Leaves@Xandrya Please rewrite your last post, as you heavily control the single most important NPC in the entire game. Please remember, the bartender is the real Broker, and all behaviors, actions, etc. of important NPCs are exclusively the purview of the GMs.
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Wards and Other Heroes: Charity Event Aftermath
@Old Amsterdam@Gardevoiran@Lugubrious@solokolos@yoshua171@BCTheEntity@LemonZest1337
Thus the charity event came to an early close, merely three hours after it had begun. What was to be a festivity lasting well into the night to raise money for crime fighting ended mid-morning and would now cost hundreds of thousands in repairs. The media jumped on the opportunity, questioning absolutely anybody within their reach. For the most part, the reporters were handled directly by Inkscape, who took his responsibility as Protectorate leader very seriously. His fellow senior heroes remained on site, while the newly recruited junior Protectorates, and the Wards, were made able to get through the crowds and return to headquarters or home, whichever they had preferred. No doubt the Wards' parents would be wanting to bond with their children after such an event. Of course, one of the teen heroes was denied the possibility of going home: Epsilon. She was to be escorted back to headquarters under both master and stranger security protocols.
Hermes in particular was given an additional statement beyond the simple "you're excused." Inkscape's orders were quite clear on the matter: until they had such an opportunity to debrief, he was not to engage in any hero activities. The little rebellion against orders that had set the scene for Ceramix to take hostages would not easily be forgotten, it would seem. Furnace gave his condolences, shaking the teleporter's hand. What nobody else could have seen was the note he had slipped Hermes.
Let's meet at 6745 W Colfax after I deal with reporters. A mutual friend told me to help you.
Meanwhile, Shatterpoint and Ceramix had been loaded up into PRT transport vehicles and removed from the scene. Ceramix had been apprehended twice before, making this his third strike. Add in the hostage situation, and it was all but a done deal that he would be deposited into the Birdcage, never to come back. Shatterpoint's fate was less clear. He had never threatened anybody's life, was on his first strike, and by all accounts only seemed to be following orders, which was a great recipe for a plea deal. Of course, he was far more threatening than his boss, so perhaps it all came up to whomever was the presiding judge for his case.
No matter how you looked at it, everyone had had enough action for one day, yet the day was only half done. What would come next? Perhaps some rest and relaxation? They'd all certainly earned it. But maybe, just maybe, there was more to this day for those who sought their own adventure.
The Jacks and Other Less-Than-Legal Individuals
@yoshua171@BCTheEntity@Eklispe@Old Amsterdam@solokolos@PlatinumSkink@Gardevoiran@Xandrya@Spiffy
Each of the representatives in the room took a vial, then exchanged contact information with the sharply dressed man. With that, all business concluded, and they were free to leave. So, naturally, they did. Every one of them took off in order to pursue their own avenues, their own goals, and their own plans. For some, this meant seeking out the best new recruit for their power-in-a-bottle. For others, it meant staying the course they had already set. But for one vigilante, it meant speaking to the man orchestrating it all.
"Such flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Mantis," the Broker replied, a little taken aback by the vigilante's sudden brazenness. "Particularly when complimenting on something I have worked quite hard to keep completely unknown, until this very moment. Now, your reputation on the other hand..." He trailed off, clapping his hands together somewhat excitedly before reeling himself back in. "Mhm. Yes, well, regardless I find myself irritated by your lack of punctuality. Nevertheless, the representatives you placed here in your stead handled themselves with..." He appeared to be looking for a kind word, but found himself at a loss. "Well, they handled themselves, at any rate. But yes, had you been on time, you would have been present for my reasoning on providing these valuable resources. I'm afraid I disdain repeating myself, so you will have to be filled in by your subordinates."
If there was one thing Judah was learning real quick in this line of questioning, it was that the man certainly enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice. "As for a good set of mates, might I recommend working with Purge and his mafia? Not the usual crowd you'd surround yourself in I know, but for a murderer he really is a man of conduct. Or perhaps you could work more closely with Sabotage? That is, so long as you watch your valuables. No honor among thieves, right? But she's among the most tame here. Then again, Retcon has a fascination with your shifter, so perhaps they would be willing to extend the ol' olive branch? Regardless, I really am quite the busy bloke and must be on my way. Good day, friend."
The man tipped his head in a gesture of respect, though it somehow felt quite disingenuous, and made his way toward the door, briefcase in hand. Just before exiting, the bartender accidentally dropped a glass on the floor, the sound of its shattering causing the suited man to pause. After a moment of the two exchanging looks, he gave a simple command. "One round of drinks to Lethal Force, on me." He then turned back to face Farce. "The power nullification field leaves with me. You're welcome."
And just like that the man who called himself "Broker" was gone. A few moments later and the bartender had provided drinks for each member of Lethal Force, as requested, in the process brushing against each of them in turn. "Sorry, sorry. Nerves. The situation is rather... Frightening. Sorry."
A minute after having left the building, each of the Jacks received a text message from an unlisted number. Next assignment at the hideout, was all that was written. Heartless shrugged, got up, and began to leave without bothering to so much as speak to his fellow teammates. It looked as though their day hadn't yet come to an end.
Leonard opted to ignore the woman, Blue, and her especially crude response to his analysis, seeing her action only from the peripheral of his vision. Such a manner only served to solidify his initial assessment, and deserved nary even a glance back. The younger girl's reaction had been far more favorable, and showed the necessary respect. Between the two of them, he knew which needed nurturing and which would be best kept on a leash. And speaking of leashes...
In the middle of Mr. Armstrong's explanations, a mighty raucous could be heard just outside. Turning round on heel, Leonard raised an eyebrow in interest, while preparing his pen. If this was an attack, he would be ready. Then the doors burst open, revealing a Speedwagon employee standing triumphant, victorious over a large reptile. That is when the man... Left? Wait, so this wasn't the last member of their little entourage? Then came the reveal from Mr. Armstrong, that the final member of the group was to be this crocodile, named Hogan. The normally eloquent speech of Leonard vanished momentarily, replaced by a dumbstruck awe, revealing his natural Alabama drawl.
"You've got to be fucking with me." This was unprecedented in Leonard's work. Sure, he had heard of animals that gained stands, and with those stand they had become sapient, but never before had he laid eyes on one. Blue appeared rather unimpressed by the situation, even comfortable, while the little one was so far lost on everything that she merely treated this as normal. Well, this was his life now, he supposed. Armstrong's money was as good as anybody's.
Leonard shook the surprised from his face, kneeled down in front of Hogan, and held out one of his hand-made business cards to the crocodile's right eye. "Leonard Skinner. We shall be partnering together alongside these fellows." He then placed the card back into his jacket pocket (after all, what would the lizard do with it?) and turned back to Louis Armstrong. "If I might deign to be so bold, Mr. Armstrong, while I question not the benefits of such a companion, and surely he possesses a stand of great help, what means shall we have to walk about the public with a man-eating reptile of herculean proportions?"
In the middle of Mr. Armstrong's explanations, a mighty raucous could be heard just outside. Turning round on heel, Leonard raised an eyebrow in interest, while preparing his pen. If this was an attack, he would be ready. Then the doors burst open, revealing a Speedwagon employee standing triumphant, victorious over a large reptile. That is when the man... Left? Wait, so this wasn't the last member of their little entourage? Then came the reveal from Mr. Armstrong, that the final member of the group was to be this crocodile, named Hogan. The normally eloquent speech of Leonard vanished momentarily, replaced by a dumbstruck awe, revealing his natural Alabama drawl.
"You've got to be fucking with me." This was unprecedented in Leonard's work. Sure, he had heard of animals that gained stands, and with those stand they had become sapient, but never before had he laid eyes on one. Blue appeared rather unimpressed by the situation, even comfortable, while the little one was so far lost on everything that she merely treated this as normal. Well, this was his life now, he supposed. Armstrong's money was as good as anybody's.
Leonard shook the surprised from his face, kneeled down in front of Hogan, and held out one of his hand-made business cards to the crocodile's right eye. "Leonard Skinner. We shall be partnering together alongside these fellows." He then placed the card back into his jacket pocket (after all, what would the lizard do with it?) and turned back to Louis Armstrong. "If I might deign to be so bold, Mr. Armstrong, while I question not the benefits of such a companion, and surely he possesses a stand of great help, what means shall we have to walk about the public with a man-eating reptile of herculean proportions?"
Grinning with pride, Leonard gratefully pocketed his now signed notebook. Before he could truly offer his sincere thanks to Arthur, the receptionist buzzed the four of them in. Leonard felt mildly irritated by it. He had only just arrived, after all! Barely gotten his foot in the door. Well, better now while he was still on his feet than after getting comfortable. Leonard took point as each of them crossed into the office of their new potential employer, Louis Armstrong, CEO of the Speedwagon Foundation.
Mr. Armstrong had proven himself to be quite the shrewd man, which was perfectly alright in Leonard's mind. He wasn't paid to stand around getting talked to, he was paid for commissions. The sooner he got out on the street, the better. Armstrong's instructions were incredibly clear: to find the renegade stand users and properly subdue, or educate, in order to prevent unforeseen consequences. At the specific instruction that killing would not be allowed, Leonard felt the man's gaze wash over him quite harshly, something which he felt had been fully unwarranted. Leonard wasn't a hired assassin, he was a mercenary, willing to do any job assigned. The instructions already excluded death in their base form, the added emphasis simply felt like he was being unfairly persecuted.
Now the other individual to receive this treatment, the older woman with the scythe, had proven that this added emphasis was one hundred percent necessary for her. Brazenly, she brought out her stand as casually as one might pull out pictures of their children, and provided a small demo as to its capabilities. In the blink of an eye she had relocated elsewhere in the room. All this accompanied by a tirade over the lack of killing, including thinly veiled threats toward their employer. Now this was just poor form. And here Leonard had thought she would be a fellow professional. Turned out she was just a psycho for pay.
"My, my, my..." the artist began, shaking his head. "The Speedwagon Foundation must truly be in dire straits as you say, Mr. Armstrong. I had been under the impression that I would be operating with fellow professionals. Imagine my surprise to find these partners to in fact be a woman who values bloodthirst above her job, an untrained and ignorant child, and an unpunctual no-show. Thus far Mr. St. Anger shows the greatest promise."
Leonard posed by waving his left palm in front of his face, holding that elbow with his right hand. The shaking of his head matched his hand in opposite. "Young miss, to explain the nature of stands would take a fair amount of time which I believe should be better spent performing our task. Should you find it agreeable, I am most capable and willing to provide details along the journey. Now, as for questions, Mr. Armstrong..." Leonard flipped his fauxhawk to the other side. "I have but one, as it pertains to our given secondary objective. Perhaps more for the benefit of Miss Blue here, and her... Eager anticipation. As we investigate what causes this outbreak, what instructions shall we follow in regards to the perpetrators, assuming any exist?"
Mr. Armstrong had proven himself to be quite the shrewd man, which was perfectly alright in Leonard's mind. He wasn't paid to stand around getting talked to, he was paid for commissions. The sooner he got out on the street, the better. Armstrong's instructions were incredibly clear: to find the renegade stand users and properly subdue, or educate, in order to prevent unforeseen consequences. At the specific instruction that killing would not be allowed, Leonard felt the man's gaze wash over him quite harshly, something which he felt had been fully unwarranted. Leonard wasn't a hired assassin, he was a mercenary, willing to do any job assigned. The instructions already excluded death in their base form, the added emphasis simply felt like he was being unfairly persecuted.
Now the other individual to receive this treatment, the older woman with the scythe, had proven that this added emphasis was one hundred percent necessary for her. Brazenly, she brought out her stand as casually as one might pull out pictures of their children, and provided a small demo as to its capabilities. In the blink of an eye she had relocated elsewhere in the room. All this accompanied by a tirade over the lack of killing, including thinly veiled threats toward their employer. Now this was just poor form. And here Leonard had thought she would be a fellow professional. Turned out she was just a psycho for pay.
"My, my, my..." the artist began, shaking his head. "The Speedwagon Foundation must truly be in dire straits as you say, Mr. Armstrong. I had been under the impression that I would be operating with fellow professionals. Imagine my surprise to find these partners to in fact be a woman who values bloodthirst above her job, an untrained and ignorant child, and an unpunctual no-show. Thus far Mr. St. Anger shows the greatest promise."
Leonard posed by waving his left palm in front of his face, holding that elbow with his right hand. The shaking of his head matched his hand in opposite. "Young miss, to explain the nature of stands would take a fair amount of time which I believe should be better spent performing our task. Should you find it agreeable, I am most capable and willing to provide details along the journey. Now, as for questions, Mr. Armstrong..." Leonard flipped his fauxhawk to the other side. "I have but one, as it pertains to our given secondary objective. Perhaps more for the benefit of Miss Blue here, and her... Eager anticipation. As we investigate what causes this outbreak, what instructions shall we follow in regards to the perpetrators, assuming any exist?"
Wards and Other Heroes: Charity Event Aftermath
@Old Amsterdam@Gardevoiran@Lugubrious@solokolos@yoshua171@BCTheEntity@LemonZest1337
This was it. Everything was over. The civilians had been evacuated without a single casualty. Without so much as a single injury, even. All of the Rockers had been detained from the lowliest thug, to both commanders. The heroes had suffered some injuries amongst themselves, but all in all it was a pretty great turnaround for the situation. The worst of the injuries had been suffered by G4M3R, who while very much alive, likely would never be able to perform field work again. His bones would no doubt take a couple months to heal to the point of casual use again. That said, he was lucky to have only been so injured by Shatterpoint. Had the villain willed it, G4M3R would have been killed several times over.
Speaking of Shatterpoint, he continued to scream and shriek from within the confines of his foam prison, his voice growing hoarse, his throat turning raw. Nobody could mistake the sounds of sobbing mixed in. For such a dangerous badass capable of such destruction and personal damage, he turned out to be completely incapable of handling his current situation. Ceramix fared better, concerned only for his compatriot rather than his own captivity.
"Please!" he shouted, regaining his senses and orientation. "The anxiety might kill him! He can't stay in there! Play my music! Someone play my music, please! It'll help calm him down!"
Nearby, Protean had just finished making sure that Overlook was alright. The shapeshifter approached, skin bubbling and changing back into that of a normal human appearance, taking on another brand new face. He held up his communicator, and pressed a couple buttons on the holo-display. "I set it on speaker. Go for it, Decoy." What followed was, quite possibly, the worst composition of rock-core-hip-hop anybody present had ever allowed to penetrate their skulls. The Protectorate and the Wards knew what to expect. After all, it was basic intelligence gathering of a known criminal in the city to listen to the music that Ceramix had placed on the online marketplace. One could argue the anticipation of such god forsaken music only served to make it worse. The rest may or may not have already been aware of Ceramix's unique musical stylizing, but the consensus could only ever be unanimous: this was painful to hear.
Painful to everyone, that is, save for Shatterpoint. Just as Ceramix had said, the "melodies" and "rhythms" calmed Shatterpoint. He had not reached a point remotely close to content or calm, but it certainly reduced his anxious shrieking to a somber weeping, and that was something at least.
"I suppose I'll be working overtime in the office over this. Ay ye ye ye." Inkscape shook his large, bulbous head from side to side in a swaying motion that could have matched ocean waves. "The events will need to be canceled, of course, and rescheduled. I imagine news crews are about to swarm in at any moment. Heroes, be on your best behavior for the vulturous media." He wandered off in order to address each of the Wards individually. All five received warm accolades from the octo-man, though Tulpa had also been given a stern warning to be on better behavior in the future, and not to disregard orders for rash judgments of her own. Disregarding such a small blurb amidst the rest of the congratulations, everything went swimmingly.
After it all, Inkscape congratulated each of the other heroes unaffiliated with the PRT. Angel, Furnace, the Minutemen, and everyone else received a short and curt, yet sincere thanks for their efforts and contributions. However, once he approached Mastar, the Protectorate hero had something else to add on. "It's a shame that your parents declined to let you into the Wards. I think you would do very well in the Protectorate, with the right guidance. If she ever changes her mind, you've always got an open invitation."
With that, it was time to vacate the property. The local authorities and the PRT officials needed to investigate the center for damages. All the captured criminals were carted out to transport vehicles, just as the heroes met with swarms of reporters outside, each one chomping at the bit for an interview, for a private story, or even for just a small bit they could run with, sprinkling their own embellishments into the story. The rest of the day looked to be quite busy indeed...
The Jacks and Other Less-Than-Legal Individuals
@yoshua171@BCTheEntity@Eklispe@Old Amsterdam@solokolos@PlatinumSkink@Gardevoiran@Xandrya@Spiffy
The Broker immediately craned his neck at the sound of the door opening up, checking to see the newcomer of this meeting. Seeing the individual in question to be Mantis, he offered a courtesy nod to the vigilante, which was not returned. He seemed to care little, paying more attention to the discussion unfolding before everyone regarding the Rockers, and Swarm. Exaggerating his expressions very much purposefully, he nodded with approval and surprise as Creep verbally tore into Swarm. Though her attitude was impressive, this was still a business exchange and the telekinetic villain's offer was far more enticin-
And then Thunderbolt cut in, offering to back Creep for the unclaimed vial. Well, wasn't this interesting? Seeing the opportunity come up, Purge raised a single finger for attention. "As the debate rages forward, I would express claim over this vial as well. I am capable of paying twice what either Swarm or Thunderbolt can offer."
Sabotage cut in. "You already got a freebie with your lackey there. I'll take the vial, and I can pay in dangerous technology I took from the Minutemen."
The Broker finally spoke up. "I'm sure everyone would like it, even if just to take the piss out of someone else here. However I only offered it between the representative of the Rockers... And Swarm." He raised a hand as if directing everyone to quiet down. "And with our most fascinating development, I am inclined to provide it toward... The Rockers. Consider it an investment in a new startup company. I had better see a valuable profit return, lass."
With the decisions made, Broker began to distribute the vials exactly as previously determined: one for the mafia, one for Sabotage, two for the Rockers, one for Lethal Force, and one for Reflections. During the process, he also provided everyone with the number of a mobile phone, instructing them all to relay any and all information via that number. He would act as the communication nexus in this alliance to annihilate the Community. Meanwhile Headhunter and Chatterbox were moving the unconscious, bound body of Xolotl. The Community's most dangerous, most lethal fighter and enforcer, right there in their hands. He had been so easily dispatched, so easily ruined. On any other day he had power enough to back up his boast: he very well could have killed everyone in that room. Yet in the presence of the Broker... Well, the two of them knew more of the man's capabilities than the rest of the city's underworld.
Though she’d suffered it once already, nothing couple prepare Juniper for the unadulturated agony that crackled through her veins. In fact, the memory of that inexorable torture served more to fill her with dread than steel against its return, and the cobblestone-floored plaza became suffused by the cries she could not suppress. Cyril’s body, too, jolted and spasmed where it lay, as though a brutal electric current was flooding just enough life into his rattled nerves and torn muscles to convince them to contract and twitch on their own. It wasn’t long before the pain died out, but the brevity of the torment was a small mercy, particularly since Juniper had remained conscious throughout. Sweat and dirt stained her brow and clothes, and while no new injuries could be seen on her body, the veins in her wide-open eyes were red as blood. On her hands and knees she hyperventilated, strainedly murmuring clipped snatches of a language Runch didn’t recognize. Several meters away, Cyril’s battered form had lapsed back into motionlessness.
”Ever since I first discovered how to do this, it has become the most painful part of these fights.” Runch held his worthy opponent still, respecting Cyril enough to ensure the convulsions didn’t lead to bumping his head on any stones or cause even greater damage still to the wounded knight. ”But pain, even the most horrible agony, passes. Death does not. Once I win, even if you despise my very being, I will ensure these sacrifices to be worthwhile, and all will be well good knight.”
The captain never once looked away, never blinked as he held Cyril still. He took it all in, took responsibility for the consequences of his actions. His original opponent had been a psychotic assassin and thus did not warrant such concerns. Then there was Motley Crue, the vampire, who had proven to be unworthy of such compassion. The same could not be said of Sir Boniface, no matter the veneer of gruff and irritable nature. A gold pot could be banged up and scuffed on the outside, but it remained a gold pot. The same was true, Runch suspected, of a gold heart.
Erina cautiously approached the shrine maiden as she began to utter foreign words. The kitsune wished to offer comfort, but did not wish to be the target of Juniper’s wrath. ”I know your pain. I too have gone through it twice. The anticipation, in some ways, is worse than the experience.”
Though by now the pain did not torment Juniper quite so badly, something Erina said provoked the woman to suppress its remnants as she affixed her former opponent with a hateful scowl. “Spare me your catechism,” she growled, “If you really wish me no more suffering.” Struggling to her feet, Juniper limped across the devastated cobblestone plaza in the direction of a bar & grill very much set in one of Oldtown’s numerous antiquated styles. She only turned her head as she passed by Runch and the body he held. “Whatever your plan is, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. Normal humans can’t take that kind of head injury, and after that agony, too? He’ll die of thirst before waking up from that coma.” A dry chuckle, more of a cough than anything, escaped her throat. “For the best, probably. Even if he did cut off my legs I wouldn’t wish him to be stuck in this wretched waste, a hopeless, purposeless failure. Like me.” With nothing more to say she resumed her journey, and pushed through the door into the restaurant.
Runch could not help but laugh as Juniper strode away in a fit. ”Omnomnomnom! You would think she’s unfamiliar with my famous bloodberry cereal, known to vitalized, re-energize, and stimulate healing!” As he spoke, the captain created exactly the recipe he so fondly bragged about, dropping small bites into Cyril’s mouth, manually mashing the pellets with Cyril’s jaw, and then letting it slide down the man’s esophagus. He repeated this process numerous times over the course of several minutes, neglecting his own wounds despite the bleeding.
”There,” he sighed, wiping his brow, only to realize he still had that ridiculous armor on. With great frustration, and comedic difficulty, he began to remove it piece by piece as he spoke aloud to Erina, hovering nearby. ”I have done what I can without the aid of my ship’s doctor. What remains is up to his willpower now, and from what I’ve seen of that there should not be any further problems! Omnomnomnoooooo-!”
Runch lost his balance in an attempt to remove the left leg of armor, falling square on his backside. A small yelp escaped his lips as he bruised, the adrenaline of active combat having worn off. Erina couldn’t help but (poorly) stifle her own laughter. ”Well what about Juniper?” she asked, one hand still covering her mouth.
Shaking his head to rouse himself, the pirate replied, ”She’ll be difficult to talk to right now, not that she can be blamed for it. Still, I’d rather try to reach her and fail, than go on living without having tried at all. What sort of man could I call myself then?” Taking great care, he lifted the unconscious knight upon his back, then gestured toward his shield and glaive. ”Would you mind grabbing those?”
Erina nodded in acknowledgement, hopping across the patches of cobblestone that were still intact, and not covered in marshmallow goop, with the vigor of a schoolgirl skipping hopscotch. Once she returned to Runch’s side, Erina made known her own concern. ”Are you certain about this?”
”I’m always certain,” Runch shot back with a wink. ”When it comes to making smiles.”
The kitsune could not help but roll her eyes in the face of such pure cheese. Still, in its own way, it was warming. Without another word the duo carefully navigated the area into the restaurant, Runch taking great care not to jostle his burden.
Though not immediately visible, Juniper had already fetched a clear, tall bottle and brought it with her into a corner. She could not have failed to hear the others enter, but she did not look up, instead holding her head in her hand.
Runch took a moment to take the scene in, drink in the bar with his eyes. So much of this world was a bizarre hodgepodge of styles, architectures, cultures, and values. So much of this city was utterly foreign and alien. While the same could be said of the design of this establishment, a watering hole was a watering hole no matter where you went, so he found it easy to acclimate to.
Spotting Juniper holed up in her own little corner, the pirate and the exorcist calmly sauntered over, but chose to at least give the maiden some space. Tiring a bit, Runch produced a bowl from behind the bar and filled it with his healing bloodberry cereal. Beaming with pride, he stopped a moment before beginning to dig in, realization striking. Quickly he found two more bowls, and filled those as well! ”Omnomnom! I was almost rude there for a moment!”
He slid one bowl over to Erina, who began eating quite happily as memory of her last serving came to mind, and the third bowl over to Juniper.”It’s delicious, nutritious, energizing, and it stimulates the body’s healing. Omnomnom! I made sure to make you a variant that pairs well with alcohol.” He wiggled his mustache playfully despite Juniper having not even looked up yet. It was in that moment that he noticed… Half his mustache was missing! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Runch’s eyes turned ghostly white as his mind shrieked in utter horror, yet nary a peep escaped his lips.
The pirate’s comical behavior did not gel with the heavy reality that weighed down on his would-be friend. Juniper had hoped that her departure, let alone her plea, would have convinced the two to leave her alone, but Runch seemed intent on following her and making nice with her. Perhaps, Juniper considered wearily, he simply wasn’t capable of understanding her situation. In his world, a few laughs and words of respect over a gift of food might very well mean forgiveness and comradery, but real life did not work that way. Wounds healed slowly, resentment festered, despair bloated up, and grudges persisted. Much to her self-loathing, she could not even force the blasted pair to leave her alone, so instead she growled at them from behind her hands. “Won’t you take a hint? Even if I did need your pity, I wouldn’t accept it. You’ve nothing to offer me but further insult and deeper dismay.”
Erina remained silent, partly to enjoy the meal provided to her, and partly because she knew how Juniper felt. The feelings were somewhat mutual, and the two women had come from similar places. Perhaps there was something she could add to help improve Juniper’s demeanor, but likely not. She allowed Runch to say what he liked… Unfortunately he was still too freaked out and internally screaming in horror. ”Runch?” she asked, prodding him with a spoon to the shoulder.
The pirate roused from his mental anguish, shaking his head, then jumped straight into response as though he had been actively listening to her the entire time. ”I won’t pretend to understand your position. I know it’s impossible. Like a winter berry and a summer berry planted together, we come from entirely separate histories. I already made such a mistake when I offended Erina here, earlier.” He gestured to the kitsune, who perked up a moment, then went back to eating her fill. ”I won’t bother you any further if that is your desire, but I will say this. We never had any grudge between us. You are not now, nor were you ever, my enemy, despite having been my opponent, and the same goes for Sir Boniface here. This competition need not breed any rot on our spirits. In fact I believe that we have gotten to know one another, in a most unorthodox way surely, and could be friends. I promise you that when I win… And please note I said when, not if-” he hastily added. ”Everyone will benefit.”
Runch hastily scarfed down his entire bowl, wiped the crumbs upon his sleeve, and then shifted his weight in preparation to leave, ensuring that Cyril did not fall lopsided on his back. ”I can’t make you eat, but it will help. Live the life you desire to live; my crew will welcome you with open arms if you change your mind.” The floorboard creaked as Runch took his first step. Erina pushed aside her bowl, having just finished. The two of them, Cyril in tow, headed for the door without another word. Of course, Runch kept his pace ever so slightly slower than his usual gait, keeping up hope that Juniper should heed his message.
A minute of silence passed after the pirate’s departure before Juniper moved, and then only to slump down on the table. Her bottle stood nearby, as of yet untouched, and it rattled when her forehead hit the wood. For a brief time she wondered whether or not she’d made the right decision by allowing the others to take Cyril away, but in the end it didn’t matter. She couldn’t have if she tried, and the man -who hadn’t wronged her much less than Runch himself- was little more than a lump of meat, now. The pirate’s magical mix might be able to heal physical wounds, but could it overcome the damage done to Cyril’s mind? In her heart the shrine maiden hoped it wouldn’t. He didn’t need to reawaken into this lost place, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and hear the clown laugh while telling him that losing his life’s purpose was no big deal.
Juniper knew that sooner or later she would have to leave. Maybe something in the City would kill her, though despite her misery she felt disinclined to throw her life away, or maybe by some miracle someone from the College could get her back home, as unlikely as that Barnaby woman made it seem. She looked up from the table at the misty bottle set upon it, then painfully roused herself to go and fetch a glass to pour its contents into. Even here, in the depth of her failure, she didn’t need to sacrifice her dignity.
”Ever since I first discovered how to do this, it has become the most painful part of these fights.” Runch held his worthy opponent still, respecting Cyril enough to ensure the convulsions didn’t lead to bumping his head on any stones or cause even greater damage still to the wounded knight. ”But pain, even the most horrible agony, passes. Death does not. Once I win, even if you despise my very being, I will ensure these sacrifices to be worthwhile, and all will be well good knight.”
The captain never once looked away, never blinked as he held Cyril still. He took it all in, took responsibility for the consequences of his actions. His original opponent had been a psychotic assassin and thus did not warrant such concerns. Then there was Motley Crue, the vampire, who had proven to be unworthy of such compassion. The same could not be said of Sir Boniface, no matter the veneer of gruff and irritable nature. A gold pot could be banged up and scuffed on the outside, but it remained a gold pot. The same was true, Runch suspected, of a gold heart.
Erina cautiously approached the shrine maiden as she began to utter foreign words. The kitsune wished to offer comfort, but did not wish to be the target of Juniper’s wrath. ”I know your pain. I too have gone through it twice. The anticipation, in some ways, is worse than the experience.”
Though by now the pain did not torment Juniper quite so badly, something Erina said provoked the woman to suppress its remnants as she affixed her former opponent with a hateful scowl. “Spare me your catechism,” she growled, “If you really wish me no more suffering.” Struggling to her feet, Juniper limped across the devastated cobblestone plaza in the direction of a bar & grill very much set in one of Oldtown’s numerous antiquated styles. She only turned her head as she passed by Runch and the body he held. “Whatever your plan is, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. Normal humans can’t take that kind of head injury, and after that agony, too? He’ll die of thirst before waking up from that coma.” A dry chuckle, more of a cough than anything, escaped her throat. “For the best, probably. Even if he did cut off my legs I wouldn’t wish him to be stuck in this wretched waste, a hopeless, purposeless failure. Like me.” With nothing more to say she resumed her journey, and pushed through the door into the restaurant.
Runch could not help but laugh as Juniper strode away in a fit. ”Omnomnomnom! You would think she’s unfamiliar with my famous bloodberry cereal, known to vitalized, re-energize, and stimulate healing!” As he spoke, the captain created exactly the recipe he so fondly bragged about, dropping small bites into Cyril’s mouth, manually mashing the pellets with Cyril’s jaw, and then letting it slide down the man’s esophagus. He repeated this process numerous times over the course of several minutes, neglecting his own wounds despite the bleeding.
”There,” he sighed, wiping his brow, only to realize he still had that ridiculous armor on. With great frustration, and comedic difficulty, he began to remove it piece by piece as he spoke aloud to Erina, hovering nearby. ”I have done what I can without the aid of my ship’s doctor. What remains is up to his willpower now, and from what I’ve seen of that there should not be any further problems! Omnomnomnoooooo-!”
Runch lost his balance in an attempt to remove the left leg of armor, falling square on his backside. A small yelp escaped his lips as he bruised, the adrenaline of active combat having worn off. Erina couldn’t help but (poorly) stifle her own laughter. ”Well what about Juniper?” she asked, one hand still covering her mouth.
Shaking his head to rouse himself, the pirate replied, ”She’ll be difficult to talk to right now, not that she can be blamed for it. Still, I’d rather try to reach her and fail, than go on living without having tried at all. What sort of man could I call myself then?” Taking great care, he lifted the unconscious knight upon his back, then gestured toward his shield and glaive. ”Would you mind grabbing those?”
Erina nodded in acknowledgement, hopping across the patches of cobblestone that were still intact, and not covered in marshmallow goop, with the vigor of a schoolgirl skipping hopscotch. Once she returned to Runch’s side, Erina made known her own concern. ”Are you certain about this?”
”I’m always certain,” Runch shot back with a wink. ”When it comes to making smiles.”
The kitsune could not help but roll her eyes in the face of such pure cheese. Still, in its own way, it was warming. Without another word the duo carefully navigated the area into the restaurant, Runch taking great care not to jostle his burden.
Though not immediately visible, Juniper had already fetched a clear, tall bottle and brought it with her into a corner. She could not have failed to hear the others enter, but she did not look up, instead holding her head in her hand.
Runch took a moment to take the scene in, drink in the bar with his eyes. So much of this world was a bizarre hodgepodge of styles, architectures, cultures, and values. So much of this city was utterly foreign and alien. While the same could be said of the design of this establishment, a watering hole was a watering hole no matter where you went, so he found it easy to acclimate to.
Spotting Juniper holed up in her own little corner, the pirate and the exorcist calmly sauntered over, but chose to at least give the maiden some space. Tiring a bit, Runch produced a bowl from behind the bar and filled it with his healing bloodberry cereal. Beaming with pride, he stopped a moment before beginning to dig in, realization striking. Quickly he found two more bowls, and filled those as well! ”Omnomnom! I was almost rude there for a moment!”
He slid one bowl over to Erina, who began eating quite happily as memory of her last serving came to mind, and the third bowl over to Juniper.”It’s delicious, nutritious, energizing, and it stimulates the body’s healing. Omnomnom! I made sure to make you a variant that pairs well with alcohol.” He wiggled his mustache playfully despite Juniper having not even looked up yet. It was in that moment that he noticed… Half his mustache was missing! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Runch’s eyes turned ghostly white as his mind shrieked in utter horror, yet nary a peep escaped his lips.
The pirate’s comical behavior did not gel with the heavy reality that weighed down on his would-be friend. Juniper had hoped that her departure, let alone her plea, would have convinced the two to leave her alone, but Runch seemed intent on following her and making nice with her. Perhaps, Juniper considered wearily, he simply wasn’t capable of understanding her situation. In his world, a few laughs and words of respect over a gift of food might very well mean forgiveness and comradery, but real life did not work that way. Wounds healed slowly, resentment festered, despair bloated up, and grudges persisted. Much to her self-loathing, she could not even force the blasted pair to leave her alone, so instead she growled at them from behind her hands. “Won’t you take a hint? Even if I did need your pity, I wouldn’t accept it. You’ve nothing to offer me but further insult and deeper dismay.”
Erina remained silent, partly to enjoy the meal provided to her, and partly because she knew how Juniper felt. The feelings were somewhat mutual, and the two women had come from similar places. Perhaps there was something she could add to help improve Juniper’s demeanor, but likely not. She allowed Runch to say what he liked… Unfortunately he was still too freaked out and internally screaming in horror. ”Runch?” she asked, prodding him with a spoon to the shoulder.
The pirate roused from his mental anguish, shaking his head, then jumped straight into response as though he had been actively listening to her the entire time. ”I won’t pretend to understand your position. I know it’s impossible. Like a winter berry and a summer berry planted together, we come from entirely separate histories. I already made such a mistake when I offended Erina here, earlier.” He gestured to the kitsune, who perked up a moment, then went back to eating her fill. ”I won’t bother you any further if that is your desire, but I will say this. We never had any grudge between us. You are not now, nor were you ever, my enemy, despite having been my opponent, and the same goes for Sir Boniface here. This competition need not breed any rot on our spirits. In fact I believe that we have gotten to know one another, in a most unorthodox way surely, and could be friends. I promise you that when I win… And please note I said when, not if-” he hastily added. ”Everyone will benefit.”
Runch hastily scarfed down his entire bowl, wiped the crumbs upon his sleeve, and then shifted his weight in preparation to leave, ensuring that Cyril did not fall lopsided on his back. ”I can’t make you eat, but it will help. Live the life you desire to live; my crew will welcome you with open arms if you change your mind.” The floorboard creaked as Runch took his first step. Erina pushed aside her bowl, having just finished. The two of them, Cyril in tow, headed for the door without another word. Of course, Runch kept his pace ever so slightly slower than his usual gait, keeping up hope that Juniper should heed his message.
A minute of silence passed after the pirate’s departure before Juniper moved, and then only to slump down on the table. Her bottle stood nearby, as of yet untouched, and it rattled when her forehead hit the wood. For a brief time she wondered whether or not she’d made the right decision by allowing the others to take Cyril away, but in the end it didn’t matter. She couldn’t have if she tried, and the man -who hadn’t wronged her much less than Runch himself- was little more than a lump of meat, now. The pirate’s magical mix might be able to heal physical wounds, but could it overcome the damage done to Cyril’s mind? In her heart the shrine maiden hoped it wouldn’t. He didn’t need to reawaken into this lost place, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and hear the clown laugh while telling him that losing his life’s purpose was no big deal.
Juniper knew that sooner or later she would have to leave. Maybe something in the City would kill her, though despite her misery she felt disinclined to throw her life away, or maybe by some miracle someone from the College could get her back home, as unlikely as that Barnaby woman made it seem. She looked up from the table at the misty bottle set upon it, then painfully roused herself to go and fetch a glass to pour its contents into. Even here, in the depth of her failure, she didn’t need to sacrifice her dignity.
The Saudi terrorist's knuckles cracked as his fist collided with the face of his American prisoner. He rubbed the knuckles, easing their pain, as the white man spat another glob of blood onto the dilapidated floor. "Where is the shipment, American pig!" he demanded to his bound captive, growing more and more impatient. He received no response beyond a knowing wink, as though this man before him were in the middle of some sort of courtship routine. Such brazenness filled him with anger. Anger enough to grab a nearby assault rifle, and slam the stock into his prisoner's gut.
"Oof!" gasped the bound man, more for the air forced from his lungs than any expression of pain.
"I ask you again, filthy swine! Where is the weapon shipment you were hired to guard? You have no idea how imaginative I can get when I grow impatient!" To emphasize his point, the Saudi placed his gun's barrel against his captive's nether region. This time the bound man's response came much more passionately, though far less desirable. He spat a bloodied tooth out, nailing the Saudi on the nose. The armed arm recoiled in disgust, wiping away the sanguine fluid and saliva using the sleeve of his own shirt.
"Have it your way. You wish you live a life of sin, you enjoy this pain so much, I am happy to provide." A shot rang out, punctuated by a yelp of pain and a wheezing. The bound man's knee was now bleeding, limp and useless. He'd never again be able to walk without assistance. "Where. Is. The shipment?"
A brief pause followed, as the man worked himself through the pain, waited out the ringing in his ears. Finally, he answered. "My notebook," he stated simply. "Page 27."
The Saudi spat on him. "My men have already gone through that notebook. There is nothing in it but musings and writings in various languages. We translated it and it is all nonsense. If you think you're dealing with a fool, American, you do better to remember who is tied up right now."
"There's a hidden flap," gasped out the captive, lifting his head up to stare into his handler's eyes. He already had one torn out, and his remaining eye was red from internal bleeding. The Saudi could not help but be proud of the damage he'd caused this American. "On page 27. With instructions on the inside."
Curious, the man strode over to a nearby table, which housed all of his prisoner's personal effects: a revolver handgun, wallet, mobile phone, keys, shoes, various colored pens, and a worn down notebook. He picked up the latter and flipped over to page 27. After a few moments of inspection, he found exactly what the man had described: a flap of paper folded in on itself to look like the page was otherwise normal. Carefully, expecting some sort of trick such as anthrax or the like, he peeled the page over, but found no such treachery. What he did find, however, was almost just as displeasing. Rather than any set of coordinates, or instructions from the American military, it was more of the calligraphy nonsense, just two characters in Japanese kanji.
Pursing his lips at first, he then ground his teeth in frustration. His hands shook, practically vibrating like a jet engine in an attempt to calm his rage, as he snapped shut the notebook and placed it back upon the table. "Still you do not understand the predicament you are in. I had not imagined you could possibly have been this... I believe the word is stupid?" He took a long, deep breath, and calmed himself. There would not be any joy in what he was about to do if he were blinded by rage, after all. "I will get the information out of you. One way, or another."
Holding up his rifle in order to put more bullets in the prisoner, the Saudi swung around with fiery hatred in his eyes. Yet as soon as he did, those flames turned icy cold, overcome with utter fear. "What... What is that?!" he cried out, pointing directly at the mirror which hung on the far side of the room. His prisoner glanced over, then glanced back, followed by a half-hearted shrug.
"I would take heed of mirrors myself, had I a visage as yours." His words were no longer pained, his breathing no longer exerting great effort.
"You cannot possibly tell me you do not see that monstrosity!" bellowed the Saudi, a tremble becoming visible in his movements. Steeling his mind and intent, the man brought up the rifle to his shoulder. "To Hell with you, beast!" he cried, pressing down on the trigger. Shot after shot rang out, black powder combusting, propelling small bits of metal shrapnel, colliding with smooth aluminum glass and sending more bits of shrapnel about. Whatever it was the man believed himself to be shooting, it was not dying. At least not in his mind, as he continued to fire until the cartridge depleted.
The man swore in Arabic, taking cover as he loaded a new cartridge of ammunition into the rifle. Meanwhile the prisoner merely sat in his chair, calmly behaving himself as though he were attending the most normal event in the world. A second later and the door bust open, three more Saudi men entering with guns of their own. <"Leader, what is happening?!"> cried out one in their native tongue.
The leader popped his head out of cover, pupils dilating wide in terror. <"Move, you fools!"> But his warning was met only with confused looks. <"No! You shall not take my brothers in arms!"> Now armed with fresh ammunition, he unleashed his fury once again, this time with tangible results. Unfortunate, bloody, results. Whatever he believed he was firing upon, it was on top of his men, but of course there was nothing there, and so the bullets had only one place to go. Each of the three men fell, barely able to let out a gasp of surprise before dying on the spot, slain by their own leader. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.
"American! What devil have you brought into my home?!" He trained the gun back onto his prisoner, who could only shake his head.
"You seek out a spectre, an apparition. What you seek simply does not exist." He struggled a bit against his bonds.
"No! I know I see it! It is right there before me! Answer, or I kill you now!" He placed his finger on the trigger.
"The dead cannot easily speak. Kill me and remain ignorant. Break these bonds, and I may yet reveal answers." The man raised an eyebrow, expressing some sense of urgency.
The Saudi paused for a moment, glancing between his prisoner and the horrific monster. Quickly he came to a conclusion. "Ok." Sprinting a mad dash, the Saudi made for his captive's chair, ducking and jumping above imaginary tentacles reaching out to grasp him. Thankfully the beast was limited to the mirror, and so its reach was limited. He made it safely to the prisoner, and got to work untying the man.
"It is done," he stated curtly. "Now, answers, American!"
"Graciously," began the no-longer-prisoner, rubbing some relief into his wrists. "Perhaps to start, I should inform your noble personage of some stated confusion. You see, when I said that you seek what does not exist, I referred not to the monster you see. That beast is very real, and I lay eyes upon its form as easily as I see you."
The Saudi narrowed his eyes in frustration. "Get to the point, American. How do we kill this abomination of Allah?"
"Another misunderstanding." The man shook his head. "We do not kill it, for it reflects your heart given form. The weapon shipment you seek does not exist. I was not commissioned to protect weapons. I was commissioned to kill your group." As the man tried to piece together how each of this man's statements were supposed to fit, the man held up a small reflective object: a shard of the mirror that had broken off. A tentacle reached out from the surface, smacking aside his assault rifle with great strength, then immediately snatched his neck in a vice grip. Attempts to breathe only caused greater suffering, as opening the airways allowed the tentacle to force out more oxygen. He was lifted up from the ground, feet limply dangling below, skin turning a rather grotesque purple. Then, all at once his suffering ended with a violent neck snap. In the same instant, the creature utterly vanished and his body fell limp to the floor.
Not a second later, a little jingle played on the nearby table as the man's phone lit up, vibrating against the wood. "Dear me, a busy day." Gritting his teeth through the pain, the man stood up from his chair, holding onto it for balance, and limped over to the table. Once there, he kept balance with one hand on the table, while he answered the phone with his right. "Salutations."
"Is this a Mister Leonard Skinner?" inquired a smooth woman's voice.
"It is," Leonard confirmed, as he began to draw something on the table in his own blood.
"My name is Desiree, and I work for the Speedwagon Foundation. We have an interest in your set of skills, and will pay you quite well. Are you interested?" Leonard paused a moment, not to think it over, but to finish his symbol. Drawing in blood was a messy art, and the symbol had to be absolutely perfect in order to function correctly. "Mr. Skinner?"
"Yes, color me intrigued, Miss Desiree. I have finished a commission very recently, and find myself eager to create greater art. This piece... Could not fulfill me."
"Glad to hear it. I am transferring funds into your off shore account right now to cover the plane ticket. We'll be in touch."
The phone call abruptly ended, just as Leonard finished the Nordic rune he had been working on. Already he could feel its effects working magic on his body. He swore he could see clearly out of both eyes, the bleeding had stopped, and he no longer felt any pain, but he dared not move from his spot. "Not like last time. I must remember, it takes a bit before it becomes real."
A lone motorcycle pulled up in front of the Speedwagon Foundation headquarters. The paint job could only be described as a work of art, with intricate colors creating a sensation for the senses. On each side it bore large plastic saddlebags, filled with the owner's personal possessions. Riding atop, no helmet, was the imposing, large, and muscular Leonard Skinner. He parked the bike out in front, handing the keys to a nearby valet without a single word. He then made his way into the building, guided by an employee of course, until brought to the room he was to wait for further instruction.
Upon entering, Leonard spied three other individuals already present, though none looked to be representatives of the Speedwagon Foundation. He took each one in, understanding their aesthetics. One was a small girl with, he estimated, an even smaller skin. She looked as though she could break down at any moment, on the verge of tears. Another womon was present, this one certainly a woman and not a girl. Everything from her demeanor to her stylization spoke to Leonard, and what it said was "mercenary." Just because they had common ground did not mean they could get along, however. The third however, he told a different story... A story that Leonard had been following since age five.
Despite his interests, career, and all other aspects of life, Leonard was still an Alabama boy, and down in Alabama they enjoy their wrestling. Before him was one of the Canadian greats he had followed, the mighty St. Anger! Leonard's eyes lit up for just a moment, before he forced himself to remain professional. Damn, this was going to be difficult.
Leonard approached each one of his peers in the room, and handed them a business card. Each card had been customized and hand drawn himself, with a personalized introduction, and his name. He spoke not a word as he handed out these business cards. Not a word, that is, until he handed one to Arthur. Once the card had exchanged possession, Leonard took out his notebook, flipped to one of the back pages (which remained blank) and held it before Arthur, with a pen. "I find myself humbled before an icon of my childhood. Would you honor the memory of an Alabama boy with your autograph?"
"Oof!" gasped the bound man, more for the air forced from his lungs than any expression of pain.
"I ask you again, filthy swine! Where is the weapon shipment you were hired to guard? You have no idea how imaginative I can get when I grow impatient!" To emphasize his point, the Saudi placed his gun's barrel against his captive's nether region. This time the bound man's response came much more passionately, though far less desirable. He spat a bloodied tooth out, nailing the Saudi on the nose. The armed arm recoiled in disgust, wiping away the sanguine fluid and saliva using the sleeve of his own shirt.
"Have it your way. You wish you live a life of sin, you enjoy this pain so much, I am happy to provide." A shot rang out, punctuated by a yelp of pain and a wheezing. The bound man's knee was now bleeding, limp and useless. He'd never again be able to walk without assistance. "Where. Is. The shipment?"
A brief pause followed, as the man worked himself through the pain, waited out the ringing in his ears. Finally, he answered. "My notebook," he stated simply. "Page 27."
The Saudi spat on him. "My men have already gone through that notebook. There is nothing in it but musings and writings in various languages. We translated it and it is all nonsense. If you think you're dealing with a fool, American, you do better to remember who is tied up right now."
"There's a hidden flap," gasped out the captive, lifting his head up to stare into his handler's eyes. He already had one torn out, and his remaining eye was red from internal bleeding. The Saudi could not help but be proud of the damage he'd caused this American. "On page 27. With instructions on the inside."
Curious, the man strode over to a nearby table, which housed all of his prisoner's personal effects: a revolver handgun, wallet, mobile phone, keys, shoes, various colored pens, and a worn down notebook. He picked up the latter and flipped over to page 27. After a few moments of inspection, he found exactly what the man had described: a flap of paper folded in on itself to look like the page was otherwise normal. Carefully, expecting some sort of trick such as anthrax or the like, he peeled the page over, but found no such treachery. What he did find, however, was almost just as displeasing. Rather than any set of coordinates, or instructions from the American military, it was more of the calligraphy nonsense, just two characters in Japanese kanji.
Pursing his lips at first, he then ground his teeth in frustration. His hands shook, practically vibrating like a jet engine in an attempt to calm his rage, as he snapped shut the notebook and placed it back upon the table. "Still you do not understand the predicament you are in. I had not imagined you could possibly have been this... I believe the word is stupid?" He took a long, deep breath, and calmed himself. There would not be any joy in what he was about to do if he were blinded by rage, after all. "I will get the information out of you. One way, or another."
Holding up his rifle in order to put more bullets in the prisoner, the Saudi swung around with fiery hatred in his eyes. Yet as soon as he did, those flames turned icy cold, overcome with utter fear. "What... What is that?!" he cried out, pointing directly at the mirror which hung on the far side of the room. His prisoner glanced over, then glanced back, followed by a half-hearted shrug.
"I would take heed of mirrors myself, had I a visage as yours." His words were no longer pained, his breathing no longer exerting great effort.
"You cannot possibly tell me you do not see that monstrosity!" bellowed the Saudi, a tremble becoming visible in his movements. Steeling his mind and intent, the man brought up the rifle to his shoulder. "To Hell with you, beast!" he cried, pressing down on the trigger. Shot after shot rang out, black powder combusting, propelling small bits of metal shrapnel, colliding with smooth aluminum glass and sending more bits of shrapnel about. Whatever it was the man believed himself to be shooting, it was not dying. At least not in his mind, as he continued to fire until the cartridge depleted.
The man swore in Arabic, taking cover as he loaded a new cartridge of ammunition into the rifle. Meanwhile the prisoner merely sat in his chair, calmly behaving himself as though he were attending the most normal event in the world. A second later and the door bust open, three more Saudi men entering with guns of their own. <"Leader, what is happening?!"> cried out one in their native tongue.
The leader popped his head out of cover, pupils dilating wide in terror. <"Move, you fools!"> But his warning was met only with confused looks. <"No! You shall not take my brothers in arms!"> Now armed with fresh ammunition, he unleashed his fury once again, this time with tangible results. Unfortunate, bloody, results. Whatever he believed he was firing upon, it was on top of his men, but of course there was nothing there, and so the bullets had only one place to go. Each of the three men fell, barely able to let out a gasp of surprise before dying on the spot, slain by their own leader. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.
"American! What devil have you brought into my home?!" He trained the gun back onto his prisoner, who could only shake his head.
"You seek out a spectre, an apparition. What you seek simply does not exist." He struggled a bit against his bonds.
"No! I know I see it! It is right there before me! Answer, or I kill you now!" He placed his finger on the trigger.
"The dead cannot easily speak. Kill me and remain ignorant. Break these bonds, and I may yet reveal answers." The man raised an eyebrow, expressing some sense of urgency.
The Saudi paused for a moment, glancing between his prisoner and the horrific monster. Quickly he came to a conclusion. "Ok." Sprinting a mad dash, the Saudi made for his captive's chair, ducking and jumping above imaginary tentacles reaching out to grasp him. Thankfully the beast was limited to the mirror, and so its reach was limited. He made it safely to the prisoner, and got to work untying the man.
"It is done," he stated curtly. "Now, answers, American!"
"Graciously," began the no-longer-prisoner, rubbing some relief into his wrists. "Perhaps to start, I should inform your noble personage of some stated confusion. You see, when I said that you seek what does not exist, I referred not to the monster you see. That beast is very real, and I lay eyes upon its form as easily as I see you."
The Saudi narrowed his eyes in frustration. "Get to the point, American. How do we kill this abomination of Allah?"
"Another misunderstanding." The man shook his head. "We do not kill it, for it reflects your heart given form. The weapon shipment you seek does not exist. I was not commissioned to protect weapons. I was commissioned to kill your group." As the man tried to piece together how each of this man's statements were supposed to fit, the man held up a small reflective object: a shard of the mirror that had broken off. A tentacle reached out from the surface, smacking aside his assault rifle with great strength, then immediately snatched his neck in a vice grip. Attempts to breathe only caused greater suffering, as opening the airways allowed the tentacle to force out more oxygen. He was lifted up from the ground, feet limply dangling below, skin turning a rather grotesque purple. Then, all at once his suffering ended with a violent neck snap. In the same instant, the creature utterly vanished and his body fell limp to the floor.
Not a second later, a little jingle played on the nearby table as the man's phone lit up, vibrating against the wood. "Dear me, a busy day." Gritting his teeth through the pain, the man stood up from his chair, holding onto it for balance, and limped over to the table. Once there, he kept balance with one hand on the table, while he answered the phone with his right. "Salutations."
"Is this a Mister Leonard Skinner?" inquired a smooth woman's voice.
"It is," Leonard confirmed, as he began to draw something on the table in his own blood.
"My name is Desiree, and I work for the Speedwagon Foundation. We have an interest in your set of skills, and will pay you quite well. Are you interested?" Leonard paused a moment, not to think it over, but to finish his symbol. Drawing in blood was a messy art, and the symbol had to be absolutely perfect in order to function correctly. "Mr. Skinner?"
"Yes, color me intrigued, Miss Desiree. I have finished a commission very recently, and find myself eager to create greater art. This piece... Could not fulfill me."
"Glad to hear it. I am transferring funds into your off shore account right now to cover the plane ticket. We'll be in touch."
The phone call abruptly ended, just as Leonard finished the Nordic rune he had been working on. Already he could feel its effects working magic on his body. He swore he could see clearly out of both eyes, the bleeding had stopped, and he no longer felt any pain, but he dared not move from his spot. "Not like last time. I must remember, it takes a bit before it becomes real."
A lone motorcycle pulled up in front of the Speedwagon Foundation headquarters. The paint job could only be described as a work of art, with intricate colors creating a sensation for the senses. On each side it bore large plastic saddlebags, filled with the owner's personal possessions. Riding atop, no helmet, was the imposing, large, and muscular Leonard Skinner. He parked the bike out in front, handing the keys to a nearby valet without a single word. He then made his way into the building, guided by an employee of course, until brought to the room he was to wait for further instruction.
Upon entering, Leonard spied three other individuals already present, though none looked to be representatives of the Speedwagon Foundation. He took each one in, understanding their aesthetics. One was a small girl with, he estimated, an even smaller skin. She looked as though she could break down at any moment, on the verge of tears. Another womon was present, this one certainly a woman and not a girl. Everything from her demeanor to her stylization spoke to Leonard, and what it said was "mercenary." Just because they had common ground did not mean they could get along, however. The third however, he told a different story... A story that Leonard had been following since age five.
Despite his interests, career, and all other aspects of life, Leonard was still an Alabama boy, and down in Alabama they enjoy their wrestling. Before him was one of the Canadian greats he had followed, the mighty St. Anger! Leonard's eyes lit up for just a moment, before he forced himself to remain professional. Damn, this was going to be difficult.
Leonard approached each one of his peers in the room, and handed them a business card. Each card had been customized and hand drawn himself, with a personalized introduction, and his name. He spoke not a word as he handed out these business cards. Not a word, that is, until he handed one to Arthur. Once the card had exchanged possession, Leonard took out his notebook, flipped to one of the back pages (which remained blank) and held it before Arthur, with a pen. "I find myself humbled before an icon of my childhood. Would you honor the memory of an Alabama boy with your autograph?"
Marque de Bourdeaux
Words passed by Marque like a gentle breeze, and he paid as much mind to them. Whether it be the irritable gruff of defense by Lorenzo, the pragmatic decree of the good squire, or helpful volunteering taken by the good doctor, such words failed to register beyond Marque's ears, for all focus had been placed on what horrors certainly befell their good Hermit companion. To be slain in battle was one matter, a matter which would have its own traumas, but to know that the only reason the Hermit now had been drawn to his demise solely because Marque had changed positions... This was a matter most horrible in his heart of hearts. Nary a soul should have been harmed in his quest to investigate these woods for his mentor. Instead demonic hellhounds preyed upon them, because Marque had convinced each of their assistance. Foolish. And now the responsibility was his to bare.
"Did you say something?" Marque inquired, perking up for the first time, experiencing the scent of fresh air rather than fresh soil. His eyes took the scene in, and he drew the most apparent conclusion. The doctor remained at watch as others rested. Rising slowly to his feet, the usual dance and pomp had disintegrated from Marque's gait as he shuffled to Bastian, and took nearby seating. Rest was a luxury, afforded to those who could protect them. Not something he felt deserving of at this time. "I pray you find my company agreeable. My eyes can focus on our other flank, and ease some of the burden."
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