(NOTE:
The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 and
2019 RP. Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince and Draco for writing Parsee.)
Kouta Tokiwa, looking at the stranger, had a bad feeling. He’d been having them a lot recently, but this one was the most severe. There was something subconsciously wrong about the newcomer, an underlying sense that he felt out of place and didn’t belong. There was a faint aura around him, barely perceptible - a kind of haze that made him look as though he was a badly-applied sticker in a children’s picture book.
The body of the middle-aged man lying in front of him didn’t help matters.
“What do you mean?” he asked, at last. “Change the future how?”
The stranger’s mouth turned up in a smirk. His voice was oddly soft and quiet. But he never took his eyes of Kouta as he spoke.
“His daughter was dying. The Bugster Virus is due to claim her life in a week. So I gave him the power to save her. The power of Ex-Aid, the rider who cured disease. By defeating him, you’ve stopped the future from changing and doomed her.”
“That’s horseshit,” said Vince from behind Kouta. “I’m pretty sure we have, like, five doctors who could cure that shit without thinking.”
The smirk widened. “That’s not what the history books say, Ex-Aid.”
“Fuck the history books, they’re written by assholes.”
Kouta decided to chip in before things got ugly. Not that they weren’t going to anyway, but still.
“...and who are you?”
“My name is Heure,” the stranger explained. “I’m one of the Time Jackers.”
“Gross,” said Vince.
Heure ignored him. “We’re from the year 2068. As you already know, that world is ruled by Emperor Zi-O, who commands all of time and space. The entire planet is a dictatorship and all those who oppose his rule are destroyed.”
“Let me guess.” Kouta rolled his eyes. “you want to stop Zi-O from becoming Emperor. Look, I already dealt with a guy who-”
“Of course not!”
Showing posts with label 2018. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2018. Show all posts
Monday, 8 April 2019
Tuesday, 5 February 2019
King of Time Part 3
(NOTE: The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 or 2019 RP. Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince, Cornwind Evil for writing Dawn and TheRubyChao for writing Kaede.)
“Harold Kelman?”
The aged British man, former head of the Ministry of Joy, looked up from where he sat.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
The young man grinned. “Nope. But I know you. They say a lot about you in the history books.”
Kelman snorted. “Nothing good, I’ll be bound.”
“Yeah, they don’t talk much about the Smiler stuff. That was kinda whack. Still amazed a whole nation bought into Martian psychic therapy.”
“Amazing what you can sell if you package it right.” The old man laughed, but there was no humour in it.
The stranger took the seat next to him. He sat back easily, as if unconcerned with what was going on in the older man’s mind. There was a long pause as the duo stared at the opposite wall of the waiting room.
“...are you here to see someone?” Kelman asked.
“Nope, just passing through. You?”
Kelman stared. “That’s rather private, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m a chatty guy. I like to get to know people.”
A longer pause. And then Kelman heaved a huge sigh, looking more old and tired than ever.
“My daughter. She… developed some kind of viral infection. The doctors can’t seem to identify it, but she’s… very weak. I pay her a visit every day I can. But with my busy schedule, I fear that someday she might… slip away. When I’m not there to comfort her. Ironic, that my brother created Marmalization to ease pain, and yet now I can’t do anything for my own child.”
His voice became cracked, emotion leaking through. The stranger sucked in air through his teeth.
“Damn,” he remarked. “Heavy. No dad should have to see their kid go before them.”
“And you would know?” Harold’s tone was almost droll.
“No. But I’ve seen it happen again and again, where I come from. Children getting their lives cut short, right in front of the people who love them the most. It’s messed up. Imagine having to cradle the body of your own family when their only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harold sighed, but offered no comment. There was an even longer silence.
“You care a lot for your daughter,” the stranger said.
“Obviously.” Another humourless laugh.
Then Kelman looked over at the stranger. And he sensed something seemed off when he saw the tiny smirk at the corner of the younger man’s mouth. But he was old, and couldn’t be sure. Ever since the Smiler incident, he’d gone a little paranoid, always looking over his shoulder…
“Would you save her yourself, if you could?” asked the stranger.
The sense of wrongness grew.
“...more than anything.”
Then the stranger turned to him and looked him dead in the eye.
“Harold Kelman. History says that your daughter dies in a week, from the Bugster Virus. But I’ve come to change that. I can give you the power to save your daughter and make things right. In return, I need you to do something for me. Think of it as equivalent exchange - I scratch your back, you scratch mine. There’s a lot at stake, Harold Kelman, and I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t think you weren’t the man who could do this.”
The former head of the Ministry felt very much like a cornered canary before the cat strikes.
“Do what?” he asked.
The stranger pulled something from his pocket.
“Save the future.”
“Harold Kelman?”
The aged British man, former head of the Ministry of Joy, looked up from where he sat.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
The young man grinned. “Nope. But I know you. They say a lot about you in the history books.”
Kelman snorted. “Nothing good, I’ll be bound.”
“Yeah, they don’t talk much about the Smiler stuff. That was kinda whack. Still amazed a whole nation bought into Martian psychic therapy.”
“Amazing what you can sell if you package it right.” The old man laughed, but there was no humour in it.
The stranger took the seat next to him. He sat back easily, as if unconcerned with what was going on in the older man’s mind. There was a long pause as the duo stared at the opposite wall of the waiting room.
“...are you here to see someone?” Kelman asked.
“Nope, just passing through. You?”
Kelman stared. “That’s rather private, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m a chatty guy. I like to get to know people.”
A longer pause. And then Kelman heaved a huge sigh, looking more old and tired than ever.
“My daughter. She… developed some kind of viral infection. The doctors can’t seem to identify it, but she’s… very weak. I pay her a visit every day I can. But with my busy schedule, I fear that someday she might… slip away. When I’m not there to comfort her. Ironic, that my brother created Marmalization to ease pain, and yet now I can’t do anything for my own child.”
His voice became cracked, emotion leaking through. The stranger sucked in air through his teeth.
“Damn,” he remarked. “Heavy. No dad should have to see their kid go before them.”
“And you would know?” Harold’s tone was almost droll.
“No. But I’ve seen it happen again and again, where I come from. Children getting their lives cut short, right in front of the people who love them the most. It’s messed up. Imagine having to cradle the body of your own family when their only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harold sighed, but offered no comment. There was an even longer silence.
“You care a lot for your daughter,” the stranger said.
“Obviously.” Another humourless laugh.
Then Kelman looked over at the stranger. And he sensed something seemed off when he saw the tiny smirk at the corner of the younger man’s mouth. But he was old, and couldn’t be sure. Ever since the Smiler incident, he’d gone a little paranoid, always looking over his shoulder…
“Would you save her yourself, if you could?” asked the stranger.
The sense of wrongness grew.
“...more than anything.”
Then the stranger turned to him and looked him dead in the eye.
“Harold Kelman. History says that your daughter dies in a week, from the Bugster Virus. But I’ve come to change that. I can give you the power to save your daughter and make things right. In return, I need you to do something for me. Think of it as equivalent exchange - I scratch your back, you scratch mine. There’s a lot at stake, Harold Kelman, and I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t think you weren’t the man who could do this.”
The former head of the Ministry felt very much like a cornered canary before the cat strikes.
“Do what?” he asked.
The stranger pulled something from his pocket.
Sunday, 25 November 2018
King of Time Part 2
(NOTE: The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 and 2019 RP. Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince and Cornwind Evil for writing Dawn.)
~THE TEAPOT~
It had taken one or two more explanations from Vince and Kouta before Dawn understood what was needed of her. And then her eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Well, well. An original Rider. We're moving up in the world.” Her eyes flickered as she scanned the Space-Time Driver, which was lying on top of the work table. “Right at the start of his calling, too. For better or for worse.”
Kouta did not look any less out of place or in the loop than he had at the start. It was kind of crazy, how quickly he’d gone from kicking a future cop in the face to being very confused. He’d only barely grasped that Dawn was an android - not that Vince’s explanation had helped much.
“...I'm sorry,” he said, “am I supposed to understand any of this? Because I feel like I should, but I'm not.”
Dawn fixed him with a look.
“What do you know about Kamen Riders, Mr Tokiwa? Appropriate name, by the way.”
“Some parents can be so cruel.” Vince, standing off to the side, watched the proceedings with mild disinterest.
Kouta shrugged.” Didn't the news come up with that term? I think it's kinda silly. Why not just call them "Masked" Riders instead of shoving some random Japanese in there?”
“Ever heard of a contronym, Mr. Tokiwa? It's a word that means both what it means and its opposite. Take the word bolt. It can be used in sentences to denote securing AND fleeing.” Dawn picked up the driver and turned it over. “My point is, language is weird and you never know what quirks are gonna stick despite themselves. So, that's all you know? News reports?”
“Pretty much. Um…” Kouta scratched his head. “They wear weird belts and they fight monsters?”
“Basically yes. At the core, each Rider is a sort of greater 'immune response' to a large problem. The Gaim Riders, for example, were a way to keep an invasive alternate dimension from consuming our planet. Vince here, however, is NOT the Ex-Aid that was called to deal with the danger Ex-Aid was tasked to stop. That was a man named Emu Hojo. He succeeded, and the mantle moved on to Vince. He is, for lack of a better term, a copy.”
Vince rolled his eyes. "Ow, my self-esteem."
Dawn ignored him. “My son is not the original Build. I borrowed an original Rider's powers briefly myself for a time. It's gotten easier over the years, probably as the ease of Riders copying each other's powers grew. Your attacker copied the abilities of Shinnosuke Tomari, Kamen Rider Drive, who was a good guy, not a would be assassin.
“But you, Mr Tokiwa?” She fixed Tokiwa with another look. “You are the chosen original of the Rider Mantle called Zi-O. Your great task, whatever it may be, lies ahead. That also means you haven't begun to fully understand and increase your power, but that's fine, we'll compensate.”
There was a pause.
“...okay, then?” Kouta looked even more lost than before.
"Don't worry, you'll figure it out,” remarked Vince from the corner. “I did."
“Trust me,” put in Dawn as she set the Driver down. “If Vince can fumble his way into being a worthy heir… but I digress.”
"You're killing me here. Don't get no respect."
Again, Dawn ignored the peanut gallery. “So. You are being targeted by some time cop who wants to kill you because you turn into someone bad. You maniacs. You blew it up…” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
Kouta nodded. “That pretty much sums him up. He was wearing a weird belt like mine, too. Although Vince's store copied his belt to make mine, so maybe it should be the other way around?” He looked at the Driver. It continued to sit there and provide no answers.
“Or it summoned the belt you were meant to have, having seen an example of belts that would be based on yours in the future.”
Dawn was met with a blank stare of incomprehension.
~THE TEAPOT~
It had taken one or two more explanations from Vince and Kouta before Dawn understood what was needed of her. And then her eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Well, well. An original Rider. We're moving up in the world.” Her eyes flickered as she scanned the Space-Time Driver, which was lying on top of the work table. “Right at the start of his calling, too. For better or for worse.”
Kouta did not look any less out of place or in the loop than he had at the start. It was kind of crazy, how quickly he’d gone from kicking a future cop in the face to being very confused. He’d only barely grasped that Dawn was an android - not that Vince’s explanation had helped much.
“...I'm sorry,” he said, “am I supposed to understand any of this? Because I feel like I should, but I'm not.”
Dawn fixed him with a look.
“What do you know about Kamen Riders, Mr Tokiwa? Appropriate name, by the way.”
“Some parents can be so cruel.” Vince, standing off to the side, watched the proceedings with mild disinterest.
Kouta shrugged.” Didn't the news come up with that term? I think it's kinda silly. Why not just call them "Masked" Riders instead of shoving some random Japanese in there?”
“Ever heard of a contronym, Mr. Tokiwa? It's a word that means both what it means and its opposite. Take the word bolt. It can be used in sentences to denote securing AND fleeing.” Dawn picked up the driver and turned it over. “My point is, language is weird and you never know what quirks are gonna stick despite themselves. So, that's all you know? News reports?”
“Pretty much. Um…” Kouta scratched his head. “They wear weird belts and they fight monsters?”
“Basically yes. At the core, each Rider is a sort of greater 'immune response' to a large problem. The Gaim Riders, for example, were a way to keep an invasive alternate dimension from consuming our planet. Vince here, however, is NOT the Ex-Aid that was called to deal with the danger Ex-Aid was tasked to stop. That was a man named Emu Hojo. He succeeded, and the mantle moved on to Vince. He is, for lack of a better term, a copy.”
Vince rolled his eyes. "Ow, my self-esteem."
Dawn ignored him. “My son is not the original Build. I borrowed an original Rider's powers briefly myself for a time. It's gotten easier over the years, probably as the ease of Riders copying each other's powers grew. Your attacker copied the abilities of Shinnosuke Tomari, Kamen Rider Drive, who was a good guy, not a would be assassin.
“But you, Mr Tokiwa?” She fixed Tokiwa with another look. “You are the chosen original of the Rider Mantle called Zi-O. Your great task, whatever it may be, lies ahead. That also means you haven't begun to fully understand and increase your power, but that's fine, we'll compensate.”
There was a pause.
“...okay, then?” Kouta looked even more lost than before.
"Don't worry, you'll figure it out,” remarked Vince from the corner. “I did."
“Trust me,” put in Dawn as she set the Driver down. “If Vince can fumble his way into being a worthy heir… but I digress.”
"You're killing me here. Don't get no respect."
Again, Dawn ignored the peanut gallery. “So. You are being targeted by some time cop who wants to kill you because you turn into someone bad. You maniacs. You blew it up…” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
Kouta nodded. “That pretty much sums him up. He was wearing a weird belt like mine, too. Although Vince's store copied his belt to make mine, so maybe it should be the other way around?” He looked at the Driver. It continued to sit there and provide no answers.
“Or it summoned the belt you were meant to have, having seen an example of belts that would be based on yours in the future.”
Dawn was met with a blank stare of incomprehension.
Monday, 12 November 2018
King of Time Part 1
(NOTE: The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 or 2019 RP. But i hope you enjoy reading it anyway :P.
(Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince)
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not;
Speak then to me.
And say which grain will grow and which will not;
Speak then to me.
- William Shakespeare, Macbeth (1605), Act I, Scene 3, line 58
The first thing Vince knew about it was when the kid burst into his store.
He couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. He looked about as generic as a person could be - brown hair, scrawny frame, blue eyes. His face was red from exertion and his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. And he didn’t do himself any favours by tripping over his own feet and crashing to the floor of the store. Not the best first impression.
Yet his first words upon seeing Vince were definitely not generic.
“Hide me,” he whined, in the voice a hunted animal might use.
Vince blinked. That wasn't a common request. Thankfully, Beach Episode was a little quicker on the uptake. A few cardboard stands shuffled over, covering up the windows and making a small fort for the newcomer to hide behind.
“Um, hi?” The black-haired man took a few steps closer, staring at the mop of brown hair peeking out from behind a Zeph-O Max standee. “Welcome to Beach Episode? Are the cops after you?”
“Is that what they call them here?” The stranger quickly scurried behind the cardboard fort, as if a little too trusting of the flimsy protection it provided. “Well, yes, if that’s how you wanna put it.”
“I don't think there's any other word for cops.” Vince frowned. “If you're a space criminal or whatever, I probably shouldn't be hiding you. What the fuck is happening?”
The kid turned back to look at him. His voice took on a hysterical edge.
“Nothing! I haven’t even done anything yet! And that’s the problem! They won’t listen to me! It’s some Minority Report shit where they think I’m gonna do something and-”
TIME MAZINE!
A flash of red lit up the window, followed by the thrumming of some kind of engine. The ground shook as something heavy thumped down outside.The kid ducked behind the standees, muttering “ohgodohgodohgod” in a kind of frenzied mantra.
Footsteps approached. Boots.
Vince sighed. It looked like he was back in the game.
“I'm too old for this shit. Uh, no I'm not. Stay here, kid. I'll talk this out. Store, don't get involved unless shit goes really bad, okay?”
He walked outside, unsure what he was going to see.
Thursday, 26 April 2018
Refurbishment
The sight of Big Bobby's Bonus Boss Pavilion was a familiar one. It was hard not to recognize the huge red-and-white big top looming over everything like a big, candy-coloured blob. It was the place for cheap popcorn and stuffed toys, of hurd-gurdy music and the occasional punch-up. But more to the point, it was the place where people - especially Kobbers - came to test their mettle against the toughest of enemies, the strongest foes and the meanest threats. It was a place where boys became men, girls became women and those who were already there got some bragging rights.
So when it suddenly disappeared, people weren't sure what to think. The only clue as to what happened was a hastily-placed signpost, on which the following had been crudely scrawled.
So when it suddenly disappeared, people weren't sure what to think. The only clue as to what happened was a hastily-placed signpost, on which the following had been crudely scrawled.
BIG BOBBY'S IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING REFURBISHMENT.
WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.
Friday, 13 April 2018
Night of Blood (Part 4/4)
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
Vent Light was making preparations.
In the time between watching the Teapot burn and reaching his own hidden laboratory, he'd managed to make several deductions. One: Faust hadn't just come there to kill his mother, they'd been after something. Two: There was a limited amount of somethings they could be after, and one of them was the most likely something. And three: that particular something had a very specific requirement, one that would mean exposing a whole other world to Faust and it's experiments.
And that was not something Vent was going to stand by and watch happen. So in the comfort of his laboratory, somewhere underneath the streets of Manhattan, he was hunched over his work table and fiddling away. It wasn't the most comfortable space to work in - organized chaos seemed to reign in every corner of the room, with the test tubes having a territorial war with the flasks and the bunsen burners ganging up on the centrifuge. But it was the best he had, and he never was very good at keeping things tidy anyway.
In any case, the immediate concern was the watch-like device in front of him, case open and circuitry exposed as he typed furiously away on the tablet he had to one side of him.
The prototype MKII Sifter was something of a pet project for Vent. Even though the original had served the Kobbers well in previous outings, the tech had long become obsolete to the point that even criminal organizations could copy it. And the major flaw had always been the need to traverse the Bleed, which Vent saw as the equivalent of crossing a volcano by wading through the lava, i.e. reckless and stupid. This new model was designed to cut out the middle man by shunting a person from one physical plane to the other without exposing themselves to the dangerous radiation - a feat that would be admirable, if he could get it to work.
But he'd been struggling for months, and had long drawn a blank. The thing simply refused to acknowledge the existance of other planes, at least based on the theorem he was trying. Unless he accounted for the Bleed travel, the very thing he was trying to avoid, the internal computer would always come up with a null value, and didn't seem to accept any other shortcuts that he typed in. So either the thing simply wouldn't work, or it would probably dump somebody into the coldness of the void to suffocate and die. Or just rip somebody apart at the molecular level.
A sigh of frustration escaped the young man as he put the tablet down and pushed his hair back, feeling a migraine coming on. The answer was somewhere, he knew it, but it just wasn't coming. He thought the theorem of dimensional travel had been cracked long ago, but by his calculations, jumping between two different planes like this was a logical impossibility. And with so much at stake, solving it was becoming more and more of an issue. If he couldn't get this to work...
A ding to his right told him the coffee was done. The machine it was poured out of looked more like something one would bolt onto a starship's engine to make it go faster - because it had once been exactly that. Of course, the filtration systems that had once refined combusted fuel worked just as well for beverages, with the right tinkering. But Vent's mind was far from the intricacies of spaceship engines as he grabbed the cup and took a long, thoughtful sip.
It was in the middle of that sip that the brainwave hit him, hard enough to make him spit-take.
Vent Light was making preparations.
In the time between watching the Teapot burn and reaching his own hidden laboratory, he'd managed to make several deductions. One: Faust hadn't just come there to kill his mother, they'd been after something. Two: There was a limited amount of somethings they could be after, and one of them was the most likely something. And three: that particular something had a very specific requirement, one that would mean exposing a whole other world to Faust and it's experiments.
And that was not something Vent was going to stand by and watch happen. So in the comfort of his laboratory, somewhere underneath the streets of Manhattan, he was hunched over his work table and fiddling away. It wasn't the most comfortable space to work in - organized chaos seemed to reign in every corner of the room, with the test tubes having a territorial war with the flasks and the bunsen burners ganging up on the centrifuge. But it was the best he had, and he never was very good at keeping things tidy anyway.
In any case, the immediate concern was the watch-like device in front of him, case open and circuitry exposed as he typed furiously away on the tablet he had to one side of him.
The prototype MKII Sifter was something of a pet project for Vent. Even though the original had served the Kobbers well in previous outings, the tech had long become obsolete to the point that even criminal organizations could copy it. And the major flaw had always been the need to traverse the Bleed, which Vent saw as the equivalent of crossing a volcano by wading through the lava, i.e. reckless and stupid. This new model was designed to cut out the middle man by shunting a person from one physical plane to the other without exposing themselves to the dangerous radiation - a feat that would be admirable, if he could get it to work.
But he'd been struggling for months, and had long drawn a blank. The thing simply refused to acknowledge the existance of other planes, at least based on the theorem he was trying. Unless he accounted for the Bleed travel, the very thing he was trying to avoid, the internal computer would always come up with a null value, and didn't seem to accept any other shortcuts that he typed in. So either the thing simply wouldn't work, or it would probably dump somebody into the coldness of the void to suffocate and die. Or just rip somebody apart at the molecular level.
A sigh of frustration escaped the young man as he put the tablet down and pushed his hair back, feeling a migraine coming on. The answer was somewhere, he knew it, but it just wasn't coming. He thought the theorem of dimensional travel had been cracked long ago, but by his calculations, jumping between two different planes like this was a logical impossibility. And with so much at stake, solving it was becoming more and more of an issue. If he couldn't get this to work...
A ding to his right told him the coffee was done. The machine it was poured out of looked more like something one would bolt onto a starship's engine to make it go faster - because it had once been exactly that. Of course, the filtration systems that had once refined combusted fuel worked just as well for beverages, with the right tinkering. But Vent's mind was far from the intricacies of spaceship engines as he grabbed the cup and took a long, thoughtful sip.
It was in the middle of that sip that the brainwave hit him, hard enough to make him spit-take.
Thursday, 5 April 2018
Heart of the Forest
~KUWAHAWI ISLAND CHAIN, ZFRP MAIN UNIVERSE~
The Aetherian Forest was forbidden ground, according to the aboriginl lore. It had been since the ancient days, when a terrible war had been fought between the Forest and the rest of the land. The war had made the Forest sick, and the Heart of the Forest had grown mad with the sickness and become hateful. It had tried to push the Forest to where it did not belong, and smother the entire land in green. But the Ocean and the Sky had protested, and thus a pact had been reached, pushing the Forest back to where it belonged.
Now it stood on the one lone island, a blot of vibrant green against white sand and sparkling blue ocean. It looked like something out of a painting of primeval times, or perhaps a scene from a fairy tale, and tales were told of giant flowers, berries and fruits the size of a man's head and animals of spectacular health and energy. But the aboriginals of the islands never went near it, for they said to step on it was to invoke the wrath of the Heart of the Forest. The Heart never forgot the damage that had been done before the war, they said. And it had never forgiven, either.
The man either did not know or did not care. He just wanted to shoot something.
He was one of those rich men who let their wealth, and the respect it brought them, get to their heads. As far as he was concerned, problems other people had didn't apply to him, and when they did all he had to do was throw money at them until they went away. It was how he had gotten away with being a classic big game hunter in a modern world of namby-pamby, hands-wringing conservationists. Who cared about a few dead rhinos here and there, anyway? That was what animals were there for, wasn't it? What good were they for, if not for shooting? Some people were so melodramatic.
Getting onto the island was easy enough. Tour guides became surprisingly willing to comply when you slipped a thick wad of dollar bills into their hands. Finding anything to shoot, however, was a lot trickier. The forest was so thick and dark that it was difficult to make out anything - even the noise of the birds seemed deadened and muffled, as if someone had thrown a blanket over it all. Once or twice he thought he heard something rustle in the darkness, or catch a glimpse of movement, but with so little sunlight filtering through the canopy it was hard to tell if something had been there, or if it was just the plants moving in the faint breeze.
The man was losing patience rapidly. He'd come here looking to hunt a particularly rare specimen - the endangered Kuwahawi water deer. The finest antlers of any in the islands, the books had said. And the more endangered the animal, the more proud of himself he'd feel once he saw the head stuffed and mounted up on his study wall. But now his trigger finger was beginning to itch - he'd be happy to shoot anything, just so he didn't have to put up with the dead silence.
So the diminutive tree bear had picked a poor moment to run in front of him.
The gunshot was like an explosion in the forest. Everything in the vicinity, startled by the sound, went absolutely still and quiet. But none more so than the bear, who somersaulted backwards with a cry of anguish, crashed to the floor and lay unmoving. Two bloody spots on it's chest told where the bullets had penetreated all the way to the heart, and most likely all the way to the spine. They weren't right sort of bullets for deer, being made for much bigger animals, but the man had wanted to be sure that whatever he hit wouldn't be getting up again.
The man lowered his gun and snorted. What a waste. A tree bear was hardly worth the effort when he had spent almost a full hour looking for something bigger. Then again, it would do for a start - he still had time, and plenty of bullets to spare. Perhaps, once he got the body into the light, it might prove to be a new species unique to this island. He could get it named after himself, and then get the skin made into gloves or something. His ex-wife had been asking about a new fur hat.
He moved to collect the body, and then found his foot was stuck.
He looked down, and saw that thorny briars had entangled his boot, crushing closely around it.
"What the-?" he cried, and drew his machete. But he never swung it - a tree branch suddenly came down and smacked it from his hand, drawing scratches in the process. He pulled his pistol, intending to shoot the vines off, but had to drop it with a cry as vines suddenly sprouted from the wooden handle, lashing at him with hooked tips. The briars were creeping up his legs now, pricking and spearing him, and all around him the forest seemed to be swaying and shaking, as if in the throes of some terrible agony such as can only be found in a nightmare.
The man was beginning to wonder if he should demand his money back when he heard a growl. And then he made the mistake of looking up.
Glowing green eyes, filled with unspeakable rage, glared back at him.
"You have hurt the forest," snarled the thing.
"And now the forest shall hurt you."
If it's any consolation, the man only felt a twinge of pain before the jaws crushed his skull. It wasn't much consolation to him, but it was worth mentioning.
-------
The native guide's boredom at waiting was relieved when the crushed, severed head of Harold Rathbone Esq. was tossed into his canoe. The half-squashed face looked up at him with eyes bulging and mouth hanging open in a silent scream of terror. Blood trickled from the cracked skull and down the temples, giving the appearance of gruesome warpaint. Some of his teeth were missing, and more blood pooled from the hollows in the gums where they had popped out and ran out of his mouth.
On the shore, the trees rustled ominously.
The guide deciced not to stick around to get the rest of the body thrown at him. He paddled away faster than you could say "no refunds".
-------
Harold's death was published as a footnote in the papers. He hadn't been as influential as he'd liked to believe, his only mark on history being all those dead rhinos. A lot of people said good riddance to bad rubbish, and that it was about time this sort of thing was stopped. Others said that it might have been murder, since it seemed odd that the guide would come back with the head and not the rest of the body. Others wondered if some animal had got him, and concluded that it served him right, if that was the case.
But the locals, when questioned, only shook their heads and said the same thing. He'd hurt the forest, and made it angry.
And the Heart of the Forest had taken vengeance.
Introducing
JOHN HURT
as
SYLVANOS
The Heart of the Forest
Wednesday, 21 March 2018
Night of Blood (Part 3/4)
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
There was a long, protracted silence after Kamen Rider Kiva had spoken those words. Night Rogue still reeled from the full-on kick to the face he'd recieved, mask gently smoking. Kamen Rider Build was still on his knees, clutching the wound inflicted by his enemy's blade. And Blood Stalk stood there, taking it all in as the two Smash behind him looked uncomprehendingly at the scene and growled.
Stalk was the first to speak. And, as usual, what he said threw everyone there off.
"Oh, my God, it's Batman!" he cried.
Kiva dropped his stance and turned. "Dude, we've been over this. I'm not Batman."
"Shut up, you're totally Batman!" Stalk looked as thought he wanted to start hopping up and down on the spot. "Come on, do the voice! The growly Christian Bale one!"
"No," groaned Kiva.
"Come on, do it! Do the-"
Stalk was interrupted as, with a grunt and a hiss, Night Rogue came to his senses and pulled himself upright. The shattered glass of his visor, a spider-web of cracks over the yellowish bat-shape, was plainly visible as he turned his head to face Stalk. It looked as though somebody had driven a truck straight into his face - which, given how hard the kick had been, was an apropos comparison.
"Stalk," he growled, "what are you doing?"
Stalk shrugged with almost casual nonchalance. "Who, me? I've been doing the thing you wanted me to do. And I gotta say, I'm doing a better job of it than you are right now. Seriously, you let the comic book nerd get the jump on you?"
Rogue said nothing, too focused on getting back to his feet to come up with a retort. But Stalk's words had a more immediate effect on Build. He immediately began to rise as well, ignoring the pain of his wound - though it made him wince behind the mask - to try and focus on the red-clad invader and his words. And perhaps it was because the words held more significance to him, but he managed to get back to his feet a lot quicker than Rogue did.
"Thing?" he demanded, voice sharp. "What thing?"
It was then that Stalk seemed to notice him. "Oh, hi. Nice colour combo, by the way. Red and green really suits you! Too bad I chose it first, but-"
"Stalk." That was Rogue, already losing his temper.
"Oh, right." Stalk gestured to Rogue and turned to leave. "This way, if you don't mind." And he began to saunter off down the corridor as though he were on the red carpet.
"Wait!" Build moved, dashing to try and catch up with the cobra-masked warrior. But he had to come to a stop, because two other figures suddenly barred his way, snarling.
"Oh, you know," crooned Stalk, "I'd love to stay and chat, Build. I really would. But these guys..."
"...they're kinda overprotective."
There was a long, protracted silence after Kamen Rider Kiva had spoken those words. Night Rogue still reeled from the full-on kick to the face he'd recieved, mask gently smoking. Kamen Rider Build was still on his knees, clutching the wound inflicted by his enemy's blade. And Blood Stalk stood there, taking it all in as the two Smash behind him looked uncomprehendingly at the scene and growled.
Stalk was the first to speak. And, as usual, what he said threw everyone there off.
"Oh, my God, it's Batman!" he cried.
Kiva dropped his stance and turned. "Dude, we've been over this. I'm not Batman."
"Shut up, you're totally Batman!" Stalk looked as thought he wanted to start hopping up and down on the spot. "Come on, do the voice! The growly Christian Bale one!"
"No," groaned Kiva.
"Come on, do it! Do the-"
Stalk was interrupted as, with a grunt and a hiss, Night Rogue came to his senses and pulled himself upright. The shattered glass of his visor, a spider-web of cracks over the yellowish bat-shape, was plainly visible as he turned his head to face Stalk. It looked as though somebody had driven a truck straight into his face - which, given how hard the kick had been, was an apropos comparison.
"Stalk," he growled, "what are you doing?"
Stalk shrugged with almost casual nonchalance. "Who, me? I've been doing the thing you wanted me to do. And I gotta say, I'm doing a better job of it than you are right now. Seriously, you let the comic book nerd get the jump on you?"
Rogue said nothing, too focused on getting back to his feet to come up with a retort. But Stalk's words had a more immediate effect on Build. He immediately began to rise as well, ignoring the pain of his wound - though it made him wince behind the mask - to try and focus on the red-clad invader and his words. And perhaps it was because the words held more significance to him, but he managed to get back to his feet a lot quicker than Rogue did.
"Thing?" he demanded, voice sharp. "What thing?"
It was then that Stalk seemed to notice him. "Oh, hi. Nice colour combo, by the way. Red and green really suits you! Too bad I chose it first, but-"
"Stalk." That was Rogue, already losing his temper.
"Oh, right." Stalk gestured to Rogue and turned to leave. "This way, if you don't mind." And he began to saunter off down the corridor as though he were on the red carpet.
"Wait!" Build moved, dashing to try and catch up with the cobra-masked warrior. But he had to come to a stop, because two other figures suddenly barred his way, snarling.
"Oh, you know," crooned Stalk, "I'd love to stay and chat, Build. I really would. But these guys..."
"...they're kinda overprotective."
Tuesday, 27 February 2018
Kuwahawi Drift
WE NOW RETURN TO THE MAIN ZFRP-VERSE!
~KUWAHAWI PELE-PELE FREEWAY~
"This is probably a bad idea," said Stephen over the engine's impatient growl.
He wasn't totally inaccurate. The car in question was a beat-up Toyota AE86 Sprinter Trueno, a relic of the 80's that had somehow lumbered along into the present day in defiance of time itself. The question of where or how it had been acquired had never been answered, since the person who'd purchased it - Murdoc - had responded with "never again" and then buggered off to get drunk. The engine made weird knocking noises if it went above fifty, the clutch was a little sticky and somebody had drawn a penis in Sharpie on the bonnet. It was not an ideal car to race in.
But then Murdoc had made a bet with some shark-man that he could beat their time in the mountain road that connected Kuwahawi's central city with the coast. And then an even more pissed Noodle had announced that her Wendigo boyfriend could trash both of them. Stephen, who was nowhere near as drunk, had tried to be polite about it, but the glint of the shark's teeth in the sunlight had shut him up long enough for Murdoc to slam two thousand dollars onto the table. And by the time he realised what had happened, Noodle had already downed her eight can and dragged him off to do practice laps.
Which was why he was here now. And reiterating that he thought that this was a bad idea.
~KUWAHAWI PELE-PELE FREEWAY~
"This is probably a bad idea," said Stephen over the engine's impatient growl.
He wasn't totally inaccurate. The car in question was a beat-up Toyota AE86 Sprinter Trueno, a relic of the 80's that had somehow lumbered along into the present day in defiance of time itself. The question of where or how it had been acquired had never been answered, since the person who'd purchased it - Murdoc - had responded with "never again" and then buggered off to get drunk. The engine made weird knocking noises if it went above fifty, the clutch was a little sticky and somebody had drawn a penis in Sharpie on the bonnet. It was not an ideal car to race in.
But then Murdoc had made a bet with some shark-man that he could beat their time in the mountain road that connected Kuwahawi's central city with the coast. And then an even more pissed Noodle had announced that her Wendigo boyfriend could trash both of them. Stephen, who was nowhere near as drunk, had tried to be polite about it, but the glint of the shark's teeth in the sunlight had shut him up long enough for Murdoc to slam two thousand dollars onto the table. And by the time he realised what had happened, Noodle had already downed her eight can and dragged him off to do practice laps.
Which was why he was here now. And reiterating that he thought that this was a bad idea.
Thursday, 22 February 2018
Night of Blood (Part 2/4)
WARNING: The following contains the death of an alternate universe version of a character. The character's owner has given consent for this to happen, and this does not affect the main ZFRP Universe. Reader discretion, however, is advised.
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
The Teapot.
The security of the Cosine family's facilities and homes were notoriously easy to break. This was perhaps due to arrogance on the behalf of the family - because everything they made was of the most advanced and esoteric technology they could find, they assumed it couldn't be broken. Or maybe they were just negligent in their own security measures. In this case, however, the Teapot had long been abandoned - the original owners had long since moved, having found better and more secure places to do their work in. If they even remembered the place existed
It meant that Night Rogue and his company easily hacked their way through the security lock, turned off the cameras and got inside without setting off a single alarm.
They'd emerged into the Teapot unscathed and unchallenged, the Guardians and the Smash behind them. But they were wise enough to know that even now, victory was not immediately assured. Most of the time, break-in's had been foiled because the villain felt the need to announce themselves, or make an attempt to blackmail or coerce the person within into doing their bidding. This gave the victim the chance to muster a response, usually in the form of automated turrets or their own powers - if the agressor was lucky. If they weren't, it meant the Kobbers raining down upon their heads like a thunderstorm of angry fists, swords, guns and lightning bolts.
Night Rogue did not announce himself. There was no worth in wasting the breath to do so. He merely shot the lock straight off the door leading into the rest of the building, kicked it open and walked onward, his assembled squadron following behind. Blood Stalk, seemingly deliberately, brought up the rear - the excuse he gave was that he wanted to avoid any surprise attacks from the rear, although it seemed half-harted even by his own standards. Rogue knew he was lying, and Stalk knew that he knew, and thus they were all content together.
Reaching a junction between corridors, he turned to address his troops. The Guardians, about twelve in total, stood impassive, awaiting their next order like the soldiers they had originally been programmed to be. But the six huge, hulking Smash amongst them were milling about impatiently, letting off the deep, rolling growls a tiger gives before it smacks somebody in the head and caves their skull in. They were rapidly losing interest - and unless they found it again, then the nearest object or person was going to suffer for it.
Thankfully, Rogue knew what to do about that.
"Secure this base," he rumbled. "Form perimiters around the main research laboratory - nobody gets in or out unless it's me. Recover anything electronic you can find, and destroy anything that isn't. Then erase all traces from her servers. I don't want that wretched family tracing this back to us. And if anything related to the Doctor's work or Project: Build comes up, you bring it to me. Understand?"
The Guardians nodded their assent and marched off, the Smash close behind. Some of them, however, stuck with Rogue, standing to attention and guns at the ready. These were his personal guard, those programmed to defend him with their operational lives and ensure his safety. They would stick with him no matter what other orders they were given, which was a plus for Rogue - less chance of him getting surprised or penned by a canny enemy.
Blood Stalk emerged from among them, idly swinging his blade.
"Leave nothing to chance, do you?" he drawled.
"I've played the game of war for long enough," was the reply. "You pick up a few tricks on the way. Now, follow me - I've a score to settle, first thing."
With all that said, Rogue turned his back on his supposed ally, the metal of his armour glinting from the overhead lights and began to march. His stride was one with purpose, every step showing the silent, stoic determination of a soldier carrying out his duty. Obediently, his Guardians followed, weapons holstered in case of sudden accident - even with the security down, they were prepared.
Behind them, Stalk chuckled as he realized what was going to happen.
"Oh, this is gonna be good..."
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
The Teapot.
The security of the Cosine family's facilities and homes were notoriously easy to break. This was perhaps due to arrogance on the behalf of the family - because everything they made was of the most advanced and esoteric technology they could find, they assumed it couldn't be broken. Or maybe they were just negligent in their own security measures. In this case, however, the Teapot had long been abandoned - the original owners had long since moved, having found better and more secure places to do their work in. If they even remembered the place existed
It meant that Night Rogue and his company easily hacked their way through the security lock, turned off the cameras and got inside without setting off a single alarm.
They'd emerged into the Teapot unscathed and unchallenged, the Guardians and the Smash behind them. But they were wise enough to know that even now, victory was not immediately assured. Most of the time, break-in's had been foiled because the villain felt the need to announce themselves, or make an attempt to blackmail or coerce the person within into doing their bidding. This gave the victim the chance to muster a response, usually in the form of automated turrets or their own powers - if the agressor was lucky. If they weren't, it meant the Kobbers raining down upon their heads like a thunderstorm of angry fists, swords, guns and lightning bolts.
Night Rogue did not announce himself. There was no worth in wasting the breath to do so. He merely shot the lock straight off the door leading into the rest of the building, kicked it open and walked onward, his assembled squadron following behind. Blood Stalk, seemingly deliberately, brought up the rear - the excuse he gave was that he wanted to avoid any surprise attacks from the rear, although it seemed half-harted even by his own standards. Rogue knew he was lying, and Stalk knew that he knew, and thus they were all content together.
Reaching a junction between corridors, he turned to address his troops. The Guardians, about twelve in total, stood impassive, awaiting their next order like the soldiers they had originally been programmed to be. But the six huge, hulking Smash amongst them were milling about impatiently, letting off the deep, rolling growls a tiger gives before it smacks somebody in the head and caves their skull in. They were rapidly losing interest - and unless they found it again, then the nearest object or person was going to suffer for it.
Thankfully, Rogue knew what to do about that.
"Secure this base," he rumbled. "Form perimiters around the main research laboratory - nobody gets in or out unless it's me. Recover anything electronic you can find, and destroy anything that isn't. Then erase all traces from her servers. I don't want that wretched family tracing this back to us. And if anything related to the Doctor's work or Project: Build comes up, you bring it to me. Understand?"
The Guardians nodded their assent and marched off, the Smash close behind. Some of them, however, stuck with Rogue, standing to attention and guns at the ready. These were his personal guard, those programmed to defend him with their operational lives and ensure his safety. They would stick with him no matter what other orders they were given, which was a plus for Rogue - less chance of him getting surprised or penned by a canny enemy.
Blood Stalk emerged from among them, idly swinging his blade.
"Leave nothing to chance, do you?" he drawled.
"I've played the game of war for long enough," was the reply. "You pick up a few tricks on the way. Now, follow me - I've a score to settle, first thing."
With all that said, Rogue turned his back on his supposed ally, the metal of his armour glinting from the overhead lights and began to march. His stride was one with purpose, every step showing the silent, stoic determination of a soldier carrying out his duty. Obediently, his Guardians followed, weapons holstered in case of sudden accident - even with the security down, they were prepared.
Behind them, Stalk chuckled as he realized what was going to happen.
"Oh, this is gonna be good..."
Thursday, 18 January 2018
Night of Blood (Part 1/4)
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
Undisclosed Location.
Night Rogue sat upon his throne, and idly watched the latest experiment.
It was one that he'd seen repeated countless times before. It had gotten to the point where, every time he closed his eyes, he could visualise the steps in front of him as clear as day. From the selection of the specimen, to dragging them into the tank, to the pre-test checkups to determine their physical health... The only differences would be in whom they had selected for that day's experiment - their age, ethinicity and appearance, wherever they struggled and screamed or went with quiet, defiant dignity. And even now, that variation was starting to get a little stale as far as Rogue was concerned.
But then again, science was based on repetition. And all were necessary for Faust.
This one, the scientists had assured him, showed promise. Initial tests had given a possible Hazard Level of 2.7 or 2.8, and therefore a high resistance to the Nebula Gas - the foul substance they pumped into their tests subjects. There had been poor batches in recent days, dragged off the street or abducted as they took ill-advised shortcuts from work to home or wherever, and few had reacted well to the gas. Some had perished immediately, the husks of what was left being carted away to a now well-used incinerator, and others had simply undergone the standard mutations. But Faust were so close now, and they couldn't afford to waste a chance that was given them - a Two-Point-Eight just might be what they wanted.
The figure in the tank, a middle-aged man with sparse curly hair who screamed into his oxygen mask and tugged at his restraints, didn't look like a Two-Point-Eight. He looked more like he belonged on evening television, driving expensive cars and spouting slightly racist remarks. But the men buzzing around him in their gas masks and white hazard suits seemed eager to see what would come of this one. And as much as Night Rogue wanted to have just shot him in the head, he couldn't ignore the possibility that this man would survive the tests. Who knows? Perhaps they could finally achieve what they had been searching for all this time...
One of the men, holding a clipboard, looked up at Night Rogue and threw a thumbs-up at him.
By way of answer, the armoured being nodded in idle acknowledgement.
That was the signal.
Switches were thrown, levers were pulled. A mechanical whining sound began, signalling the activation of hidden generators and fans initiating their unique and dreadful function. Most of the men crowded around the glass tank, watching in fascination as the sickly green gas was poured into the confining space, enshrouding the man within. The muffled screams rose in pitch, but none took notice, more interested in the readings and measurements relayed via dials and gagues on the side of the apparatus. A familiar scenario, yet one with it's own appeal of morbid mystery - would would emerge from the awful, genome-altering fog this time? And would it need to be disposed of or coralled, like so many others?
The whirring of the machines grew louded. The shouting protests of the victim grew more frantic, often bordering on agony. The scientists flitted their attention from the dials to the tank and back again, never leaving the side of their unfortunate test subject. The one with the clipboard began hastily taking notes, but the scratching of his pencil was drowned in the hissing of valves and hum of machinery. The bat-armoured figure in his throne didn't move, but seemed to watch expectantly.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, a light flared within. Bright blue, shimmering, radiating with an almost cosmic brilliance. It flickered like the errant fire of a dragon, or perhaps St Elmo's Fire over a swamp, coiling and lashing this way and that as if trying to find some avenue of escape. The scientists gasped, and one of them pointed at a particular gague and measurement that, up until now, hadn't been acknowledged by anyone at this moment in time.
All of this caught the attention of the seated Night Rogue, who leaned forward, eyes fixed intently on this new incandescance.
For some reason... it seemed familiar to him. Something in the dancing, flickering flame seemed to stir something within him, something that he thought he'd cast aside long ago in the relentless pursuit that lead him here. Where, he wondered, had he seen this before, if not in a long-forgotten dream? Where had he seen this light in the past that he had long discared before taking up this new identity? Where did it come from, this light, where-?
And then the tank exploded.
For a moment, the air was filled with evil-smelling smoke, and the choking, acrid scent of burnt flesh filled the air. By the time the air conditioning units turned themselves on, filtering the foul smog out of the room, two of the scientists were writhing in agony on the floor, pierced by glass shards. The remainder were staring in horror at the blackened, gurning skeleton that remained of their subject, half-melted flesh still clinging to it. A greenish, watery slime slopped in the tank around the corpse.
Night Rouge, after a moment of silence, slumped back into his seat. The only outward sign of emotion was a tightening of his grip on the pistol-like weapon that he always carried. He was quicker to respond to this development than his subordinates, who stood frozen as if they'd glimpsed some terror from beyond the void.
"Burn it," he commanded. His voice, modulated into a deep and almost iron rumble, was loud enough to startle his scientists into action. As one, they began to scurry, looking for the tools they required to safely dispose of this latest failure, whilst the wounded began to drag themselves away so as to not impede their comrades. Medical attention would eventually be supplied, but it was not on the forefront of priorities here at Faust. People died here all the time. It was a fact of life.
And in his throne, Night Rogue sat like a silent and watchful gargoyle, consumed in his own thoughts.
Undisclosed Location.
Night Rogue sat upon his throne, and idly watched the latest experiment.
It was one that he'd seen repeated countless times before. It had gotten to the point where, every time he closed his eyes, he could visualise the steps in front of him as clear as day. From the selection of the specimen, to dragging them into the tank, to the pre-test checkups to determine their physical health... The only differences would be in whom they had selected for that day's experiment - their age, ethinicity and appearance, wherever they struggled and screamed or went with quiet, defiant dignity. And even now, that variation was starting to get a little stale as far as Rogue was concerned.
But then again, science was based on repetition. And all were necessary for Faust.
This one, the scientists had assured him, showed promise. Initial tests had given a possible Hazard Level of 2.7 or 2.8, and therefore a high resistance to the Nebula Gas - the foul substance they pumped into their tests subjects. There had been poor batches in recent days, dragged off the street or abducted as they took ill-advised shortcuts from work to home or wherever, and few had reacted well to the gas. Some had perished immediately, the husks of what was left being carted away to a now well-used incinerator, and others had simply undergone the standard mutations. But Faust were so close now, and they couldn't afford to waste a chance that was given them - a Two-Point-Eight just might be what they wanted.
The figure in the tank, a middle-aged man with sparse curly hair who screamed into his oxygen mask and tugged at his restraints, didn't look like a Two-Point-Eight. He looked more like he belonged on evening television, driving expensive cars and spouting slightly racist remarks. But the men buzzing around him in their gas masks and white hazard suits seemed eager to see what would come of this one. And as much as Night Rogue wanted to have just shot him in the head, he couldn't ignore the possibility that this man would survive the tests. Who knows? Perhaps they could finally achieve what they had been searching for all this time...
One of the men, holding a clipboard, looked up at Night Rogue and threw a thumbs-up at him.
By way of answer, the armoured being nodded in idle acknowledgement.
That was the signal.
Switches were thrown, levers were pulled. A mechanical whining sound began, signalling the activation of hidden generators and fans initiating their unique and dreadful function. Most of the men crowded around the glass tank, watching in fascination as the sickly green gas was poured into the confining space, enshrouding the man within. The muffled screams rose in pitch, but none took notice, more interested in the readings and measurements relayed via dials and gagues on the side of the apparatus. A familiar scenario, yet one with it's own appeal of morbid mystery - would would emerge from the awful, genome-altering fog this time? And would it need to be disposed of or coralled, like so many others?
The whirring of the machines grew louded. The shouting protests of the victim grew more frantic, often bordering on agony. The scientists flitted their attention from the dials to the tank and back again, never leaving the side of their unfortunate test subject. The one with the clipboard began hastily taking notes, but the scratching of his pencil was drowned in the hissing of valves and hum of machinery. The bat-armoured figure in his throne didn't move, but seemed to watch expectantly.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, a light flared within. Bright blue, shimmering, radiating with an almost cosmic brilliance. It flickered like the errant fire of a dragon, or perhaps St Elmo's Fire over a swamp, coiling and lashing this way and that as if trying to find some avenue of escape. The scientists gasped, and one of them pointed at a particular gague and measurement that, up until now, hadn't been acknowledged by anyone at this moment in time.
All of this caught the attention of the seated Night Rogue, who leaned forward, eyes fixed intently on this new incandescance.
For some reason... it seemed familiar to him. Something in the dancing, flickering flame seemed to stir something within him, something that he thought he'd cast aside long ago in the relentless pursuit that lead him here. Where, he wondered, had he seen this before, if not in a long-forgotten dream? Where had he seen this light in the past that he had long discared before taking up this new identity? Where did it come from, this light, where-?
And then the tank exploded.
For a moment, the air was filled with evil-smelling smoke, and the choking, acrid scent of burnt flesh filled the air. By the time the air conditioning units turned themselves on, filtering the foul smog out of the room, two of the scientists were writhing in agony on the floor, pierced by glass shards. The remainder were staring in horror at the blackened, gurning skeleton that remained of their subject, half-melted flesh still clinging to it. A greenish, watery slime slopped in the tank around the corpse.
Night Rouge, after a moment of silence, slumped back into his seat. The only outward sign of emotion was a tightening of his grip on the pistol-like weapon that he always carried. He was quicker to respond to this development than his subordinates, who stood frozen as if they'd glimpsed some terror from beyond the void.
"Burn it," he commanded. His voice, modulated into a deep and almost iron rumble, was loud enough to startle his scientists into action. As one, they began to scurry, looking for the tools they required to safely dispose of this latest failure, whilst the wounded began to drag themselves away so as to not impede their comrades. Medical attention would eventually be supplied, but it was not on the forefront of priorities here at Faust. People died here all the time. It was a fact of life.
And in his throne, Night Rogue sat like a silent and watchful gargoyle, consumed in his own thoughts.
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