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.

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."

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..."

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.