that carried him all the way up to where the panicking imp called the shots. Three cuts were made in the blink of an eye, and Louis fell to the ground with the imp scattered around him. He touched down, and the ubercharge faded away.

A noise to his right made him turn. He saw a bright light, then a blinding flash. And when he could see again, he could no longer move.

“Hahahahaha! Incredible!”

A few feet away, a dark-haired man in a blue suit with a red scarf wrapped around his neck like a tie stood facing Louis and Blazermate, frozen in time. In one hand he held a camera, and in the other an enormous, wicked-looking knife. He strolled forward into the bluish, distorted zone surrounding the heroes, and spoke in an intense, accented murmur. “You, my friend, have a true talent for killing. An appreciation for the art.” The stranger came to a stop only a foot away. At that distance, the two men didn't look two dissimilar. Well-dressed, dark hair covering one eye, self-assured bearing. Only now, Louis was afraid. His was a fear borne of helplessness, of inability. The other man noticed and smiled. “And your fear. So beautiful. Surely you will enjoy a treasured spot in my gallery. You are now my art!”

Clenching his teeth, he lifted the blade of his knife and drove it into Louis' chest. He carved downward, sawing back and forth, diaphragm to navel, and when he ripped it out he snapped a photo of the red spray. The blue zone faded, and Louis dropped backward. He hit the garage floor already dissolving into bright mist. His head lolled to the side, one last look at Blazermate before he dissolved completely. Particles streamed out through the busted metal gate and into the night air.

The man looked at Blazermate, pointing his camera like a gun. Any move and he could freeze her again. One lesson, and she already new as well as he did. Confident in his position, he told her. “You are not yet finished. You have a job to do, little light. Been stuck here too long. Tell the others that if they stick around much longer, I'll be taking more photos.” A smarmy, venomous grin filled his face. “Now run along.”

Another flash. Not blue, but white. When it faded, there was only darkness. Darkness inside a metal cage, slowly rising.

Maximilian Howard

Location: Main Hall, RCPD, Dead Zone

Standing up, Howard planted both hands on the receptionist's desk authoritatively. One by one the hunting parties returned, not all of them but most. Nero, Joker, Blazermate, Louis, Leon, and Lucatiel had yet to show. Fox, after returning with Donnie, had departed again with questions on his mind to seek those last two down and hopefully get some answers. With the various reports in, enough puzzle pieces had been laid out to get an idea of the bigger picture, and Howard wanted to sum it up.

“Okay, people. What we're looking at is this. Big-time ghost, tortured and hungry 'cause of the suffering it inflicted while alive. This guy Manapaiboon robs and hurts a bunch of people, including his own mom, then gets spiked through the head by an iron bar.” He pointed to Fortune, Banjo, and Kazooie. “You all saw it in this impossible space in the library. Giant, angry, one red eye. Gotta be the guy. And a pitch-black darkness, heavy as a concrete wall.” His eyes landed on Jak and Daxter. “You found a satchel with decorations like the stuff in the weird rooms. Must be linked. Cloth, incense, cursed nails. Keep a hold of that stuff.” A nod at Donnie. “You found some booklet with some pages about ghosts torn out. We got some names for whatever it's called, but don't know which one. But we do know ghosts mess with stuff like machines and locks. Gotta be what's keeping us stuck here.” Nodding again, he swept his gaze around all those present. “We find the pages, we find our solution, and we're out of here. Any questions?”

In the silence that followed, everyone became aware of a muffled mechanical grinding. At first nobody could place it. Heads turned in every direction, but Fortune's twitching ears zeroed in on the source. “Down there!” She pointed at the circular dias beneath the goddess statue standing in the main hall's center. As everyone watched, the front part of the dias wall slid down, revealing a mechanism. An elevator. It was lifting something upward, out of the dark and into the main hall's yellow light. A dozen eyes peered inside, watching the shape that came up. It was Blazermate.