Mr_Grey

Okay, here's something, folks...

Make Your Report

Explain what you've been doing to combat the Rikti.

...

Oh man, I can't wait to explain the Mr. Subtle-a-thon.

Kind of a dry update to BWO.

Some of the "rogue" members of the group help Back Alley Brawler and a crew of lesser-known heroes wipe out a Bolivian drug hacienda (at the behest of the local authorities). In the course of the aftermath, they discuss legal philosophy in regards to the War on Drugs.

Brawler, of course, insinuates that breaking the law is breaking the law, to which my rogue doesn't disagree, but he still lets his views be known.

Back Alley Brawler nodded proudly as the fires continued to consume the coca fields surrounding the compound (the main buildings of which were also burning). Mercenary guards were being rounded up by the band of heroes he’d brought with him and an energy field Defender-class was sealing them up in a large green bubble that would keep them from leaving before the Bolivian police arrived to take them to jail. It was a strong blow in the ongoing war on drugs.

He turned to the members of the group that had proven to be an unusual addition. Matt Jones, Mark Shadow and Justin Steel, three renegades from out of the Rogue Isles, had been members of the boat crew that had shipped them up the Amazon, the Madeira, and much of the Beni. Steel’s mercenary crew was also helping round up the thugs who had been patrolling the plantation just a few hours ago.

They were surprisingly receptive to the idea. Brawler had needed a surreptitious method of easing into the country, and Manticore had pointed him in their direction. They then noted that his crew was lacking in manpower for a job like this, and the three rogues volunteered to help, for a price, of course. Still, what they asked was hardly out of the question (the price doubled the charges for the trip), and their presence was spectacularly helpful.

Steel’s mercenary crew, with their gun company-sounding names, were helpful in dispatching numerous guards before the rest even knew anything was going on. Brawler was even more surprised that they were prepared with “tranquilizer” ammunition.

“We’re not villains nor are we monsters,” Steel explained, “If we can avoid taking lives and afford doing it, that’s what we’ll do. It’s surprisingly cheaper than you’d expect, anyway. Besides, it’s better for us, if we wish to have future employment opportunities like this, to adhere to the codes of conduct provided by those on your side of the fence.”

When the battle was almost done, it turned out the plantation’s owner, a man with the simple last name of “Garza,” was some form of meta-human. He used his power to manipulate gravity to lift and hurl heavy objects like his freight trucks at the attacking heroes. Jones had taken one to the face, but had been able to absorb most of the shock with his sledgehammer. Mark Shadow then hurled a pair of Seeker Drones at the man, which distracted him long enough for Brawler to get in close and deliver a solid right cross that knocked Garza out cold.

It was an exhilarating couple of hours, and the whole crew was happy to have helped out a veteran among heroes. Back Alley Brawler, however, was glad to have some new information to relate to Freedom Phalanx. Their whole parading throughout the world with a Longbow entourage was definitely going to have to go. How could they get anything accomplished if they were always advertising their presence? He couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to regroup and reconsider his plans just because the red-and-white escort had done a better job of drawing attention to him and brought villains and rogues down on his head than actually protecting him.

“Nasty habit, there,” he muttered jokingly to Jones as the brute sat on a rock and smoked a cigar, “I trust that’s legal.”

“Of course!” Dirty Ice replied as he started fishing through the backpack by his side, “I’m not about to go and break the law with so many ‘capes’ around.”

There was derision in the term, but Michael could tell it was for the term, not for the people.

“See, I haven’t got a problem with something like pot…” the Brute continued, “But if it’s on a plantation like this or hardcore drugs like this was all going to be, they're just making money off loser dope fiends who need to have the source cut off. The bastards need to be-“

One of the labs exploded. The Brawler mildly wished they could have kept some of the equipment as evidence, but the local authorities assured them everything would be fine. He didn’t like to think about what that meant, but he couldn’t expect the Third World nations to be able to take the precautions the more developed nations could. For them, Crime was a war, and it would be a long, expensive and damn near futile one if they didn’t take a lot more chances than he was used to the authorities taking back home.

“That,” Matt indicated the explosion with a cigar box he withdrew from his backpack, “Want one?”

“Sure,” the big man replied as he took a cigar from the offered box, “So, you’ve got no beef with marijuana?”

“Not in the personal sense,” Jones grimaced as he seemed to be remembering something, “I mean, I tried it as a kid, heck, I even grew the stuff. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a difficult thing to do... But there’s so much stupid [dung] surrounding it… It’s not worth going to jail over… It's a cheap drug, easy to grow, and maybe once all the illegal stuff is taken care of, maybe then work can be done about legalizing it. For now, too many idiots are getting rich off something you can grow just by throwing into your back yard. That ain't right.”

Justin Steel and Mark looked pointedly at their brutish friend and he nodded vigorously as he shrugged.

“Hey, that's just my opinion... I'm not saying it needs to be made legal, just that if any serious consideration is going to be made for it, they're gonna have to clear out what's already wrong with it.”

“So you’ve been through the penal system, eh?” Brawler chuckled between puffs of his cigar.

“Yeah. It wasn’t so bad, but after listening to a bunch of pubescent thugs tell me what I did wrong, what to watch out for and other assorted anecdotes of criminal behavior, besides all of the macho posing, I decided I’d had enough. It was too much work breaking the law. Where was the fun? Where was the adventure?”

His skin suddenly erupted into flames and he smirked.

“This here… What we did today… Now that’s fun!”

“So… You don’t partake anymore, do you?”

“Not lately, not in the past few years,” Jones picked himself up off the rock and stretched, “I haven’t had the time. Life’s been too full of other things to do.”

They admired the burning hacienda again and he waved at it. The Brawler smirked and turned to join the heroes who were finishing up the final roundup.

“The authorities are here, sir,” the young woman, Wrathfire, announced as he arrived, “They said they’re ready to take these men to jail.”

Michael nodded and greeted the police officer in the lead. Again he was struck by the similarity to war as they looked less like cops and more like soldiers. They were friendly enough, and he learned that the only one they really wanted was Garza.

“It’s men like him that are making this work so much more difficult lately,” the captain explained, “So many of our talent have been going to your country to make names for themselves. We try to encourage them to help, but, ah, young people today…”

“I understand. Well, don’t hesitate to call for help. We do it free of charge…”

He glanced at the men who were approaching from behind and smirked.

“…Unlike some people.”

“Thanks for helping us, guys!” Wrathfire shouted as she ran up and hugged Mark, “I haven’t seen you guys for a couple years now!”

“You’re that chick who used to hang out with Kip,” Shadow gasped as he regained his breath, “Jebus, you almost cracked a rib…”

“It’s not often we get villains helping us,” the force field Defender, a man named Ennervator, said breathlessly, his awe at working with someone like Back Alley Brawler clearly evident.

“I’m not used to working with pretentious blowhards,” Dirty Ice replied, his flames flaring dangerously.

When the other man looked worriedly to Wrathfire, the woman folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow at the brute. Matt rolled his eyes and nodded apologetically.

“And thank goodness neither of us has done either,” Justin Steel interjected, “We’re mercenaries, nothing more. Thankfully, the only contracts we’ve gotten so far have only been security jobs and work like this. We remain in good standing with people like your boss over there.”

“Sir,” Mr. Kolt announced as he and the other mercenaries arrived, “We’ve finished combing the grounds for any remaining cartel members. All have been captured or accounted for.”

“Accounted for?”

“Not everybody can survive, sir,” the big man’s posture didn’t change, but his tone was slightly somber, “Some fled into the oncoming flames.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“No need to stick around, though,” Matt growled, “We can’t be held accountable for the stupidity of others. It’s time for us to go.”

Indeed, the Brawler was gesturing for everybody to get into the back of the truck the Bolivian police had provided. They’d have to go to Sucre to fill out some forms and deliver some statements, but soon enough they’d be on their way home.

“You guys certain you can take a plane back home?” Michael asked Justin on the way.

“Yes,” the mercenary leader replied, “Ringo already took the boat home once we’d landed. He and his crew have too much need for it to just sit around waiting for us. Besides, it'll eat into the bill you owe us.”

"Good, good," the big hero smirked as he started picturing the paperwork he'd have to fill out with Freedom Corps, "Now that's good business."

I use "nanites." It's kind of like the instructions for Power Armor in Fallout 3, just relax and let the little, itty-bitty robots do the work for you.

Two things...

One, I've resurrected BWO. Here, I've got an introduction of the group that leads the group that's been harassing them for the past year. The Triumvirate... Anybody who's seen the New Horizon Syndicate agents now gets to meet the arch-villain version... Or rather, an unfortunate group of Paragon Protectors gets to.

Also, I updated Grey's Army with a new chapter. Joe and his "Hero Cops" unit have been transferred to a new precinct in King's Row, an ubiquitous "Precinct 13" and almost true to form, the building gets assaulted by Council troops.

“You didn’t have to help us with this,” Joe said as he and Sarah carried a couple boxes full of books into the new precinct he and his unit were moving into, “I mean, this is our job.”

“Yeah, but I want to help,” Sarah replied, pausing to giggle as Ni nuzzled her cheek, “I mean, it’s something of a professional courtesy thing, you know? I’m a freelance hero, you’re a PPD hero, and I’m helping you guys set up your new shop!”

Other police already stationed in the precinct glanced at them with mild interest. The whole “Hero Cops” thing was still being ironed out. With a stream of commanders below Chief Conrad Bochco transferring in and out of the city on an almost monthly basis, it seemed the various offices and headquarters were always in a state of transition. This move into “Row 13” was the latest in a series of radical changes that the latest commander, Commander Anderson, had instituted.

Anderson was a meta-human bigot. It was a sad thing to say, but it was obvious he much preferred “human gumption” to mutant psychics, Kheldian blasters or whatever other abominations against mankind were currently employed by the heroes of the world. It seemed about the only members of the force he didn’t mess with were the Powered Armor Corps, even members like Detective Murwell.

Still, he couldn’t dissuade Bochco from his massive expansion programs. Indeed, his behavior had him pushed into King’s Row division, where the Chief could both keep a close eye on the dark-minded inspector and hope that working in one of the worst city zones would help improve his outlook on meta-humans as he watched some of the greenest in the city struggle to make the Row a better place.

As it stood, however, Commander Anderson pushed Durnan’s division to the furthest precinct from the main headquarters . Precinct 13, it had one of the worst reputations for its “unlucky” designation. Still, there had to be some truth to the situation. Just a few weeks ago, a Nemesis cell had been busted only a few blocks away from the place by a band of heroes at the behest of some mysterious informant (though the Hero Division was informed that it was Agent Six).

“It sucks we won’t have Blue Steel around to pull us out of fires anymore,” Sergeant Jones intoned as he walked in after Sarah, “I hear the Phalanx is considering bringing him into their group.”

“I don’t think he’ll want in on their world-spanning crap,” Captain Smythe muttered as he walked in with a half dozen boxes floating around him, “At least, I hope he doesn’t. He does enough for them when he pulls their [butts] out of the fire when they get the [tar] kicked out of them in the Isles.”

They were led into the basement where other officers were already setting up. Sarah took a moment to watch Smythe and Jones work. She remembered when she first started hanging out with Joe, Smythe would simply ooze with fantasies about her. Meanwhile, Jones would work to distort and ruin the fantasies, a maneuver that no doubt irked the other psychic to no end. They didn’t have much care for one another back then.

Over the years, however, their rivalry gave way to professional respect. While Smythe was a stickler for rules and protocol, Jones was just as quick to dive into a firefight to rescue innocent bystanders. Something happened, though, something that caused Smythe to get promoted and Jones remained a Sergeant, despite their being on the force for the same amount of time. Something about the incident had apparently rubbed off on Smythe, and he calmed down drastically. Jones, however, reveled in his position.

”I’ve got a nice balance in responsibility and freedom to work,” Jones had explained to her and her husband, ”I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Still, Sarah was certain Smythe’s disinterest in her had more to do with his latest girlfriend. From what she could gather from his “noise,” the girl was a bit of a ditz, but was attractive and friendly enough. There were other things she picked up, but it wasn’t polite conversation.

“Sarah,” Joe interrupted her reverie with a pile of folders, “Could you pop these into that cabinet in alphabetical order?”

“Sure, honey,” she replied.

It was hard not to give him a quick kiss, but she already knew how the other police would look at it. There was a time for work and a time for romance. Now was not the time for the latter. She would probably be able to do something during lunch, but she would have to make sure they weren’t in public or Joe would spend the afternoon with a beat-red face.

She was halfway through the folders when there was a loud explosion from above. She looked back to Joe and the other Hero Cops to see that they were just as confused as she was. When the alarm went off, they knew that they had new work to do.

“Sarah,” Joe said as he opened the armored box Smythe levitated over to him, “I don’t know how to say this…”

“I’ll be right by your side, hon.”

Her husband favored her with a brief smile. There was a mixture of emotions coming from him, from fear to happiness to even just plain confusion. There was no way he would know that she didn’t read his mind, she just refused to let him go out into whatever battle was going on without her.

As the Hero Cops readied, some of the normal officers from upstairs came down with a prisoner between them. He was a military man of some sort, and from his crisp behavior and thick German accent, Sarah guessed he was some form of Council Archon, possibly one from the Fifth Column days. She hated trying to read Council troops. They always had this nasty static on their thoughts.

“Who’s hitting us?’ Smythe asked as he placed a strange technological circlet on his brow, “Freaks? Nemesis? Council?”

“Council, sir,” one of the officers replied, “This here’s Archon Hechler. Apparently, he’s got some juicy information and just turned himself in. He refuses to talk to us, though, so we’re holding him until a F.C. representative can take him off our hands…”

“And the boys upstairs are trying to make sure that won’t happen…”

“Seems to happen every other month, sir,” the officer sighed, “Welcome to Wednesday.”

The Hero Cops pushed their way upstairs. Joe and Sergeant Jones cut left and Sarah followed after she was done giving “sonic courage” to the other officers. When she got to her husband and his partner, she found them fighting desperately alongside the normal officers.

“I already saw this movie!” one officer shouted as he blasted shotgun rounds at the assaulting soldiers in rapid succession, “Here’s a hint, suckers! We win! AUGH!”
He went down, clutching at his right shoulder. It apparently wasn’t the first time he’d been shot, because, without showing a sign of panic, he was already getting to a nearby medical kit so he could begin work on staunching the blood flow.

Joe and Sergeant Jones set to work on covering the flank the fallen officer had made. Sarah moved in as well, lifting a minigun-wielding “Force” soldier and slamming his head into the ceiling before bombing him back to the floor. She then lifted the terrorist and slammed him against the wall. A squad of soldiers pushed through the door and she sent a scattering of confusing thoughts to make them think the troops next to them were really Freedom Corps soldiers. As they fought each other, she turned to the injured officer.

“Are you alright?” she asked as she knelt by him, “Let me see.”

“I’ll be okay, we’ve got Regenerator in these kits… There’s enough for a few more hits… I’m more concerned about ammo… There are a lot of bad guys out there!”

Looking up over the counter and out the lobby door, she saw what he meant. A number of large civilian cargo vehicles were parked outside and soldiers were pouring out. The last of her confused minions tore out of the precinct to shoot at his oncoming compatriots and was promptly put down. With a sinking feeling, she turned to her husband.

“I’m calling Daddy.”

“How long until he gets here?”

“Five minutes,” she replied.

“Five minutes is a long time in a fight like this,” Sergeant Jones groaned, “We need a trick…”

Joe turned a dial on his wristwatch and suddenly vanished. The other two watched the blur that used to be Sergeant Durnan move over to the doorway and start tossing little sharp metal bits all over the floor.

“Joe?” Sarah asked, “What are you doing?”

The next wave of Council soldiers pressed into the lobby. They hit the caltrops and almost halted in their tracks. Despite the super soldier serum in their veins dulling the pain and regenerating their wounds, the caltrops did considerable damage to their feet and slowed them down significantly. Joe, for his credit, dove back behind the reception counter and launched a grenade into the approaching wave, sending a good bulk of them back into the street.

Durnan and Jones followed this up with a spray of rifle fire and rapid psychic assaults. As they did, Smythe, the Precinct Captain (Captain Walters) and a contingent of officers wielding shotguns and pistols shuffled in and set up positions throughout the lobby. The Council troops started pressing their way in again and were ready for much of what the police threw at them, but they weren’t ready for the super powers Smythe, Jones, another officer named Kinney (who threw fire from his hands) or the mini-gun Captain Walters wielded. Sarah did what she could to motivate and protect her husband’s fellow officers, taking every opportunity to recuperate that she could.

They pushed back two more waves like this, before they saw flashing lights outside. A SWAT team on loan from Skyway City had arrived, Sarah not being the only one to call in back-up. However, the team wasn’t the only one to arrive. The cops could see clearly that one of the cargo trucks was about to roll over, and when it did, Joe turned back to his wife.

“I think your dad’s here…”

----------

“This is just what I needed…” Randy growled as he batted around the Ascendant Archon, “Some exercise to get me out of my funk…”

“Mein Gott!” the armored man shouted as he pushed himself off the pavement, “Die mountain man! Kill ze mountain man!”

The other soldiers had no trouble following the order and already had been blasting ammunition into the tanker in a desperate gamble to take him down. Randy, in the meantime, picked up heavy objects (like mailboxes) and hurled them into the surrounding crowd. When objects weren’t available, he sometimes lurched into their ranks and used one of the terrorists as a projectile. When the Ascendant Archon decided to shield himself, Randy started bouncing the troops against the shield in an attempt to mock the Council guardian’s tactic.

Then he did something odd.

“I always wanted to see if something like this would work,” he growled as he moved to the other side of the toppled truck.

The other Council troops were being routed by the SWAT and Precinct 13 officers. Joe and Sarah saw Randy and were about to thank him for his help when they noticed what he was up to.

“Disengage!” the Ascendant Archon shouted frantically, “Ausrucken! Entbinden! Entlasten!”

“Try Italian,” the big man growled as he started pushing the heavy machine across the pavement.

It was slow, hideously earsplitting as the metal rent across the street, and the momentum was monstrous. Plus, Randy was steadily picking up speed, and the Archon wasn’t going anywhere fast. Just as he was hitting the armored man, the shield shut down, causing the former Fifth Column officer to scream incoherently before getting slammed with the full brunt of the heavy truck. Randy pushed him a few yards into the curb before he finally stopped, his body exhausted from the exertion. When he walked around the vehicle to see what he’d accomplished, the Archon was lying unconscious under a bent over parking meter that was dumping change on his head.

“That’s what you get when you mess with my family,” Randy grunted, “And you’re lucky the rest of these cops are here, or I’d get real mean.”

“What’s worse than bowling somebody over with a truck?” Joe asked as he and Sarah jogged up next to him, “That you were pushing, nonetheless! On its side!”

“I could try to pull him out of his tin can… Or pick him up by one arm and slam him against a light pole, popping his arm out of the socket and maybe shredding the rotator cuff…”

Randy turned to the mortified police officer, his face a grim mask.

“Oh, you were being rhetorical.”

“Daddy, don’t you think that was a tad excessive?”

“No. Everybody’s trying to find a way through those damn Ascendant shields, but we can’t normally use such extreme measures in the field. I figured I’d see if this would be enough… I didn’t get a good test, but he seemed doubtful, so it’s something.”

“Alright, sir,” Captain Walters sighed as he walked up to them and clapped Joe on the shoulder, “I think we’ve got everything else well in hand.”

((Screw it, I've got a story in mind for this that won't fit in Grey's Army. I’ll try to keep the pacing better this time.))

In London, there is a schism. There are the great, historic buildings, and then there are the modern, cold skyscrapers. While skilled photographers still portrayed the great city as it was, those who prepared to pave the way for its future toiled in grand obscurity.

Far from the glow of the city’s War Walls, the New Horizon megacorporation worked to assert its will over the other companies based throughout the city. Led by the mysterious Triumvirate, and backed by the Committee, they struggled to show that the company was the premier economic power in the United Kingdom.

The Crey Corporation’s interference wasn’t helping matters. Wherever New Horizon made a bid, Crey countered with a larger one. Even if the companies chose the syndicate over the Countess, they found themselves inexplicably mired in legal issues and failing stock.

Still, the Triumvirate knew how to deal with such matters. Crey employed a nasty little wetwork program, but it was hardly as efficient or uncompromising as New Horizon’s.

The few battles that had taken place throughout the past years had worn the more popular corporation’s patience. However, instead of sending a group to eradicate the company’s heads, the Countess apparently decided to send her man to negotiate a merger.

Of course, the Triumvirate knew better. It was a hostile takeover.

“Unfortunately, Mister Hopkins,” the eldest member of the Triumvirate, Carl Sinclaire, explained, “We’re not open to negotiation. New Horizon belongs to my siblings and me, and any publically traded stock is currently in the hands of our very capable Committee.”

“It’s just Hopkins,” the large man replied, “and the Countess was hoping you’d be more understanding. We would hate to see such capable talent go to waste.”

“Our talent will hardly be going to waste,” another male voice calmly replied from the other side of the room.

Hopkins turned to see a young man and woman walk into the office from a side door. Their movements were precise and flawless. It was as if they were gliding as they moved.

“Surely you understand the importance of competition in free enterprise,” the woman said.

The phrase was friendly, but the tone was not. It had a distinct edge to it, and an implied threat.

“My Countess will not be pleased if I return with this as your decision,” Hopkins warned, “This could be very easy. Very simple. You could all have powerful positions within Crey, and the resulting company would have the economic strength to-“

“We’re not interested,” Colin Sinclaire interrupted, “Please, leave us.”

Hopkins nodded and made his way to the exit. As he did, he straightened his collar and pressed a button hidden on his cufflink. He didn’t realize the maneuver was noticed, however.

Once he was out of the building and on his way to the airport, the Triumvirate siblings looked to each other. The youngest, Colin, shook his head angrily.

“Did he really think that planting evidence during the tour was going to be enough to do us in?”

“Of course not,” Cassondra replied, “I’m certain that in short order, a group of Paragon Protectors will be on their way to find the documents and arrest us. Even if we fight back, they’ll think that the scandal will ruin the company.”

“They obviously underestimate British tenacity,” Carl muttered as he stared out the window, “Here they come. What’s the plan?”

“To fight, of course,” his sister said as she reached into the left breast of her suit to withdraw a surprisingly well-concealed energy pistol, “If the Committee members were here, even they would agree that we can’t let Crey push us around.”

“Indeed,” Colin muttered as he and Carl both drew their pistols at the exact same time, “It’s time to show these idiots that we’re not going to be pushed around.”

The other two took positions flanking Carl as they gazed out over the city through their floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a spectacular view, one half being the modernized London, the other being the classic view. It was the perfect mural for the goals of the company, an illustration of the advancement of humanity.

As they gazed about, a set of seven specks started to grow and take on definition. Shortly, the Triumvirate was able to make out the yellow trim and visors against the Protectors’ blue outfits. They were flying in fast, and they were heading straight for their office.

“Make sure that McGinley chap gets an extra week of vacation time for taking care of that evidence for us,” Carl intoned moments before their windows were blasted in by the Protectors that wielded energy powers.

The trio stood there calmly as the broken glass swirled dangerously around them and was sucked out of the building by the current. The central Protector swooped in and stood before Carl, unintimidated despite the height difference as the large man gazed impassively into his reflection on the helmet of his assailant.

“Sinclaire siblings,” the man’s peculiar, throaty voice emitted from the bottom of the helmet, “We have reason to believe that fiscal malpractice and illegal operations have been orchestrated by you and the ruling body of your company…”

Carl didn’t answer the man. Instead, he just pushed his left arm out and shoved the offending spandex-clad clone out the window. As the other Protectors prepared for battle, some with glowing fists, others popping out claws and spikes, the central one flew back up into view, his fists glowing dangerously.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life!” he shouted before blasting an incandescent stream into Carl.

When the blast faded, the big man remained. He was unfazed by the assault, but his suit jacket was irrevocably destroyed. His skin was singed, but he didn’t seem to be hindered by any sort of pain. Instead, he raised his pistol, aimed, and fired a bright beam that tore clean through the lead Protector’s head. His siblings followed suit, dropping one more as Colin’s target was quick enough to avoid being shot.

The Protectors dove in after them. Colin felt claws scrape against his cybernetic chassis, meaning his dermal layer would need to be repaired before he could return to the night life. He responded by delivering a series of hard martial chops to his assailant in blinding succession. He broke bones and his final strike was hard enough to sprain the anonymous woman’s neck muscles. As she dropped, he punted her into the one his sister had just finished twisting around and breaking the wrist joint and ribs. She had caught the man before he could even lay a hand on her, pirouetted, and delivered a series of rapid-fire kicks that were capped off with her target getting knocked aside.

Impassively, she aimed her energy pistol at the heap and fired two shots, casually ending the lives of the two broken Protectors.

Carl was busy smashing three accosting him on his own. His fists hammered into them like tank shells and he was hardly a stranger to other martial maneuvers such as knees and kicks. He delivered an uppercut to one foe, knocking him into the ceiling, and performed a perfect side kick that sent another assailant sailing into the wall. Both slumped still to the floor, their bodies broken beyond repair.

The last Protector saw his chances of success had just dropped drastically. These three were apparently a lot more powerful than any intelligence reports could possibly convey. Without a word, he fled out the broken window and started rocketing into the distance. He would have to get back to Crey and explain what he’d seen so that new tactics could be employed.

Carl, Cassondra and Colin watched the retreating generic “hero.” They knew enough about the Protectors to know that nobody would miss the ones they’d killed here. Nobody would miss this one, either, and he had to disappear before their “secret” could be revealed.

“Full power,” Carl ordered, “We wouldn’t want his body landing on some random motorist…”

The three raised their pistols and pushed the energy discharge indicator switches forward with their thumbs. Without saying anything, they fired, Cassondra and Colin first, then Carl.

In the distance, the Protector thought he’d escaped. They weren’t able to fly, apparently, nor did they seem to have any other conveyance. Just as he was starting to feel comfortable in his escape, his right leg vaporized. As he started to scream, his right arm vanished in fire and pain as well, spinning him about as he lost control. A final beam of energy slammed into his chest and he could feel his body disintegrate from the inside out.

All that remained of the Protector, his helmet, smashed against the corner of an old building. The pieces rattled against the street below, causing one of the “Bobby” police to wonder at just who was littering (and what the heck it was) on his patrol route when he found the small bits.

----------

“We were unsuccessful,” Hopkins explained to the Countess through the visitor window, “They have resources we weren’t expecting.”

“I understand,” she replied.

The orange jumpsuit was exceptionally unflattering for her in Hopkins’ opinion. She was better-suited for finer dress.

Fortunately, because of her status, she wasn’t placed within the general population. Unfortunately, that meant getting her out would be a lot trickier. It would require some precise manipulations in both the legal system and the government. That meant bribes, and a lot of them.

It left the corporation teetering on the edge, but both Hopkins and the Countess were confident they could weather the storm. However, they would need the resources of the New Horizon Syndicate to do it.

“They’re ingenious,” she sighed as she perused the images she received of Hopkins’ memories of the fight, “They’re exceptionally capable… We simply must absorb them into the company.”

“We’ll try again,” the large man replied, “Perhaps we should look into this ‘Committee.’ Rumors have it that they started as a mercenary organization here in the States.”

“Do what it takes, Hopkins,” the Countess sat back in her chair, exuding authority despite her outfit, “For everything.”

“Yes ma’am,” the large man said as he stood, “Guard. We’re done.”

The security guard, his mind in a fog, shook his head clear and escorted the large man out. His counterpart, the heavy-set woman on the other side of the divider, did the same for the Countess. They couldn’t recall the past hour, apparently they’d spent the whole time thinking about their families, bills and other mundane matters.

Name: Randall Grey
Global Contact: @Mr_Grey
Level of Classification: 50
Origin: Natural(?)
Super Rank & Group: General, Grey's Army

Hm... Good question.

Well, there are the archived Blue King comics you could turn to, they feature Horus's take as an "amnesiac" Kheldian. He doesn't realize he's a Kheldian until the middle of the Blue King run, and up to the point he does, he thinks it's his technology doing everything.

There's also reading Shadowstar and Sunstorm's dialogue for a take on "fully merged" Kheldians. They have accepted their roles as Peacebringers and Warshades, and what the human thinks, the Kheldian apparently thinks as well. For a few of the arcs, Shadowstar seems to have a slight schism with her (former) Nictus half, but the Kheldian also shows compassion for her needs, and allows certain missions to be carried out at her behest anyway.

I prefer to run with a "schism merging" myself. The human serves as a host, but the Kheldian is also a separate entity that converses infrequently (or frequently, depending on how you want to run it) with the human. They don't necessarily always agree (Warshades being former Nictus, they're probably quicker to "kill enemies" than a human who wishes to "apprehend criminals"), but they do tend to work toward the same goals.

Hm... Not sure how I should approach utilizing Roleplaying Threads or even if I should. Last time the Scoop did one, they used it as a main feature, and that was Whitmoore. I'm not sure how well that would fit in with the fan fiction concept, especially since RPs tend to go WAY out of the scope of the canon.

However, there is some pretty serious debate that goes on in them, too. Backstory discussions, mechanics translation, and other stuff I can't quite put my finger on right now are all hashed out pretty fiercely by RP groups, largely because they deal with the moment at the moment.

Hm.

I think I'm thinking something, but I'm not sure if I've thought it out properly.

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I know. That's what's the story says ...




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oh SNAP

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We had a long, arduous conversation about this in one of our Global Channels. It stemmed from DeviousMe's RP Thread that involves the Axis Amerika Earth.

I was positing that, since the backstory dealing with Reichsman is a basic "He's an evil Super Nazi" shtick and that we don't really know what the story of Axis Amerika is, we can't really be sure that the story told us is what really happened. Especially when you consider that a large part of the game is all about deconstructing the long-held notions about what is going on in the world.

The two main points that came to mind involved the Rikti-Lost connection and the uncovering of Crey's "Evil Megacorporation" practices. For the former, we learn the Omega Level Clearance secret about the Rikti, and the latter, we unveil to the world the sinister truth while most of the world still lives in blissful ignorance.

I don't mean to derail, so I'm getting back to the main point. We, the players, don't know the lives or motivations of most of the rogues. For instance, did Atta really kill Grendel and usurp the Trolls, or did Grendel sacrifice himself during "The Hollowing" trying to collapse the caverns so as to destroy a previous Cavern of Transcendence? I know what the "Seeker of Monsters" badge says, but that's a random hill of dirt (plus, there are plenty of Trolls that still shout "Grendel lives!").

Not much attention is paid to the motivations of our enemies. The true story is easily just as complex and sympathetic as any of ours.

Dexter Morgan's an antihero, plain and simple. His adoptive father was also a borderline psychotic (he was probably at the edge when he realized what Dexter was) when he saw this opportunity to essentially "make a comic book hero."

The difference between a hero and an antihero in comic books is the difference between Superman and the Punisher. Superman resorts to killing only if there is absolutely no recourse. Punisher resorts to killing immediately but draws the line at certain things (no kids, for instance, and he's only going after too-far-gone criminals, not purse snatchers).

Actually Slick, I liken Longbow to being more the anti-Arachnos.

Arachnos is the over-ruling body of the Rogue Isles. They make and enforce the laws... But they do very little of either. Arachnos is really a large band of bullies, brought together with the lie of "making the world a better place through force." There is a hint of a code of honor that exists (something keeps the Arbiters above the squables), but it's largely ignored by everybody.

Essentially, there are probably about 5% "True Believers" in Arachnos (and that number might be inflated). They hold themselves above the "Survival of the Fittest" mantra because they've made it, they're in Arachnos, they're on the winning team (in the Rogue Isles). The rest, however, use Arachnos to fulfill their own sadistic desires.

Longbow's the opposite end of the spectrum. Most of them are good, honest, hard-working people. However, there is a small percentage (I'd say between 15% and 20%) that are as you describe, Slick, conniving snots with cold hearts and are in it for money, power, or (most frightening) sadistic kicks.

Most of these delinquents fall under the "Agent Wilder" school of thought, that you can do or use whatever you'd like to undermine Arachnos. Mind you, they're not trying to uplift the people of the Etoile Isles or enforce global law (they're probably the ones who got Longbow the all-clear to use flamethrowers, which are illegal under the Geneva Convention). However, they are still a small part of the greater whole of Longbow (which is largely run by people like Agent G or Sefu Tendaji [R.I.P.]), and Longbow is trying hard to set the right example.

Now, the Ms. Liberty thing... I don't think she's as much like Recluse as you say. However, I will agree that she needs to take a closer look at her personal army and take more responsibility for it. She's a general of a PMO (in this case, Private Military Organization, as their endeavors are non-profit), and she's been a terrible general. She's obsessed more with her own personal battles with costumed super villains than the actions of those under her command. She hasn't realized that a general's responsibility lies with her troops, not with her own personal war.

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Ambiguously evil... Hm... It's hard to explain this, but... Do you have a friend who consistently make the decision that you just know is going to cause problems for other people? It's also never for anything righteous, he just wants what he wants (the culprit is almost always male), and gets it as soon as he can, no matter who gets hurt because of it, no matter how inadvertently or directly.

However, there's a catch. He's never done wrong to you. He's your friend (likely one of few), and he wouldn't do anything to hurt that relationship. In fact, he's friendly, funny, and a decent person to be around... So long as you don't have to watch how he interacts with other people.

I like to think "Ambiguously Evil" is "the Jerk." He's got friends, family, and they all love him. But everybody else in the world can't stand him.

Case in Point: Peter Griffin. Everything he sets his mind to is detrimental to everybody else, yet his friends and family still stick with him. The rest of the world, if they were aware of him for any period of time longer than the show indicates, would try to execute him (preferably from up close, with something dull and rusty), the way that giant rooster keeps trying to do.

46!?

Really?

*checks*

Jebus... He comes off as a teenage brat in the game! What the Hell!?

Fine then, scratch what I said before.

I would assume that Francine would have been in college by the time Frostfire was her mother's student.

Welcome to my world, Slick.

I don't even know what I'm doing here half the time anymore.

After all the nastiness of that last thing I wrote, I decided to turn back to Grey's Army and add a chapter detailing the endeavors of some of my characters during the zombie outbreaks.

Well, the easiest response I can think of is saying that she just WANTED to be a superheroine. However, she never considered the extent of what the genetic tampering would be. So, while she has great powers and is able to be a hero like she wanted, she's slowly losing her humanity.

A real source of dilemma is when she starts to realize that she has very little, if anything, in common with the average man, woman or child. Every time she looks into the mirror, she sees less herself and more the thing she's become.

Will this break her, or will she use the experience to make herself stronger? Will she look for a way to restore her humanity? If she does, will she risk losing her powers in the process?

This is why I like the science origin. There's control there, but it's control with consequences. With natural, tech and magic, the characters can (normally) just stop and everything's hunky dory. With mutancy (and some natural origins), the powers will always be there, and the character has NO control over anything. A character with a science origin can change, repeatedly, and it can always be explained as "unforeseen consequences."

I know it sounds like a cheat at the end. If it's done well, though, who cares? It sounds like you've already got half the story. The why can be revealed to you through play. Sometimes, it helps to let the game inspire you as well.

Joe Durnan expended another clip into one of the rampaging zombies and squeezed the shotgun trigger on his bizarre combination rifle to finish off the two standing behind it. He popped a new magazine into the well and prepared for the next wave of the horrid monsters.

“I can’t believe this,” his voice shouted tinnily from his helmet, “Where the Hell did these zombies come from?”

“Weird [dung] seems to happen around this time,” Sergeant Jones replied, “I’ve been in this city since the War, so I’m pretty much used to everything. I just wish I had to resort to an assault rifle… My psychic powers do nothing to these [freaks]!”

“You’d think we’d at least give them a stomach ache,” Sarah commented as she sent some angry music to bolster her husband’s and his fellow officers’ resilience, “But I guess they haven’t eaten yet… That’s why they’re here.”

“That’s just morbid,” Joe muttered as the creatures started bursting from the pavement again, “Oh, damn…”

He started blazing away and the other police, heroes and Freedom Corps agents followed suit. They had been at this war for hours, and it seemed the monsters didn’t want to leave Brickstown. Fortunately, most of the citizenry had escaped to their rooftops, and they just had to stop the creatures from getting to them.

“It’s strange that they’re coming after us,” Sarah commented as she tried to make a group of the weaker ones fight each other, “I mean, we’re the best equipped to hold them back!”

“Right,” Sergeant Jones concurred sarcastically as he shot another zombie’s head off.

They were just starting to push the latest group back when another group crawled out of the ground. This wasn’t anything new, but then a third and a fourth suddenly appeared. Sarah shrieked and a swath suddenly fell, but they pushed themselves back up and pressed their advance.

Suddenly, there was a loud roar, like a thousand demons shouting in terror. A light shone on the zombies, and they started rotting away rapidly. When the gathered heroes turned to the source of the noise and light, they saw a monstrous motorcycle with Mattock McGinty sitting upon it.

“I heard you guys needed some help,” he announced over the barking of his bizarre conveyance’s engine, “So I brought Christine out for a spin.”

“Christine?” Sarah asked as she quirked an eyebrow and nudged a dying zombie aside with the toe of her shoe, “Who named your bike?”

“Malaise… Well, Chris named herself. Malaise just told me her name after I let him borrow her for a week.”

“You let that lunatic touch your bike?”

“Yes, I let that hero borrow my bike,” Matt drew his weapons off the side of the machine and started walking toward the deepest parts of the zombie outbreak, “He needed a break, and I suggested he could tear across New England with her for a week or so. It seemed to help, and Lou and I got a ton of work done over at the shop.”

“Okay...” Snuffy mused, then her eyes widened and she pointed where he was walking, “Look out!”

A trio of extremely large zombies suddenly burst out of the ground in front of Matt. He drew his axe and chopped the undead-slaying weapon into the nearest monster’s chest. He then took his katana and sliced across the chests of the other two. They swiped at him, but he ducked and rolled into their midst, surrounding himself with zombies, and executed a bizarre maneuver to slash all around himself.

Fire rained from above. There were a number of pyrokinetic controller-class heroes descending upon the battle, and they were leveling the enemy. Sarah was forced to hold her nose against the smell of burning flesh, as did many other heroes, but it looked like the battle was finally turning.

The coup de gras came in the form of an armored van. It smashed through the undead ranks like a battering ram and came to a screeching halt on top of one of the extra large zombies’ heads. The back doors opened and a small rag-tag team of former rogues burst forth, blasting assault rifle fire and an unusual ensemble of powers into the zombies. When Ashen Roast and Blizzard Front emerged, Sarah and Joe waved them over.

“What’s going on?” the officer asked.

“Freedom Corps sent us out here to help finish the job,” Ashen replied, “You should’ve heard Briggs. The guy was laughing about how the guy who wrote the Zombie Survival Guide didn’t know what he was talking about. Garm was trying to remind him that the guide was meant for people without super powers, but Briggs said he couldn’t hear him over the sound of zombie bodies breaking under the impact of his ram bar.”

“I’ve got no idea who any of those people are,” Joe muttered.

“Durnan! Get your head back in the fight!” Sergeant Jones shouted.

“Relax, officer,” Blizzard Front waved off the older man’s concerns, “Ashen here is a walking zombie blender…”

“No…” Sarah pointed, “He’s a blender…”

Matt was swinging both his axe and his katana into the ranks of undead that had determined he needed to die. Unfortunately for the monsters, they weren’t about to get a rotting hand on him. He hacked, slashed, and even kicked them back, chipping away at their numbers until he was standing on a pile of dead bodies. Still, he fought on. Eventually, he was face-to-rotting face with a full squad of the bigger, stronger zombies, the Nightmares.

The scrapper just smirked, jumped, and kicked the nearest one in the face. When he hit the pavement again, the monsters were on top of him. Sarah shouted and started trying to toss the zombies left and right. While her psychic probing wouldn’t harm them, she could still throw them across the street.

Ashen ran over and started guiding his flames into the monstrous creatures. Most couldn’t understand how fire tankers could direct their flames to only harm the people they wanted to hurt. For him, the flames felt like a part of him. They were like an extension of his body, an extension that caused indescribable pain and damage to anything they touched. The best part was that he could maneuver them like they were his hands. It was an amazing sensation, and it was especially helpful when he needed to pull villains off of his friends.

The Nightmares turned to him and howled. Just as he started to think he’d made a huge mistake, their heads were lopped off. Matt stood up, his face a mask of enraged determination, and he made a few demonstrative swipes with his sword.

“Who told you to interfere!?” he shouted as he marched up to Ashen and clapped him on the shoulder, “You keep this up, and I might have to try to drag you from your group as my pocket tank!”

“You gotta bring me, too!” Blizzard shouted as he hurled shards of ice into the approaching monsters, “We’re a team!”

“You ain’t getting’ my boys!” Garm growled as he snapped another zombie’s neck, “I need a good crew, you understand me, mad dog?”

“Pft, he’ll learn more from me than you, troll bait!”

Despite the words, the tone was actually quite amusing. The zombies were falling like wheat and “Christine” was burning a small hole into whatever ranks rose up to reinforce that which the heroes put down. Every so often, Briggs McBain would come around with his van to smash another swath out of the way. Then there were the fire controllers, which had helped immolate the monsters before they could become a threat.

Suddenly, the moon turned clear and the world seemed to calm down. The heroes looked about confusedly as the last of the zombies suddenly gave wet gurgling cries of pain and crumbled to the pavement.

A great cheer erupted, but not from the heroes. The citizens were happy to see that they’d once again been saved, this time in a great spectacular fashion by a large number of mostly obscure heroes. Still, it was an exhilarating spectacle, and more than a little entertaining. The heroes waved to the crowds on the rooftops and took their bows. For once, it seemed that they all were as popular as the Freedom Phalanx or the Vindicators. Even the Longbow troops were able to appreciate it.

I took a break to write something apart from Grey's Army (even though it's going to come around to it, eventually).

Ransack Rick is the guy I used in Badge's Prison Riot, and this is the story of what he did to wind up in the Zig.

Simply put, he's a twisted, evil monster... WAAAAAAAY beyond anything Phipps has you do. Even with Phipps' arcs, there's some sort of odd cartoon-like undertone. Ransack Rick, however, would kill somebody by folding them into a box just to see if he could.

What's worse, he doesn't really care. It's not evil for evil's sake, it's complete immorality and stark ambivalence.

He's simply wrong.

Just a warning... This story has some explicit and implied monstrosity in it.

Heck, I doubt it will be on the forums much longer.

((Let me start off with a warning. There will be some disturbing things in this. If not through the main character's actions, then through his intent as well (and he will give voice to his intent).

It's difficult for me to write truly evil characters. The simple reason is because they scare me. If they scare me, then they should scare you, because what scares me is absolute and complete inhumanity.

I can understand what's motivating Recluse and Arachnos. It's an opposing concept of what we are typically presented as a moral method of ascension. Where the heroic one is based on the Golden Rule (Do unto others as you would have them do unto you; alternately, so long as what you're doing doesn't directly or indirectly harm anybody, you're okay in our book), his is based on the concept of "Survival of the Fittest," which has been reiterated repeatedly across the forums and throughout the game.

Then there are the Jokers of comic books. We don't really HAVE one of those in this game. Not even Nemesis counts, because Nemesis is still trying to conquer the world. No, I mean we lack The Joker, along with smatterings of This. There is no character throughout all of the game that represents pure, absolute, violent, chaotic malevolence.

That's where Rick comes in...

I present to you... My "Evil Superman," Ransack Rick.))

--Smallton, Kentucky; 9:33 A.M.--

He awoke in a groggy daze. He had a headache that was throbbing its way out of his temples, but there wasn't a full enough bottle around to make the pain stop.

Looking at the clock, he saw he was late for work. Really late. Grumbling, he pushed himself off the mattresses he had stacked in the corner of his room for a bed and plodded over to the door.

He turned the knob and pushed the panel like he did every morning, and both objects broke free from their moorings. He stared at the knob as it crinkled and bent under his grip and wondered at it.

The loud bang of his door hitting the hallway floor, however, brought about a more pressing problem. His father, still drunk from dinner last night, came storming up the stairs, roaring incoherently about respect and how work had been calling all morning, he poked Rick in the chest and shook his hand like he'd hurt himself. Without thinking, the old man then went to backhand him with the other hand, which was still clutching an empty bottle.

The glass smashed apart and his father started clutching the bloody mess at the end of his wrist. Rick absent-mindedly rubbed his jaw, wondering how the tables had turned. Unfortunately for the old man, however, this sense of wonder was very fleeting.

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When the screaming finally stopped, a bloody mess that used to be Mr. Jordan's body hurtled through the house's front window and landed in the yard with a wet plop. A few minutes later, there was the loud, unmuffled roar of his pickup truck's engine just a moment before it crashed out the garage door.

Rick Jordan backed his pulped father's truck across the street and smashed into and over the car of his neighbor. When Mister Curtis tumbled out the driver's side door and started staggering away, he took the Swinson speed square his father had left lazily on the passenger seat and hurled it into the fat man's back.

Mister Curtis felt his life draining out of him as he heard the door of the vehicle open and close. There were footsteps as the man who'd just done this to him walked over and leaned in close to converse with him.

"Hello Mister Curtis," Rick intoned, "Is your daughter home?"

"No..." the man said weakly, "No..."

"Don't you die on me," the big man picked his head up and sneered into his face, "Don't you die on me!"

He watched the dying man for a few seconds, but he was only muttering the same negative over and over again.

"Well, since I can't tell whether or not you're just dying and these are your last words or if Christen's really not here, I'm gonna go take a look..."

Rick didn't really have a bad history with the family, but he also didn't feel like dealing with the girl's old man trying to stop him from doing what he wanted to do. Heck, it wasn't like anybody was going to be able to stop him now.

----------

--Noon--

Nobody saw the truck speeding for the intersection. When he smashed into the two sedan cars and started sending the middle of Smallton, Kentucky into chaos. Rick had been thrown into a store, smashed clean-through the front window. He'd clipped a couple people with his own body and they were still struggling to stand and figure out what had just happened to them.

He, however, picked himself out of the twisted wreckage of the product shelf he'd slammed into and leisurely walked right back out the way he'd come. A young woman was in his path, and when he casually kicked her head and it lolled around like a rag doll, he smiled a little.

As he got outside, he saw the police were trying to figure out just what had happened. They were examining the wreckage and a pair were walking up to him to see if he was okay. When he showed that not only was he okay but that he was also completely unharmed, they were almost about to say something about him being a possible superhero.

That is, until the realized who he was.

Rick Jordan had a record. A violent record. When he was fourteen, he hospitalized three other students after getting into a fight. His weapon of choice was the nozzle of a fire hose.

When he was released from Juvenile Hall eight months later, he celebrated his return by delivering a savage beating to the thugs he'd fought the first time around. One didn't survive, the other two were never able to walk again.

When he got out of Juvenile Hall, several years later, he was a different man. His life was a different animal. Whatever glimmer of innocence that had existed before prison was gone, now replaced by a cold, heartless, vindictive monster.

Nobody knew what had been keeping that young man in check. They had no idea that it was his abusive father, no longer restrained by Rick's mother (who had died of lung cancer while the young man was in his detention center), administering a regimen of abuse, most of which the young Jordan took with hardened stoicism.

However, there had been a marked increase in the local crime rate. Burglaries it was burglaries, minor assaults and muggings, mostly. While the sheriff and police had a good idea that Rick was the culprit, they also were unable to find enough evidence to arrest him. He'd picked up a few tricks from the veterans.

However, now, nothing could stop him. It was nothing to break doors or take a slap across the face without flinching. It was nothing to tear apart an old drunk with your bare hands. It was nothing to tear a house down with those same hands and ravage an innocent man's family, and even the man as he took his last breaths.

He had to know just what his body could take, and after that crash, he felt perfectly fine. He'd wondered whether or not he'd actually suffer some kind of dislocation or even get massively lacerated, but when the dust had settled, he felt fine.

In fact, he felt better than fine. He felt like a god. He felt like there was nothing he couldn't do.

And he prepared to demonstrate on the cops who were uneasily reaching for their weapons. In a blur, he sent the lady cop (he remembered her as one of his classmates), and she crashed into a fast food restaurant's window. The other, he picked up and threw at a telephone pole. It wasn't enough momentum to damage the pole, but the officer was definitely suffering internal damage.

Rick then turned his attention to the other police. He decided he'd work with their cars this time. He walked up and punched in the passenger side window of the nearest one. He then roughly pulled the cop out of the car, slamming the poor man's head against the window frame, and lazily tossed him down the block. The other cop turned to see what the commotion was, and got to see Jordan rolling his car over on top of him.

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--Paragon City--

"Are you alright?" Manticore asked suddenly, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I have to go," Statesman said suddenly, "Something... Something's not right..."

And without another word, he was in the air and gone.

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--One Hour Later...--

"I don't think anybody gets it," he mused to himself as he walked to his destination, "You can kill a few dozen people, topple a few cars, even wear a cop's head as a codpiece..."

He looked down.

"By the way, how you doin' down there?"

There was no answer.

"I'll take your silence as 'feelin' fine.'"

He stretched and gazed about. He'd never liked this place. It was like a prison done wrong, with all the inmates allowed to just roam around and perpetuate their own little idiosyncrasies (he was surprised he knew what that word meant) and their little pack mentalities. The gangs were as bad here as they were in any city, it just took the right person demanding the right things.

"You can do all the things I've done in a day," Rick grumbled, "But you can never truly cement how evil you are until you waste everybody in a school."

He breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. Sure, the air raid siren had been blaring all day. He'd considered tearing it down, but in the course of walking to it, he'd come to enjoy the sound. He found it fitting, somehow. Air raids, fire, tornadoes... He was a disaster, just like any one of them. A walking disaster, and now, his fancy happened to be the one thing that would make this whole nightmarish day a tragedy the world over.

He took one step forward and there was a thunderous sound. A bullet slammed into the ground in front of his foot. Rick didn't look to see that it was sizzling where it hit the ground.

"I'm not letting you get through these doors, Jordan!" Sheriff McGrange shouted.

He was a fat man, an old man, but he was lethal with a pistol. He reminded Rick of the bad guy from the old shows his dad watched, about the two idiots and their orange car. McGrange, however, was supposedly a good man. Oddly enough, not that Jordan was about to check, the sheriff was a good man.

"You won't be able to stop me," the monstrous man grunted as he started marching forward, "Take your best shot!"

McGrange shook his head sadly. He knew it would come to this, but it was still sad. He leveled his revolver and squeezed the trigger.

Rick felt fire slam into his chest. He looked to see a glowing bullet drop from his right pectoral and drop to the pavement. There was a burn mark on his skin.

"That stung," he muttered as he rubbed the spot, "You pinched me!"

McGrange fired again, his magic pistol blazing fiery round after fiery round into the assailant. He knew he couldn't stop the man, he wasn't strong or quick enough, but he could buy the students time to escape. He just hoped it was enough.

Unfortunately, Rick was through taking things slow. In one vault, he was in front of the sheriff. Using his momentum, he shoulder-checked the old man into the metal and glass front doors of the school, smashing him into the lobby.

When he walked in to check on the damage, he found Principal Gloria Dennis looking over the broken man. Amazingly, McGrange seemed to still be alive. Rick would correct that after he had his fun with the principal.

"Mm!" he grunted as he swaggered over to her, "If we'd had more ladies like you on the faculty while I was in, I probably would have stayed... You probably would have had to kick me out after a while, but we'd be right back here, I think."

"You animal, have you no shame?"

"Have you seen my codpiece?"

The woman covered her mouth in horror and staggered away. She tripped over some rubble and started backing away like she was in some kind of horror movie. Sheriff McGrange couldn't move, and nothing seemed to be stopping Rick as he paced slowly toward the stumbling and scrabbling woman.

Just as he was about to get a hand on her, though, the flagpole smacked into his face. It hurt, a lot, but not as much as the lightning that coursed through the metal and exploded out at him.

As he started to come to, a red-gloved hand picked him upright roughly and threw him back out the front doors. When he hit the ground, he tumbled and rolled for several hundred feet. When he sat up, a SWAT truck from Lousiville crashed into his head.

This still wasn't enough to stop him. Rick got back up and pushed the truck back, but Statesman caught him from behind by wrapping his forearm around his collar and hurled the lunatic into the trunk of a tree.

Coughing, Rick tried to deflect Statesman as he rained blows upon him. If the young man were able to see, he would probably be in awe of the fact he was squaring off against one of the world's greatest champions, if not the greatest.

However, this was also some of the first pain he'd felt all day, and he was suffering a natural reaction to all of it. He felt another fist slam into his belly, and another hit his jaw, wheeling him around. When the lightning struck him again, he saw a bright flash and everything went dark.

Looking down on the broken body, Statesman knew exactly what his old friend would say. Lord Recluse would be telling him to finish the job and execute the young man right then and there. However, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was wrong.

----------

--Two Weeks Later: Paragon City: Brickstown: The Zigursky "Ziggurat" Penitentiary--

"Why do you keep coming here?" Sister Psyche asked as they walked down to the cell holding the inmate who referred to himself as "Ransack."

He was kept deep. Very deep. There were some powerful cells down there, constructed of Impervium alloys. They'd been installed after the Great Breakout, the one in which Arachnos Fliers were seen flitting in and out of the area. Statesman knew Arachnos had absconded with countless criminals now seen in the Isles, but they largely made trouble there now, so it was an issue better left for another day.

These cells were designed to keep such situations like that from happening again. They were expensive, to be certain, but they were installed for the really nasty criminals. There were currently enough for the ruling members of the Council, Nemesis, and Lord Recluse (though Statesman had a feeling even these couldn't stop him). The one meant for the leader of Arachnos was currently being used for someone else, however.

"Rick Jordan," Statesman said into the cell, "Can you hear me?"

"Let me out," came the bitter growl in reply.

"I need you to tell me where you came from."

"I already told you. Smallton, Kentucky. I woke up like this one day."

Paragon's champion turned to his associate and she shrugged.

"It's the same as last time," she explained to him, "His mind is a hideous maze... Near as I can tell, he's telling the truth. He woke up, and he was powerful... Almost as powerful as you."

"That's what I was afraid of," Statesman sighed and started leading her away, "I actually had to talk to St-... Recluse... He said he had nothing to do with that bizarre young man, and for once, I believed him. He's... He feels wrong."

"I know what you mean," Psyche shuddered a little at the memory of the things she'd seen inside the man's mind.

There wasn't much there, to be honest. Just gray walls and a moonlit sky with no stars. Every corridor led to some aspect of the man, but it was mostly the same male fantasies she found in almost every man she read. Still, there was something odd about it all. It was like a tint, or a stain on all of Rick's thoughts.

"Recluse and I had to do something for our powers, though," Marcus sighed as he rubbed his temple through the spandex, "It doesn't make sense that he just 'woke up' with power..."

"What's the problem, though?" Sister Psyche asked, "I mean, you caught him. He's imprisoned, and it's not like he'll be able to get out anytime soon."

They looked to each other, as if her saying that had done something to the fabric of the universe.

"We'll deal with it if it happens," Statesman sighed, "What I'm getting at, though, is somebody was using that boy... He or she, or... Whatever... He was given that power and set loose on the world."

"Do you think he's... Incarnate?"

"Not exactly," the tanker sighed, "But it's damn close..."

----------

((I want to stress just how difficult this was to write. When a character is meant to be "The Enemy" I expect it to be truly demented when it comes to how far the villain will go. Presented here is a monster, one without remorse, or even desire to be "evil," he just is. He does what he does because he can, and it takes someone incredibly powerful to stop him.

Also, I don't mean for this guy to be the Joker-esque character for CoH/V. This guy is mine, and I've got his (very brief) future planned out already. Like most of my characters, he's relegated to the fringe of the world's events, largely forgotten by the movers-and-shakers. I hope I haven't crossed any bounds or pushed any limits, but this guy isn't a cartoon.

If anybody's offended by the imagery, whether implied or explicit, I apologize here. It's grotesque, but it's also not meant to be pretty.))

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Thanks for the comments.

I guess I never learned another way to designate something like
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"Geronimo!" thought Alex as he leaped from the globe atop Atlas' shoulders.

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How would you format that?



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From my understanding, thought is usually put in italics. This goes for past memories, too.

My problem, however, is that sometimes things get lost in the editing process.

It worked fine, Khell. I didn't have any trouble following what was going on and you seemed to hit all the right notes on proper noun and pronoun usage. Well done.

Cheers, mate.

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Cat Girl - Brackish (formerly Snuggle Purr), now named after the Kittie breakout song.

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Aww. I liked the name Snuggle Purr. It was funny, matched her personality, and lead to some hilarious battle cries.

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Oh, she still screams "HUG ME!" while bristling with spikes.

Cool thing is, Spines/SR has proven to be exceptionally effective, so she remains on my "Regularly Played" roster (i.e Protector).

The change of name is more or less so she can be taken more seriously as a heroine. Her friends still tend to refer to her as "Snug," "Snuggle," "Purr," and "Snuggle Purr," so it's become pretty much her secret identity. However, this would be something of a sad note, as she can't remember her human name (if she even has one). Of course, she's ambivalent about it, tending to live in the moment, so she's happily accepted this new persona.

I'm building up to something in Grey's Army that I-13's Dual Builds surprisingly inspired. Since I'm going to be only really exploiting the feature with, that character happened to be Nester.

Now, this chapter... This is the first time I've ever written something like this. I have no idea how it came out, because I don't exactly know what I was thinking as I wrote it. Emotional moments that don't involve massively repressed grief, beer-swilling good times, or out-of-place stoic professionalism are foreign to me.

It's strange to write something about two people who genuinely love each other and have them express it.

Especially since I've got no clue how that sort of thing works.

I suppose, the best I can do is work on what I feel is the ideal, and go from there.

In any case, this chapter of Grey's Army is a bit of a personal emotional moment between Nester Durj, Kip's older brother (and my recently quite-heavily used Empathy/Radiation Blast Defender) and his girlfriend/soulmate Mindy Jakobsen.

If I didn't think I needed it, I wouldn't have included it. I usually try to leave moments like this between the characters. Writing something like this feels... Well, not exactly wrong to me, but it certainly doesn't feel normal.