#631008
- Tue Feb 21 2006 02:06 PM
Crisis Point
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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Sometime around three am this morning.
The cool night air blew past the skin on the man’s head. He should’ve worn a hat he thought. Then decided better of it, considering the gusts from this height. He fished a small carton out of the right pocket of his dark grey trousers and lifted out a cigarette.
Pulling out a silver lighter from his other pocket, he deftly lit the smoke in spite of the gusts. It was a neat little trick that impressed the smokers he knew, but not too many other people. Looking down at his watch, he inhaled deeply. Blowing out a small gust of smoke that took flight in the night air he turned his head to the side and spoke.
“Cross, do you think our guest has had enough?”
“Mmmm, hard to say. I don’t think he can speak very well with your foot on his throat.” The silver haired being known as Arthur Cross responded shortly before returning to his
reading material. A small fantasy paperback book.
“I guess you’re right.” The bald man who was known only to his associates as Pro, lifted his foot off of the man he’d been choking for several minutes. After a moment, Pro crouched down next to the man, wind blowing past them the whole time.
“Well, then. Ready to talk?” Pro asked the man, watching the blue color slowly fade from his victim’s cheeks.
“F-fuck you. . .” The man managed to stammer out with what little breath he possessed.
“Wrong answer.” Pro quickly stood and kicked the man in the gut with all the strength he could muster. The man grabbed his sides in pain shortly before Pro kicked him again,
sending him flying off of the forty story ledge they’d been perched on.
Pro peered over the ledge watching the man fall while continuing to smoke his cigarette.
He looked at his watch again.
The unnamed man screamed for ten stories before a large, purple hand grabbed him by the throat and hauled him inside a window. The man continued screaming for a moment, not
immediately realizing that he’d been saved.
“Comrade, this one is being very loud.” A voice with a thick russian accent said from the far end of the dark room.
“He’s kind of small for the season, too. You might have to throw him back.” A deep, gravelly voice responded from a little closer.
“No! No, don’t throw me back! Please!” The man snapped to attention at the thought of being hurled back outside.
“Then tell us. . .” the gravelly voice sounded again. Closer. “Tell us about the experiment.”
A light switch flipped on as the man got his first look at the hand that was holding him. The first thing he noticed was that the skin was purple and the arm was very hairy and
muscular. It also stretched all the way to the other side of the room where it’s owner smiled jovially and waved to him. “Is being a good evening comrade, yes?” Blackwulf the Everchanging said.
“Tell us, dammit!” The gravelly voice sounded again as it’s owner popped up in front of the man’s field of vision. Tall, with black hair and a black leather jacket. But the worst thing was the face. The white, bone face with no skin, no muscles, no organs to speak of.
But the absolute worst was the empty eye sockets that seemed to stare into the man’s very being. He wanted to scream again. Suddenly, going back out the window didn’t seem like a bad idea at all. But he felt if he did, he might see this face again sooner than he’d like.
Overwhelmed the man fainted on the spot.
“Shit. This one’s useless, Wulf.” Grimm said, pulling a small cell phone out of is pocket. “Might as well tell Pro it’s another dead end.”
Several months earlier. . .
A laboratory. The doctor had been napping again. His alarm failed to wake him. It continued to go off for several moments before a strong hand turned it off, crushing it accidentally. The hand picked up the alarm clock and held it up to a face which stared at the device for a moment, studying it. Finally satisfied, the hand returned the clock to it’s resting place.
“Doctor Smith? Doctor. . .it’s time for the show. We’re going to miss it.” The young man with the blank expression on his face peered down at the unmoving form of the doctor. He
tapped him lightly on the shoulder, causing the doctor’s body to slump down to the floor.
The man paused and cocked his ear towards the doctor’s still form, as if listening for something. After several moments, a look of realization began to creep across his face. His
eyes saddened as tears began to form. His body trembled and convulsed and he began to scream loudly.
He crouched down a bit, before pushing himself into the air and tearing a large hole in the ceiling of the building. He flew away into the sky still screaming.
cont.
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#631009
- Thu Mar 02 2006 02:31 AM
Re: P.A.I.N. Agents #1 "Final Justice"
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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Two weeks ago. . .
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington D.C.
The Oval Office
He leaned back in his chair, stairing at the room that had become more intimately familiar to him than his own family these last several years, and frowned a bit. The old saying went that familiarity bred contempt. If so, what did intimate familiarity breed? He pondered the question a bit while awaiting his afternoon appointment.
Scientist. War Veteran. Politician. Poet. President of the United States of America. Charles Elias Walker was one of those types of men that seems to come along once in a lifetime. Or several. But that fact did not ease the burdens on his shoulders. Often, it seemed to multiply them.
Such had been the case since what his people had termed "The Prometheus Event." An unprecedented phenomenon in human history during which an unknown energy bathed the Earth for several hours, fundamentally altering the cell structure of a percentage of the human population. "Like a fire stolen from the Gods. . ." Walker muttered to himself, lightly tapping a pen on his desk.
The intercom on his desk buzzed lightly, snapping him out of his reverie. "Sir?" an electronic voice crackled out of the box.
"Yes, Penny?" He answered, knowing full well why she had called for him.
"Your three o'clock is here."
"Send him in."
Even as the large oak door of his office began to open, Charles stood and warmly prepared to greet his visitor. Smiling and extending his hand, he only said, "Pro."
"You know I hate that name. Mind if I smoke?" The short, thin, bald man, wearing a rumpled grey suit, with a tan overcoat simply walked into the office and sat at the table. After a moment, a look of realization crawled over as his face as he noticed he'd forgotten something.
He stood, smiled, and shook Walker's hand, gripping it in both of his. "Charles! Good to see you. It's been what. . .ten years?"
Both men sat as the ritual had been completed to their satisfaction. "Fifteen if you don't count the formation of our little group."
"Let's try not to." Pro said with an air of exasperation.
"Look, Pro. . ." Walker began.
"I've always hated that name. Ever since you gave it to me in the jungles." Pro exhaled lightly, as smoke filters on Walker's desk drew the air inside of them.
"I called you that because that's what you are. A pro. The best." Walker responded matter of factly. "Now as to names, doesn't P.A.I.N. strike you as a little. . .well, a little. . .over the top for a covert group?"
Walker waited for Pro's response as the smaller man stared out of one of the windows. He took several drags off of his cigarette before answering the question. "You put me in charge of your little agency. Why, I don't know. But for some reason, an ex-covert ops military tactical strategist was what you decided was right to head up this little band of misfits. As I'm said ex-military strategist in charge of said band of misfits, I decide what they're called. So I gave them a name I deemed appropriate. P.A.I.N. Because that's what they and this job are to me. One giant pain in my rear end."
"Fair enough." Walker responded. If he was put off by Pro's statement it never showed. He laid a file out on his desk and began to flip through it. "Are you familiar with your current task?"
"Android raised in a lab. Liquid cell structure allowing it to duplicate posthuman abilities. Father figure scientist dies of a heart attack. Android escapes and is on the loose. Considered dangerous because of social retardation. Not a clue, chief." Pro winked as he finished the cigarette and put out the stub on a tray near the filter.
"Pro, have you ever met anyone smarter than yourself?" Walker replied laughing a bit.
"Only once. Only once." Pro's gaze wandered a bit before he fished another cigarette out of his coat pocket.
"Well then, I guess you know what to do. Please, try to keep this quiet."
"Will do, chief."
*******************************
Pro stepped out into the hallway and adjusted his coat a bit. He looked around and soon saw what he was looking for. A gorgeous redhead wearing a low cut green long sleeve shirt and white slacks. She was being hit on by a pair of secret service agents. As she saw Pro walk out of the office, her attention turned completely away from the servicemen and she fell in step with Pro's quick gait.
"Did you meet the President? Is he nice?" Brianna Finn asked, just a trace of her brogue left in her voice.
"He always is." Pro answered, not slowing down as the two walked towards the exit of the building.
"Good," she smiled, as if in some secret answer to something within herself. "He seems like he would be."
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#631010
- Thu Mar 02 2006 02:34 AM
Re: P.A.I.N. Agents #1 "Final Justice"
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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Today
2:47pm
The crowded streets of New York.
The lunch rush hour has begun to die down a bit. What little of it perceptible from the normal hustle-and-bustle makes scarce difference to the average climate of this great city. Always going. Always moving. Finding no pause for details and no patience for description.
And, in that way, much like it's parent. The United States of America. This great country.
People push and jostle their way through the hasty sidewalks, yammering and cackling...laughing and fighting...each secluded in their own personal bubbles of interaction. Streaks of yellow bursting past with after aromas of spicy foreign cologne. Horns blaring with culturally diverse obscenities. Business men and construction workers. Tax accountants and hair dressers. Babysitters and strip club owners. Sidewalks hold no prejudice or discrimination. In this great city...this great country...everyone meets again in the middle road of life.
Great spires and towers of glass and stone stretching into the hazy sky above, their shadows cloaking the ants scurrying under them. Monuments of human ingenuity, forcing us to recognize our own greatness. Our own success.
But, also a reminder. A reminder that we, the small, have the ability and collective power to create that which is the big.
Something greater than ourselves. And a reminder that sometimes...if we're not careful...we can become overshadowed by our own progress.
Take this great city.
The largest. The most powerful. The greatest, most advanced city on the planet.
But, also, the most corrupt. The most dangerous. The most unforgiving.
Much like this great country.
This great empire.
"...floor 7...", the smooth, crisp female voice spoke from one-thousand, four-hundred and twenty-seven miles above.
The average looking jogger...currently passing the corner of 12th and Main...touched the iPod earpiece, and, with a nod, began his jog in earnest. An average jog. By an average jogger. Average black hair. Average sleeveless white t-shirt. Average black jogging shorts. Average musculature. Average stride. Average.
But, as one might guess from such an overpowering hint of averageness, he was anything but.
His stride began to quicken, as impossibly sharp eyes locked on to a building at the end of the block. Determined feet pounding against the pavement, his movements became more forceful. Faster. Harder. Heading straight down the sidewalk with a building speed.
His chest rising and falling in perfect rhythym with his motions, his face remained passionless. He was not angry, or, obsessed. He wasn't sad, or happy. Contentment and despair meant nothing to him. And the slightest bit of fatigue was an absolute alien concept.
Faster, he ran, darting across traffic that barely noticed him.
Faster, his legs pumping a bit harder...a bit sharper...than they should. Faster, still, and they began to fade like the wings of a hummingbird.
Running. Stronger. Faster.
'Gentlemen, we can rebuild him...'
At thirty-seven miles an hour, you're closing in on the fastest biological on legs.
Biological? Well...he has legs, anyway.
At thirty-nine miles an hour, running straight through the glass doors of a lobby should tear your body to shreds.
Should.
...stronger, faster...
At forty, clotheslining two security guards is an instant kill, and you should be able to pierce straight through simple elevator doors before their bodies even hit the tile.
...stronger, faster...
His body met with a rigid, perfect dead-stop standing position....so much so that the soles of his feet scraped a few inches forward with the dead momentum. But, he was already looking up. And then, crouched.
How long does it take the neural process of the human brain to tell the cardiovascular systems to prepare for a really hard leap? I don't know. But, by time I even say this, the recoil from his feet has snapped the reinforced steel cables, and the elevator is tumbling into the basement below.
But, not before he's sailing through it's roof, straight up the narrow shaft.
Service lights flashed in and out of his peripheral. But, his eyes remained skyward, solely fixed on a specific height. An absolute, finite height, mathematically calculated within 1/1000ths of a micro-centimeter. And it's at the apex of this silent, flawless leap...at the precise moment inertia and gravity reach their natural stalemate...that his body comes to that brief half-second motionless hover. And his finger snap out, ramming themselves into the cracks of the shaft doors, and simultaneously flinging them into the cavern behind, hopping out onto the seventh floor with the same motion.
Two feet met the tile, and he marched without pause straight down the hallway.
"Stop right there!!", a security guard screamed, jumping around the corner, gun drawn.
The jogger doesn't stop marching, and the guard pulls the trigger.
How fast...how accurate...do you have to be, to dodge a bullet? What about spinning your upper torso into a hard left, in time to avoid two slugs of metal racing at the speed of sound? Cocking your head to one side as a third passes again? How fast and accurate do you have to be to do all of this...and never break your origina stride?
Ow! Flathand palm to the forehead. At approximately seventy-pounds of pressure. That's some blunt force trauma for you.
The jogger, still in stride, came right up to the two huge, double doors of oak, and put one fist out. Through it. A twist of the wrist, and fingers simply unlocked the dead bolts from the other side.
The two doors flung wide open, and the silent jogger walked straight into...........an empty room.
Goddammit.
His eyes scanned the room briefly, making note of the huge gaping hole in the window howling from the seventh story gust of city.
"They've already been here." the man called Sixteen announced, pushing the iPod earpiece tighter.
Exactly one-thousand four-hundred and twenty-seven miles into the atmosphere, an immense satellite...a station...spun along its orbit at over a thousand miles an hour. Metal gleaming from the golden sun, the colossus turned and stretched ever outwardly silent.
Inside, however, a very tall, very lovely woman said alot of curse words and kicked alot of probably-expensive equipment. She did this for about two minutes, before taking a very long drag from a cuban cigarello. She reached back and grabbed the hilt of her own ebony ponytail with a straining stretch of her back, as she was prone to do in moments of stress. Then, with a sharp smoky exhale from her nostrils, turned back to the huge display screen dominating the farthest wall.
"Sneaks, can you track them?" she asked the smaller blonde female standing near one of the control interfaces.
She, like the one called Sixteen, was anything but average. A dimensional vagrant. A black magic gypsy, born in the 'Year of the Rabbit'.
A very sneaky bunny.
Her small green eyes--and I mean really green...almost a flourescent lime--darted around the room, as if looking for something. She stopped, reaching a pinky out into the air. She began dragging the very long fingernail through the haze of cigarello smoke. The wisps started pooling, and collecting around her rotating digit, as if the fingernail were literally stirring a melting pot of cloudy gray.
"He's a slippery fish, your ex..." a delicious voice purred from her lips.
"Don't call him that."
"...always running...always moving..."
Like this great city. This great country.
"...guarded and thinking..."
This great empire.
The jade of her eyes staring deep into the scrying pool of smoke, her finger stirring and stirring.
"...he's rather good at avoiding me...rather good at hiding..." she continued, an eccentric accent clipping her vowels.
Empires fall.
Suddenly, the pool of smoke billowed and gusted straight down into her staring face. She took a step back, waving the smoke out of her eyes with an annoyed cough.
"...and he's really, really uncool!" she sniped.
The raven-haired goddess, known only as Malvana, wrinkled her lips with a sigh.
"Wednesday?" she asked the air. "Their safehouse in the Mojave...leave them a message for me..."
Exactly thirty-one miles away, a slender African man hung in a motionless stare at the spinning planet below, arms folded.
Then, with a small smile, flickers of orange-hued energy crackled in his pupils. He spread his arms apart, the energy coiling and flushing along his frame. It snaked down into his fingertips, and, with a wide build-up, threw his fists forward. Twin beams of an incandescent burst of radiation and light shot down to a specific point on the Earth below. He held the streams for about a minute, moving them in slow carving motions.
Inside the station, Malvana watched a satellite-linked image of the Mojave Desert pop up on screen. Half-mile long trenches, dug two-hundred-feet deep, sat smoking in a specific pattern. If one were standing next to them on the ground, the form wouldn't be obvious. But, from the atmosphere...it was plain to see...
"X marks the spot..."
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#1081459
- Sun Aug 30 2009 02:49 PM
The End is come
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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They entered the remains of the city. The lifeless bodies of Sixteen and Wednesday hung suspended from lightposts along with those of others who resisted and attempted to fight back.
Almost immediately, the shock troops were upon them. Swarming over them like flies. Firing off their armcannons. Wulf's malleability, Grimm's strength, Cross' versatile weaponry, Pro's cunning and strategy (dulled by his anger). They fought. They fought as they never had. But they had never gone up against an enemy this large and this fierce. They were too few. This world did not have the number of posthuman defenders that others of it's type did. They were brought low.
The Herald came into the fray early on, tipping the scales even further in the balance of the invaders. Warzone, the field commander of the troops, readied his electroscythe, shock blasting the Agents into unconsciousness.
They awoke, hours later. Chained and shackled they sat before a throne carved out of stone. Malvana and Brianna lay chained and naked before it as it's occupant stared down at the group of defenders. A tall, muscular being in a black suit with red trim, boots, and gauntlets. His eyes burned brightly with scarlet energy as the air sizzled in front of him. He looked down at Malvana's form. "So once again, this one's information comes in quite useful."
"Dr. Vaser," he spoke into a communication device, "These are the last catalogued extra normals on this world?"
Upon Mal's orbiting satellite, Vaser responded, her body and features covered in silver armor that only allowed wisps of her violet hair to escape. "They are, my lord."
"Excellent. Continue scanning for more suitable worlds. Once you have found one, send The Herald on to clear the path."
"As you wish."
"I do not wish. I command." The End looked down at his captives, chained on their knees in front of him. "Some of you resemble those who defeated me. Others do not. It matters little. You do not possess nearly their power or resourcefulness." He continued to speak, not caring whether they understood him or not.
Pro's eyes locked on Malvana's and the feeling that passed through from one of them to the other need not be spoken aloud. They said their goodbyes with with their faces and thoughts.
"Warzone!" The End said aloud.
"Sir!" Warzone stepped forward, his electroscythe charging up again.
"Execute the prisoners. Ensure this world witnesses the demise of it's last defenders."
Warzone stepped down in front of the four men. "Have you any last words?"
Pro spat in his face. Warzone took his head off with one single, swift strike. Cross followed, then Wulf, then Grimm. The P.A.I.N. Agents were no more. Their flesh sizzled and cracked in the afternoon sun as The End smiled to himself. "Oh yes, worlds will die. . ."
**********************************
WORLDS. WILL. DIE.
Prometheus sat upright, drenched in sweat. Violet light flared behind his eyes as he scanned his surroundings. He did not know his immediate whereabouts or what the words that remained in his head meant. He shivered as a cold wind swept through the alleyway where he'd been sleeping. "Fuck," he moaned aloud. "Not again. Not again. . ."
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#1081634
- Mon Aug 31 2009 02:28 PM
Light Brigade (slight return)
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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The shock troops of Warzone charged over the hillside, ready to conquer another world, only a small handful of brave souls willing to stand up to them.
The Dark Warrior strode silently into battle, his shadow armor keeping him from harm as his axe blades cut swaths through the enemy forces.
Overhead, gleaming sunlight rippled off of The Diva's golden hair and clothing as she soared above, her song incapacitating those of soldiers in her range.
The Dark Warrior paused for a moment to admire her form before wordlessly resuming his carnage. Every blow was measured, precise, accurate.
"Mad" Jack Mahoney also called "The Glorious Bastard" stood in stark contrast to his teammate. "YOU BITCHES DON'T KNOW ABOUT SPAAAAARRRRRTTAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!" he screamed, while raining gunfire down upon the soldiers. He ran, leapt, and peppered his enemies with grenades, explosions rocking the fields, leaving mangled Necronaut bodies in "Mad" Jack's wake.
Elsewhere, Mr. Clockworks slowly reassembled his mechanical body. Threads re-weaved themselves together to reform his plastic tuxedo. "These Ruffians are most uncouth, I say!" The static hiss of his voice belied his stoic appearance. Raising his palms upward, sparks flickered as electricity vaulted into the shocktroops!
Gingerly, The Patient walked barefoot over the bodies strewn upon the battlefield. His hair long and unkempt, his beard full and bushy. His straitjacket. . .restrictive and uncomfortable. "I really shouldn't be here," he said to no one in particular as two shocktroops charged at him. "I don't think it's part of my treatment." The Patient vanished as the soldiers collided with each other, knocking each other out. Further down the field, The Patient reappeared, still walking gingerly as not harm his feet. A cyborg trooper ran up to him, twirling one of their standard triple maces. "You could really hurt yourself with that thing!" The Patient stated, just before the triple mace flung itself upward, all three heads slamming into the face of it's wielder.
The Patient wandered off, still talking, "I don't care, body hurts, mind is fuzzy, I feel nothing, the world is grey, the Black Llama has been sighted in Tibet, bees are committing suicide, moondust is made out of dead dreams, Tom Cruise is a millionaire and, somewhere, Chris DeBurgh is still touring..."
The Psychopomp split his form into a flock of Ravens, avoiding a multiple arm cannon fusillade from the shock troops before reforming behind them and blasting them in the back of the heads with his guns.
Tachyon adjusted her backpack before racing back into the fight, disarming several troops before a zap from Warzone's electroscythe found it's mark.
The Thinker stood atop a cliff, monitoring the battle. His highly evolved brain supercharged and calculating, he strategized the Light Brigade's forces. His mind focused on the battle, he reached into a pocket with his hand and pulled out. . .nothing. Damn, I could really use a smoke right about now. Too bad I quit. The Thinker returned to plotting strategies for the battle. "Dark Warrior, there's an incoming flank to your, oh. Nevermind. "Mad" Jack, you've got three more Necronaut phalanxes, make that two. . ." He spoke into his headset.
The Thinker paused for a moment, as pain spasmed in his brain, and a violet light briefly flared up behind his eyes. As suddenly as it came, the pain vanished again, as The Thinker refocused his efforts on the field. "What the hell. . .Oh, shit, the big one's back."
The Herald strode back upon the battlefield, leveling everyone standing with one giant stomp of his foot.
The Lycanthropunx surrounded the golden armored man. They weren't usually into canned food, but this one looked like a good meal. Until he began to flip over and through them, striking out with every part of his body, paralyzing nerve clusters with every move.
They would heal quick, but he drew his blade from it's scabbard and began slicing through them, taking them down. It was the blade Ex Calibre, and he was the Champion of the Ages. He was Arthur Champion, Leader of the Light Brigade.
Champion cut through the Lycanthropunx and made straight for Warzone's battle chariot. He cut down shocktroops left and right along the way.
"Ok, people, this is it! Flank Champion and watch his back!" The Thinker shouted! The Light Brigade did as they were asked, and soon Arthur stood toe to toe with the tyrant from another world.
"You're just another bully, Warzone, and I've spent my whole life dealing with bullies!" Champion slugged him in the jaw, and Warzone staggered a bit, not being as used to to this level of physical resistance. He readied his electroscythe.
"I am no mere bully, earthman. I am Warzone! Commander of The End's legions!" Warzone slashed his electroscythe through the air as Champion ducked and readied a swing of his blade. But from behind, The Herald picked Champion up off of the ground and slammed him into a wall of rock. "I will see you dead for what you have cost me this day!" Warzone and The Herald bludgeoned Arthur's body repeatedly with massive blows.
Arthur's enchanted armor protected him from some of the assault, but not all. He was bleeding internally. He knew this was it. He pulled Ex Calibre close and through gritted teeth said, "Maybe so, Warzone, but you won't be around to relish that idea!"
Surging forward, he jabbed Ex Calibre through Warzone's guts and swung upward, cleaving through skin, metal, and bone. Blood flew through the air as Warzone's torso was cleaved in half in one great last act of will.
Both combatants fell onto the field as the Light Brigade continued to battle the onslaught of The End's forces. Gathering together in the middle of the battleground, they stood over the body of their fallen leader. "Protect Champion!" The Thinker commanded instinctively. His teammates didn't need to be told what to do, but they simply did so.
Troops continued to pour through the dimensional portal, before they were parted and The End himself made his way through floating on air. "Enough. It is time you too, crumble before my power." A surge of red cut through the air as The Thinker was dropped, cut down by The End's energy beams.
Mad Jack leapt forward, caught by the throat as The End simply snapped his neck. Tossing Mahoney's lifeless body behind him, he continued forward. Tachyon's legs were sheared off.
The Herald pounded the Golden Diva into unconscious as The Dark Warrior turned his attention to him and the behemoths went to war! One by one, the Light Brigade fell. Mr. Clockworks, The Psychopomp.
The Patient screamed as an energy burst ripped into his sides. "We've got to go. . .now!" In a burst of light, The Patient, The Dark Warrior, and The Golden Diva vanished from the field.
"Find them." The End ordered. "Plant my flags upon this world and have Dr. Vaser reassemble Warzone."
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#1081637
- Mon Aug 31 2009 02:42 PM
A cosmic hobo
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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“Hey, that’s mine!” The bum had finally woken up and wanted his “blanket” back. The man in the trench coat smiled and disappeared; the newspaper fell to the ground. The bum’s eyes widened and seemed to almost pop out of his head. With out blinking, he took a sip from his bottle and went back to sleep.
And while it was the slumber of intoxication, powerful images brisked by his poor soul. Eyes of onyx and perfume persuaded a sigh of pleasure, as they wrapped past the corner of his dreams with raven hair that swallowed light. Cold hell raked against his chest, screaming letters of the alphabet...taunting his lack of fear...toying with his tears. Stalwart jaws set hard as law, bracing against the coming storm....a hurricane of definition explaining the end of all that was, everything that was not to be.
His crumpled, tired form tossed and flinched with the emotional spasms of delirium and fatigue; the wrinkled newspaper crackling against his every protest.
He heard voices of allies and friends. Being born so swiftly, and dying so slowly. He felt the warmth of acceptance and loyalty, echoed through expansive halls, and castle chambers. He smelled the electricity of excitement and fervor, yearning for the next day...pleading with intrigue, danger, chaos.....
....and exploration....
His heart swelled for those he loved, and could not remember. For those he needed, and lost. For the parts of his heart that had braved the unknown, bleeding all the same. Loving all the same. Dying all the same.
And somewhere, a god was laughing at him.
He missed them. His friends. He missed them, without ever having known them. He loved her, without her ever having existed. And for some strange reason....for an inexplicable gap in his soul....he missed.....
.....a coat....?
The homeless vagrant awoke with a shuddering jerk, his eyes wide with shock. His chest panted, and heaved for a few minutes. And, as with everything else about him, the dreams slowly drifted from memory. His past lost to him, the man with no name sighed and pulled from a brown-wrapped bottle.
Then, with a grunt of curious sadness, he pulled the newspaper against him, curling along the hard, alley wall. A small breeze waifted through the dank area, tittering his flowing beard....
...tickling his bald head.
And he began to sleep again.
To dream again.
For, in this life.....in this world....it was all that was left him.
Something was missing. Something was wrong. But, for now, it didn't matter.
But one day, it will. One day.
For now, though, all he could do was sleep, and let his mind dream of lost strangers that could have been his friends, old enemies that he will never know....
....and a dead world that he would miss forever...
His body spasmed and jerked upright as he screamed, instantly awake from the dream turned nightmare. Violet light poured from his eyes, shooting skyward as images of multiple worlds appeared before him.
"NOT AGAIINNNNN!!!!!!!!"
WORLDS ARE DYING.
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#1083173
- Thu Sep 10 2009 12:29 AM
Sic Semper Tyrannus
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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Worlds continue to fall under The End's relentless onslaught.
His eyes glowed red in the darkness of her cell. "It was a whim of fate that brought me to your world. A chance happening. insignificant little mudball that it is. For the first time in my existence, I was brought low, defeated. One of them resembled you, though slightly less. . .worn."
She had grown used to these periodic visits in the years since her capture.
"As soon as I returned to my world, I set my finest minds to relocating that wretched little planet. Your languages and history are those of children. I've conquered your Urth several times over now, yet I still have yet to find this "Vanguard." But I will."
"Americans you call yourselves. You have a quaint little motto. "Sic Semper Tyrannus." Hmph." She could tell he was smirking behind her, even in the darkness. "Your point of view is meaningless, and you live hollow lives. Learn from your master." She arched her back as he pulled tighter on her hair.
"I wonder," he paused momentarily, "when you come to term, will you give live birth or lay an egg?"
It was a fair question, and one that Brianna had pondered often in her previous existence.
Down the hall, in her own cell, Malvana glared into the darkness as she focused her hatred towards her captor.
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#1083238
- Thu Sep 10 2009 03:17 PM
Together again for the first time.
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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The Beacon.
A twelve-story, white-washed, granite-mixed marble lighthouse, spinning through the temporal void at six-years-a-second.
The laboratory of Thomas Franta. 'Multi-Tom'. Fifth-generation grandson of the actual inventor of temporal travel tech. He's, like, a genius. No, I mean, really. The kind of thinker that just trying to comprehend some of his ideas makes your nose bleed...Came up with the idea of a cross-continuum think-tank........made up of just himself. Well, himself from various timelines. Thing is, his intelligence is so consistent with the universe, that a few hundred of his alternate reality counterparts came up with the exact same idea, at the exact same time. So, finding it easy to breech the barriers that divide the seconds, they've all joined forces. He basically created a team of himself.
"No, no, no, no, no!" Tom-Prime sighed, cupping his forehead in exasperation.
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" Tom-7 (the one with the goatee,) insisted. "Minimal casualties. Estimated odds of succes--"
TOM-14: "One-thousand-seventeen--"
TOM-4: "--to twelve-against."
"Inflitration, and deception!" Tom-Prime countered. "Twelve-to-one!"
"The Hypno-Whore is with him!" Tom-7 banged his hand on the table with insistence. "She will see RIGHT through it! If we want to take PsychoSyndicate, we have to go in full-force, frontal attack--"
TOM-14: "Is Bremalian part of their frontline?"
TOM-4: "Until May 13, 2742, when he's killed by The Mary..."
TOM-14: "Then we hit them on May 14th..."
"Listen!" Tom-Prime jutted a finger at number four. "We've talked about that. Don't go blabbing about agent's future events--"
TOM-4: "She's not here. She can't hear me!"
"We don't know that...remember, seraphim-hearing." Prime shook his head. "...voices carry."
It was at this point that a violent flare of purple energy erupted into Multi-Tom's labs, a single humanoid being appearing at the heart of the maelstrom. Whoever he was, he was screaming. Frantas darted around, attempting to quell the energy storm, before noticing that the only thing seeming to be harmed was the being inside.
Prometheus screamed in anger and pain, energy flaring up again around his form as he lashed out. His eyes finally seemed to coalesce into recognition as he looked upon the man/men. "F-Franta???"
"Yes, yes that's my, our name. Thomas Franta." Tom-Prime offered his hand. "How do you do?" The Frantas spoke in unison offering their hands.
"Do we know you?" Tom-4 asked.
"Franta! You've got to do something!" Prometheus convulsed again as his eyes lit up and visions of worlds under siege shone upon the lab like a projection slide. "You've got to reach them! WORLDS ARE DYING! Get Funky!"
The Frantas examined the images as even as Prometheus' fires began to die out, the mysterious being vanishing leaving only a violet haze across the lab as the words "get funky" echoed in the Franta's ears.
*************************
Across the multiverse, Prometheus shivered again, turning on his side in the cold alleyway and simply repeated "Get funky. . ."
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#1083242
- Thu Sep 10 2009 03:36 PM
Catching up with Vanguard
[Re: Grimm]
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Grimm
lost in time
Registered: Thu Jun 13 2002
Posts: 18621
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It was not long after the "Battle for Manhattan" when Vanguard freed the island from the Metahuman Brotherhood of Liberation when the nation of Mandelovia, still under the influence of the Left Hand cult, declared war upon the United States. The US and UN, debated their next course of action.
Ultimately, it was Dr. William Paragon, who persuaded the countries to let him lead Vanguard into Mandelovia to free the country from the oppressive reign of Baron Zero, head of the Left Hand cult.
Supported by several members of the UN backed Strikeforce and many of the metahuman resistance group known as the Harbingers, Vanguard International began their months long campaign to free Mandelovia from the iron grip of The Left Hand.
The major victory came six months into the conflict when Vanguard member Icarus Sidewinder grabbed Baron Zero and flew aloft with him into the air. In a complete suicide gambit, Sidewinder detonated his experimental rocket pack, killing both himself and the Left Hand's leader. Sidewinder was declared a national hero and a statue was erected in the town square of Mandelovia's capital city.
Vanguard member Brute Force was also declared a hero of the war, due to his mostly accidental saving of a high ranking Mandelovian official. Brute Force was subsequently drafted into the Strikeforce.
Lady Lykopis also left Vanguard to remain with the Grecian-based group of demigods known as The Pantheon, stating that she felt more "at home" with them. Despite her intense dislike for the sorceress, Medea.
It was not long after the end of the Mandelovian conflict when Tiberious revealed himself a traitor to the group (a common occurrence around this period in their history), murdering the beloved Banshee, the fiance of Grissom Montag, the Sandcrawler.
With the aid of the group known as The Order, Vanguard fought down Tiberious and his agents, Montag killing the man with a cold blooded shot between the eyes. At the end of this conflict, Montag left Vanguard as well, citing some vague statements about a "Montag curse." It was rumored that he had returned to a life of crime.
As an unknown consortium of businesses bought the Vanguard International trademark (helped along by some shady business dealings on Vanguard's side by Kit Piper), Paragon and the remaining Vanguard members went underground, reorganizing into a single, mobile paramilitary unit. They consisted of Paragon, his lieutenants Phil Smith and Edmund Gaunt (Field commanders and knowledge of various subjects), Leslie Klein (intelligence liason), Penny Goodweather (communications), Victor Reilly (living weapon), Tommy Foxe (shapeshifting and infiltration), and Trevor, a speedster who defected over from the Harbingers after the Mandelovian conflict.
And this is about where things were when Dr. Vaser's scanners finally detected the right world. . .
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