LeavesSonar gave a silent nod to Epsilon, acknowledging what she had spoken to him under her own breath, but did not respond even in secret with his power. Martyr had, at least, calmed down. Sonar was glad that he had stopped the older yet more inexperienced boy from making a lethal mistake, and even more glad that Martyr did not seem to be overly bothered by it. At least for the time being. The Wards leader made a mental note to check up on his teammate once the mission was done. He already knew that Martyr had to deal with... Other depressing issues and he wouldn't want them to become burdensome. Thankfully Margrave was on the scene, making the best use of his power they could possibly have asked for (not that Sonar would dare say as much, the guy already had an ego about him). Better yet Tulpa's manifestation appeared to help, utilizing Margrave's power. Sonar spoke a word of thanks that only the newest member of the team would have been able to hear. In a matter of moments each of the bomb collars had been neutralized in the most unusual of ways, transformed into harmless toys, smashed, then tossed aside.
Meanwhile inside the storm drain, Messiah still had Eyeblight pinned down and the two had engaged in a psychological showdown. His aura ability was well documented, especially when prolonged eye contact was made. Two men and one woman had been driven permanently insane, now living out the rest of their lives as gibbering wrecks in mental institutions only capable of being fed through IV. The heroine's stratagem, to mostly blind herself with her own light, was a simplistic stroke of genius. Her stammering only added to the masquerade. Yet with such a perfect plan, something seemed amiss. Eyeblight furrowed his eyes, to those that risked looking upon his face. His jagged grin turned to a jagged frown. Once Messiah had finished her own statements, the villain spoke once more. "No. No no no. This isn't right. I know fear. This isn't fear, this isn't real. You're not looking at me. You don't... You don't see me, do you? What is it? Is it that light? TELL ME!" Again his voice echoed as a chorus of dozens of Eyeblights screamed in different octaves, just slightly out of sync with one another. "YOU DON'T SEE ME! YOU CAN'T LOOK AT ME! NOBODY CAN LOOK AT ME! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SEE ME?!"
Anger, yes. His words resonated with anger and rage, but something else too. Sadness. Deep anguish, the kind that threatened to drown not just the one to carry the well, but those around them. The Wards barely had the opportunity to comprehend the true meaning of the villain's words before a fire flared in his eyes. Orange and brown light burned through the holes in his sack clothing as he radiated some kind of energy, some sort of light. Whatever it was, it appeared to be entirely cosmetic, just a display, as his terror aura did not worsen, nor did he move from his spot. What he did do, however, could sink the hearts of those unprepared. "FUCKING LITTLE BITCH! PUTA! YOU MADE YOUR MISTAKE, NOW THEY ALL DIE! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The madman's smile widened and everyone heard a click, followed by a beep coming from within his straw body. A second passed, and then... Nothing.
"Uh... Que?" Eyeblight twisted his head around in various unnatural ways, through positions that would have broken his spinal cord about twelve different ways had he a normal body as he shifted around to get a look in the area without touching the heat beams Messiah projected. Then it hit him. There was one less Ward than there should have been. There had not been any kaboom. "Oh cojeme."
Meanwhile, above ground, moments after the failed detonation, Sonar gave the widest, happiest grin imaginable to his compatriots. "We're good! Margrave, Tulpa, you took care of the collars! Guys, Eyeblight's in a really awkward position, since he just tried to detonate and it didn't work. Hahaha!" The young hero slapped Margrave on the back and ruffled Martyr's hair, beaming a smile back toward Epsilon. Then he began removing bags off of the heads of the hostages.
"So little brother failed, then." Sonar and a few of the freed hostages turned to look at another of the hostages, a tall man still with his head covered. Something was wrong, though. He sounded so calm, yet displeased. Disappointed, really. Then the sound of thunder cracked right there, deafening everyone in the area. In a flash of light the man was gone, the sack and clothing he had been wearing had slumped to the ground, covered in burn and scorch marks. In the time it took most people to blink a man had appeared before Sonar wearing an ornate headdress with alternating red and green feathers, a horned skull mask, skeletal necklace, and tribal leggings. With an outstretched hand he took hold of Sonar's head and smashed the teen hero's face straight down onto the solid concrete. Then another crack of thunder shook the area, another bright flash, and the man had vanished. All that remained of the scene was Sonar, lying on the ground, unconscious. His helmet had been shattered, and he was bleeding.
Inside the storm drain, the others heard the crackle of thunder, far too close for comfort, yet the skies had been perfectly clear just minutes ago. Eyeblight looked frightened himself, and a moment later the Wards could see why. A second crashing of thunder heralded a uniquely dressed villain appearing right between Messiah and Eyeblight. He felt the heat of her beams, but only for a moment and nowhere near long enough to cause any significant damage, as he grabbed the scarecrow man, and in a crash of thunder made far worse by the tight space and tremendous echo, both vanished from sight.
The envelope the three had provided for Arsenal proved to be pretty fantastic for convincing him that this was the real deal. For one, it included pictures of his father and another man, a man that the other three could confirm was their employer, more or less. Included with the photographs was a letter stating he could acquire nearly any hardware, any equipment or technology that Arsenal could want for, that he would be provided with a personal hideout, gun range, and workshop. Best of all, the letter stated that occasionally the targets would involve whooping the Protectorate and the PRT. The letter ended with a signature that simply said, "The Broker" in a rather fanciful cursive. A third document within the envelope was a single slip of paper which had three numbers. Account, routing, and an amount of $10,000.
"I hope you'll excuse me if I decline and get back to HQ as ordered." The soldier was curt, but not rude. "And you don't have the time to get brewing. Pack anything you need to pack, because you're coming with us for now."
A Shipping Warehouse.
The sirens flared closer and closer to the body sharing twins, until finally the sound evened out and the flashing red and blue lights could be seen outside through the windows high up the warehouse walls. Would this be it for them? Would their vengeance, their mission, be over so quickly? Maybe they could barter with the PRT? Offer to join the Protectorate, in exchange for being pardoned? It was well known that the Protectorate offered such deals, so long as you weren't a known murder or crazed psychotic. So long as you weren't too dangerous.
"My my my, you've found yourself in quite a predicament, haven't you?" The voice came from the direction of the man they had just beaten unconscious. As they turned to look, it was not the unconscious thug, but someone else entirely that just so happened to be dressed up in a most bizarre and gaudy costume. It was difficult to tell if this person was male or female, as the striped loosely fitting body suit hid any sexual features while the clown makeup covered the rest. Yet this strange character, the twins felt, would probably still be quite androgynous even without these strange fashion choices. Even the weirdo's voice sounded very much like it could be either male or female, being just that perfect balance of soft yet deep, smooth yet hoarse.
"I've been watching you for some time. Well, I haven't been actually, but I have. It's complicated. Anyway, you're interesting! Man and woman, woman and man, both, neither, one and the other at the same time, but not! Heheh!" As the goofy figure spoke, they strut around the unconscious thug like a one-man (woman?) game of ring around the rosy. "You're in quite the pickle now, though! Luckily your bestest buddy Retcon is here to bail you out! Just follow me, and do the exact opposite of everything I do. That means I go left, you go right. I jump, you duck. Make sense?"
Oh boy. This was going to get complicated real fast.
Furance stood ready as Sonika began her little "test." He pulled out two telescoping batons, one colored red and another colored blue, and took a stance. Then the Russian woman's little trick began. The air escaped his immediate vicinity, she could feel it. His breathing changed for a moment, but then a blast of heat flared up, displacing the oxygen and causing an entirely new airflow, separate from the one that Sonika had created herself. Furnace took in a deep breath, then exhaled gently. "I've had women take my breath away, but none quite like you. That's pretty rude, not to mention it won't work on me."
The hero brandished his batons, tapping them together threateningly, then took another battle stance. "I'd recommend you come quietly. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to hit a woman, but I'd rather avoid it if we can."