Iwaku: Dark Reign

[Jack Shade]

I stop to get my bearings, a difficult chore when you can't see. Luckily they left me a nose when they took my eyes. A spread of honey glaze ghosts the air, muddled by a shock of sawdust and the harsh aroma of machinery oil. I'm near the bridge, A Paorou Bakertemple to my right and the new construction on an arms manufacturer to my left. Bread and bullets, the letters to Paorou's creed. Strange though, the organization was something Asmo would have wanted. All these roles, trickster, shadow, lover, ally...they played a part in his visions of narrative, HIS dreams. Was it a homage to the mad king who was? Or mocking his ideas, twisting them? Who could tell, no one has seen Paorou for years. He shacks himself up with the rest of the Council somewhere.

I heard them once, when they passed judgment on me. Should I be honored that they passed it themselves? No, they wanted to make sure it was done properly. Some low level arbiter would only muck it up and kill me.

Can't say that's a bad thing.

I didn't recognize them, I came and left that place in darkness. I wish I had tried to memorize it better, but the scents and sounds are lost to me. If I found my way back I might repay them in kind for what they've...

No...useless thoughts.

Running my fingers along the mortar-scarred buildings I can almost see the state of the city. Blindness is a blessing, in a certain sense. The others must be forced to stare at what they have become.

I am only forced to feel.

In that respect, maybe I see the most after all.

"Purger, wait a moment."

My official title...hardly a title at all, a joke they pressed upon me from the get-go. "You will purge our enemies from this kingdom." Purge. I only fester the growing wound. I stop, not because I want to, but because I have to.

A piece of bread is pressed into my hand.

"Here," The voice says quietly, old and croaked with dust "You look like you need it more than I."

I thrust it back at him, affronted. Who dares to offer me kindness? It's more for his own sake than mine...to offer me kindness is to ask for death. The ISAF will not hesitate to gun down any who do not kick or jeer at my presence. Most ignore me...they're the smart ones. "No, take it back and begone. I have no need of your petty mercy."

Did I always sound so cruel?

"I order you to eat it," the voice murmurs, "And you must obey. Take the kindness son, you do not see it often."

"You risk your life for a bit of bread and an assassin, you must not be from here."

"I saw you beside the angel once," he whispers conspiratorially, and I lean in to catch the words "You are not an assassin, you are a hero."

I push him away violently and I hear the body clatter to the ground. "Speak no more of this treason, dog, or I'll run you through!" Really it's for his own good, but I'm shocked. His wizened hand caressed old memories from me, when I still could see. They're murky now, like watching film through stained glass...but I couldn't forget.

I need to.

I push on ahead, eating the bread as commanded.

It's sweet...but cocoa has been sprinkled in the center. Bittersweet.

Who was he?

 

[Asmodeus]

So a Terminator walks into a bar...

Just when I thought I had got the ringing out of my ears, the Cycle flings me back into a world of smoke and crescendo agonies. I'm too tired to do anything. I want to shout his name. Silias. My first follower, all those years ago. My comrade and friend. But he is only destruction now, only blood and slaughter. That poor girl... her blood is still on me.

Nothing for it. I flee from the Warmaster like the half-living, my hand around Kitti's wrist, following the Necromancer and the Neko youth whose scorns are so familiar. It feels like the Page is turning, my allies and I tumbling like ill-formed text and crashing over into the next chapter of this tragedy.

It hurts.

Yes... the pain... I feel it now. It's in my chest, where Feral shoved me. Something is cutting through, like the finest point of a knife dragged across my guts. It feels like writing. But there's no time... no time to process all that is swirling and conspiring around me.

Feral... the Noobs... the Apartment... glazed spam... Medusa... the fifth power.

It's all connected somehow. And now the one sanctuary in this city has become a jurisdiction nightmare. The Cycle is driving me westwards, towards the apartment. I can't fight it. I never could.

"West..." I mutter as I wipe the mess of blood and spam from my coat, pulling it tighter across my aching chest, "Have to go... west..."

Feral's already moving, and Grumpy's damn near floating with the kind of ease that only Death could lend him. The rain falls heavier as me and the alley cat get clear of the smoke. I can hear Karsikan making his stand against the Warmaster, the windows behind us shattering as dust sprays from between the bricks. Hopefully the chaos will veil us from any ISAF kill teams on the rooftops.

We have to keep moving.

Torsty and Myrnodyn can take care of themselves, I know. But still I'm saddened. They always say I bring trouble with me, and I long for the day when I can prove them wrong, when I can bring something more and heal the wounds they've carried all these years.

I remember Lamord's Tavern... in the timeline lost... back when my spirit was torn. It had been a still place, a haven where the broken could all forget as I forgot. I miss that place. And now how many have I robbed of their haven this night, by letting the outside world invade the Cbox?

Never the single heart I break, but the hundred-fold, with every step and every flawed intention.

Oh God, please... let me be the light in this madness.

I grip Kitti's wrist tighter, and plunge into the hammering rain.

 

[Spammy]

"Rain... wonderful," was the thought on Spammy's mind as he hurried into his apartment building, shaking the rain off of his coat, pulling his hood back, letting out a sigh. Well why shouldn't it rain? It would go nicely with his experiences coming to this city. Finding an apartment. Getting a gun. That was one of the first things he realized he had to do, was get a gun. The big revolver pressed against his side, in one of those under-the-shoulder holsters. The guy who ran the pawn shop was "kind" enough to throw in the holster and two boxes of ammo in for "free." It just made the gun more expensive. He wore a jacket all the time anyway, so it probably didn't show. Much. He hoped.

He hoped for a lot of things as he made his way up the stairs, firstly to be able to actually go home. Needless to say, that wish didn't come true, so Spammy just defaulted to his daily wish: That he keeps on living. And that had kept coming true, so far. He tried not to think on that as he dug he key out and unlocked his shared apartment, briefly wondering if his roommate was home, figuring he'd have to hear the sound of entry. Those two words were troubling, and they wouldn't leave his mine: So far.

 

[Kitti]

[size=-2]
Rain fell, a rain that soaked as soon as one ventured outside. Kitti was pulled into the rain, the whirl of events were pushed into the back of her mind, the death of the shifter that she longed to return, to cry for but she could not summon the tears. Instead, the torrents of rain that pulled at her feet as it swept along the slanted streets cried for her, formed the waterways her heart would not condone. Asmodeus's hand was on her wrist, a tight grip and her anchor to the world as her life fell deeper into a pit of hopelessness.

The necromancer was in front, seemingly untouched by the rain, an unnatural ease to his gait though the rain pulled at Kitti's shoes and weighed down her shredded dress. She wished that she had worn pants, now, though she didn't remember how long ago she had donned the bloodstained white dress. She had felt no desire before now to remove the garment, it represented how she had felt, the squalor of her soul. If I have a soul, she reflected. How could she be certain, when her body was crafted to live long after humans had crumbled, that she had that spark of humanity?

If I don't have a soul, does he?

These traitorous thoughts threatened to engulf her, to wash her away more effectively than the rain could ever dream and so she pushed them to the back of her mind. Asmodeus was almost comforting now, the sole person on this expedition who seemed determined that she would be a part of whatever this was, that she would not be a lost vessel adrift in the sea. Even if they were sailing straight into the depths of hell, she had a direction. For this, she was thankful.

"Asmodeus, Asmo, what's to the west?" she asked finally, her voice unsteady but picking up volume to overcome the noise of the pounding rain. His grip on her wrist felt less restrictive than it did secure, it lent her confidence.
​

​

[/size]

 

[Torsty]

I've taken care of the Warmaster's firepower, at least I think so? It seems like Karsikan might be able to distract the robo-zombie for some time. One might think I would jump up from behind the bar-counter and give it a fight, but we vikings are not the same. We've evolved, we all evolve. Too bad whenever I encounter angels hostile situations comes with them. Maybe I shouldn't turn my hatred back onto them? If it weren't their presence that would see the Cbox's safe enviorment ruined, it would have happened sometime anyway. I can't help but feel that I only have myself to blame. I sided with the Mad King, I brought this on my people...why do I bring so much pain?

Myrnodyn is one of my few expections. Maybe thats why I was so quick to drag him along over the counter after I made my move on WMD...I need him now more than ever. I'm certain I won't be seeing this place in a while! Whatever plan he and his companions have, it just got a whole lot more interesting to me.

"I don't know about you, but I suggest we get the hell out of here! Got any place we could go to without 'that thing' following us?" I say to Myrn, looking once more over the counter.

We're not alone, while the snipers will have a hard time making it, theres a dozen of the personel taking cover in the kitchen, armed and ready to follow my commands.

It's wierd, this moment of silence, leaving our future in the hands of a shapeshifter, but we all evolve, right?
​

 

[Asmodeus]

Spammy's apartment was almost the mirror of the one above it that belonged to Zypher. A narrow hallway stretched from the door and was cluttered with shoes and unpacked boxes. A few coats hung from the walls and gave refuge to moths, while everything else was lost in darkness. At the end was the bathroom, with neither bath nor room to speak of, while the bedrooms were on the right. To the left the larger living area and adjoining kitchen was the only place that got a little of the sickly street light. Everything was silver and pale as Spammy entered.

He had been lucky to see the advert for this place. It was hanging on the wall of the same pawn shop where he got the gun, a little white note between the laminated cards of hookers and loan sharks.

Room Wanted. Call 555-7821-AO. Ask for Glazer.

Yes, he was real lucky. Glazer was one of the good people in this city, a man who played fair and showed a little respect. Sure, he was a drunk and a bum, but he gave Spammy a place to stay and didn't ask him too many questions. They had dwelled in their separate depressions, like cellmates, making little conversation as they passed each other in the hallway. Glazer worked as a porter at one of the Bread Temples, moving the sacrificial corpses between the bakeries and the morgues. Spammy never asked too much about it. The room mates each kept to themselves and life had been bearable.


So far...

Spammy's nose gave the first warning. He could not smell the booze or the cigarettes. As he stepped into the living room he smelled only cold and dampness. Pausing, his coat half-removed, he stared across the room to the armchair where his roommate always sat to drink and watch the cancerous city through the window.

Twilight picked out the detail of Glazer's body. It was unmoving, a stillness not even of death but of something heavier. He was hunched over a little, as if he had fallen asleep, but even his hair was grey. Again, not the grey of deceased flesh, but of cold... damp... petrification... so thin in places that it looked like paper.

When at last Spammy exhaled, he realised that his hand was on his gun, moving there unconsciously as his heart ached with the horror of the sight before him.

Glazer had become a corpse of stone.

 

[Spammy]

Slowly, too slowly, Spammy pulled his trembling hand away from the gun, forcing it to his side, having to clamp it against his leg to keep it still. "Glazer..." was the soft whisper that came out as he stood in front of his roommate. Well, former roommate. His thoughts were long in coming, caught between panic and grief. Glazer... didn't deserve this. Well, probably didn't. Spammy probably couldn't say for sure, but at least from how he acted around the apartment, and towards Spammy, putting up with this stupid newcomer with all the grace and character he expected of this city. But this... not this.

Late, far too late, the thought finally reached him: The apartment might not be empty. He glanced nervously to the other doors, hands going to the gun again, fingers snapping around it before he realized he should probably move slowly and quietly. They left most of the doors open because the apartment didn't ventilate well, open doors that the killer could have walked through, waiting to burst out.

Slowly, and quietly he started to step back towards the doors. A braver man might have made sure the apartment was clear, gun first, turning on lights and making sure it was safe before dealing with the body. A smarter man might have calmly turned, walked out of the apartment, and notified the authorities. Spammy was neither, and he nearly cried out when he realized he was less than halfway to the door. He should have turned and ran, but he'd just turn his back to whatever still might be in the rooms. If the cheap, creaky floors would let it or them know he was here, at least it would let him know they were coming... unless they were quiet... or it was a poison gas... or on the ceiling... or knew which were the good floorboards...

 

[Zypher]

[dash=#483d8b]"What kind of place? Well that's really simple, it's just a bar, people come in to forget they ever existed as long as they have the money they can usually do it successfully, sometimes, if they're lucky they end up not living to see the aftermath of their drunken stupor." Zypher sighed mournfully as she stumbled a bit, it was so strange for her to wear any kind of heel even though these ones were rather short. She checked in her little bag to see if her old ID was in there, the one that marked her not only as an ally but a female as well. How foolish of the mad king to misplace her like that. She should be in the convent with the rest of the soulmates.

From somewhere ahead she could hear the sounds of fighting and destruction.

"Shit..." she sighed, it didn't look like they'd be having a nice drink tonight. She grabbed Archy's arm and pushed her back into a dark alleyway, of course in this city they were all dark. "You go down that way and circle around to the back of the bar. I trust you can defend yourself, I'll go in the front door. It'll be safer for you to be sneaky after all it's dangerous for an unregistered like you to be in plain sight."

Without another thought she dashed forward to the Cbox only to find a large struggle taking place. As she moved inside she dodged stray fire from ISAF bullets still aiming for some unseen person. Zypher narrowly dodged the men fighting by diving behind the bar. Her gaze drifted from the bottles under the bar where she landed to Torsty, a familiar face, although she wasn't sure if he'd recognize her, after all it had only been a handful of times he'd seen her as she naturally was.

"The hell is going on here?" She shouted over the sounds of the fight.[/dash]

 

[Asmodeus]

They come out of nowhere, the faceless unforgiving. They are the street and the sky, the cold air and the blood-flecked stone. They don't care and they don't stop. These boys weren't built in rooms, where thoughts and morals are collected. They're the outer wild and they've come to tear our throats out.

The whistle of the RPG cuts the night and I see the grenade coming. It detonates at the second storey and the shockwave splits us, me and Kitti falling back whilst Feral is thrown forward. Grumpy turns as the bricks fall on him, but he keeps it smooth. As the ISAF rappel into the alley he's ready for them. A wave of blackness goes up, like he's lifting a cape, and somehow it muffles the gunfire, clouding the Kill Team in smoke and darkness.

I'm lying on my back, my head lifted as I try to focus. And my stomach turns as a I see a head lying before me, severed from the neck, resting in a pool of blood, the eyes open and filled with dead horror.

Kitti.... no....

There's a hiss and a shadow cuts between me and the bodypart. I focus, looking up at Feral. She looks pissed. She picks up the head, dripping blood on the concrete, and stuffs it back in her suitcase, tucking away the long dark hair. I see a flash of vampire fangs as she locks the case shut. It's not Kitti's head...

But what...?

No time to process what the hell I just saw. Two of the soldiers have got through Grumpy's magic. With a snarl, Feral swings the suitcase and floors one of them, promptly pouncing on top the soldier and beating him with her umbrella. But the second one's coming right for me, his sidearm readied. I can hear the whispers echoing inside his gasmask.

"L4 in the KYG, semi-load to data-C, one-four on the nine, switch-side to top-down, seven-niner XZY..."

The sound of groaning tells me Kitti is behind me, half conscious from the blast. My adrenaline comes in flood and I roll upwards, parrying the gun from the soldier's grip and flinging him to the wall, away from Kitti. The impact lasts a second and he's advancing again, unslinging a rifle, readying it. "Acquired and verified, ten-81 on the deck-swain..."

I grab the rifle barrel, jabbing the weapon back into his chest. He buckles a little, lets the rifle fall, draws a knife, then drops that too as I strike him with the rifle-butt. He spins, still unfazed as he unslings a shotgun that's hanging on his other shoulder. "Rack 'em, stack 'em, all in and fired up, takedown 147 willy pete and charlie four."

I backhand him with all my strength, yelling above his nonsense-speak, "Stop fighting!"

His head his lowered, his body rocking with the pain, but his concentration is devoted completely to racking the shotgun. I grab it, punching him with my other fist, but still he continues struggling with the weapon. "Give 'em some, make it count and light the bargain confirm."

"JUST STOP! STOP FIGHTING!" I tear the shotgun from his hands and seize him by the shoulders, slamming him to the wall. My face is against his mask, staring into the abyss of his eye plates. I don't know where the ISAF ends and the Prolific X begins. How much was the virus of my making and how much the ego of Rosoft, the Plague Lord of Iwaku?

"I'LL LET YOU LIVE! JUST STOP!"

His boot connects with my knee, buckling it inwards. As I fall his other arm comes around my neck, applying the chokehold as I struggle on my knees. He's behind me, still whispering, still lost... "Target is collateral to neutral 78, recce the firebase zero niner..."

There's a gunshot and I think he's plugged me. But it doesn't fell right. I've been shot before and this time I can't feel the blossom, the warm mess that spreads inside then turns to boiling pain. I open my eyes as his arm comes away from my neck and he falls back, a smoking hole in his eye plate.

And in front of me... for just a moment... I see gold.... a blurred dot with a golden circle around it. It's standing over Kitti. It's the same gold as the apartment building... the one I saw as I fell.

Then it clears and there's a shape in the alleyway... the outline of a figure holding a pistol.

"Some people just can't handle their drink."

The girl gives me memories of swords and boiling lava and I taste sand and blood in my mouth as I look at her. I know her from the unknown... like so many in this city... but I cannot put a name to the face. She lowers the pistol and I get to my feet, helping up Kitti, glancing for Feral and Grumpy as they finish their opponents.

"Take us back the way you came."

"Excuse me?"

"The apartment!" I shout as I get Kitti stable, "No time to explain. Take us back there!"

I don't really know what I'm saying. The words are just spilling from me, as if this girl has triggered something. She's important but I don't know why... like the glazed spam and the medusa and the head in Feral's suitcase. She rolls her eyes, just as confused as I am by it all, "Are you supposed to be the revolutionaries Zypher was talking about?"

I make sure Feral and Grumpy are following, before motioning the girl to move. "You've got the gun. Either shoot me or take me to the apartment. We're running out of time."

Giving her permission to kill me seems to do the trick. We're moving now, following the girl into a side alley away from the smoke and gunfire. More darkness... more running... but at least we have a direction now.

 

[Hydronine]

Cold.... wet and damp.... trembling, though unsure if it was due to sadness or frustration....

Perhaps even due to the fact that she could no longer speak.... Well, she chose not to speak... since she was unable to be understood in that method. Marked a trickster.... possibly a shifter, she was worthless...Men came and went, money came and went, but never enough to help.... never to help.... A name moved across her lips without volume....An old dream, sparking light in her dead eyes... a man.... a king....

She laid near a dumpster, her state of attire was scarce, with only the bare minimum of stained and torn undergarments to keep her civilized. Red eyes focused on the sky as she laid there, then looked to her side, a pair of broken headphones lay crushed along with an mp3 player were nearby. They had been broken for some time... she couldn't use them anymore, but still she carried them, remembering times of an eclectic king and his student.... a girl... a girl with wings.... And some stupid girl who followed them for a short time, who spoke no known language.... a girl who drew her dreams and hopes... It had been a long time since she had touched paper and pencil.... She wouldn't even know what to do with such a trivial power anymore.... That girl had grown up, in the absence of a man who she had counted as her brother.... reality had to strike at some point.

At first, she had been confused when she found out what her rank was.... what it meant to be a trickster in these times... it was hard for her to grasp the difference, what made her less than others... She turned her head back to face the sky as she grabbed a tattered blanket and drew it around herself. She smelled of blood and sweat... of sex and smoke... No longer the innocent child, or the small little fox that would perch itself on someone's shoulders, now only a mere shell of what she once had been... The crook of her left elbow was bruised from her constant use of a mind-altering drug that went by many names..... But the most prominent was "Counseling". It was the only thing that sweetened the haze in her head.

But, like any drug, it made her addicted.... and not just to the drug itself, but to the pain of this world and the sadness it caused....

There were other drugs, too. But she was hooked on Counseling.

And she needed her fix.

But... in her weary mind, she thought she was going insane again, because for some reason, she kept hearing commotions around herself.... She had tried to block it out, but at some point, it became too arduous. She drew the tattered blanket around herself like a dress as she stood. It clung to her gaunt frame as she walked towards the commotion. As she walked, her white mess of matted hair moved to expose a necklace that was looped twice and hung down the front of her body, a stub of a pencil hung from it, bloodstained with broken graphite.

She approached where she had heard the commotion, the C-box.

Frozen, as if transfixed, she stood there, watching. Lurking. unable to figure out what to do. She smelled something odd in there... using senses she had been shunning as of late, she noted the smell of shifters... they had their own peculiar smell to them, but it was overwritten by the smell of death from under the uniforms of the ISAF.

She stood there, unsure.

 

[Kitti]

[size=-2]
The scene played out before Kitti as though in slow motion, though she was helpless to do anything about it. Asmodeus's struggle with the men as she fought to remain awake, her head having hit cruelly against a chunk of rock on her fall. There's blood, but nothing her body won't heal for her within a few hours, maybe days. It's the weakness she can't stand, the helpless need to help and the inability to rise.

Kitti was steeling herself to blow the last of her energies to save Asmodeus when another figure intervenes. They're safe, for now, but they have to run. Kitti stood, betraying none of the difficulty she faced, yet somehow Asmodeus knew and he was there to get her on her feet to run. The cause of the intervention is foreign to Kitti, yet reminiscent, though she couldn't place the woman. Kitti wanted to ask whether anyone else had seen a severed head loll past, but she was afraid that it was a hallucination from her injury and mentioning it might let on how hard she hit her head if no one else saw dismembered body parts...

With newly forming, only still slightly reluctant trust, Kitti grasped Asmodeus's arm for support. He'd more than earned her trust - if he was going to kill her now even, it wouldn't change that he'd saved her life perhaps three times today. Running as fast as she could to keep up with Asmodeus, Kitti was at a loss for breath until they turned a corner, slowing a little.

"I'll pay you back, somehow" she promised to him, her blue-gray eyes intent in the darkness. It wasn't as though she wanted to be free of ties, rather that she wanted to prove herself useful so that he wouldn't abandon her sometime down the road, thinking her a burden. Truth be told, it was calming for her to have him around.

As the others neared them, Kitti cut short her gratitude, embarrassed and reluctant for others to hear. "What's so special about this apartment?"
​

​

[/size]

 

[Tegan]

Near the edge of Iwaku City, just before the streets begin to crack and split and the old skyscrapers sag, is the Shadow District-an endless labyrinth of dark corners and haunted mansions.

Murders of red-eyed ravens keep sentinel from the skeletal trees that line the historic boulevard, while werewolves ease in and out of sight in the desolate streets. Necromancers commune in small, grotesque speakeasies filled with all manner of eldritch horrors, while the dealers and serial killers hang around in the alleyways and fire escapes.

In the centre of the district is where the Markov's reside.


The vampire lord stood before the expansive window of his study, surveying the jagged skyline, and mentally listed the many horrors he would unleash upon the murderer of his wife.

Was there no respect for the undead? Had the standards fallen so low that even those who ruled the endless night could be hunted and butchered like beasts? What was the point of eternal life if no one feared his wrath?

The servants discovered the remains of the Lady Markov in her private suite not even five hours ago. The Lady was slain and beheaded in her sleep. How the assassin was able to enter the manor and slip out unnoticed was still a mystery; however, the list of citizens who were even able to accomplish such a feat was a short one. He could hear his brothers and sisters questioning the one suspect they could find in the lower rooms.

Her cries of agony did little to assuage his anger, and neither did the presence of the woman, waiting patiently behind him.

"Ambassador Tegan," the Count drawled at length, turning to face her, "how kind of you to visit."

"I was just passing through the neighborhood."

"Clearly," his dry response was preluded by a quick scan of her attire. The woman was without her white robes, instead opting for an evening dress covered by a trench coat. If that was not divine foreshadowing, Markov did not want to know what was.

"Why is an ambassador of the Convent 'passing through' my district?"

"I wanted to extended my deepest sympathies-"

The air was suddenly sucked from her lungs when, quick as death, the vampire lord was before her, his long, icy fingers clamped her throat.

"Do not," his voice was a clap of thunder, a coffin lid slamming shut, "play coy with me, Ambassador."

"My patience is short, tonight," his fingers tightened for emphasis.


Her robes were not the only thing missing. Her personal bodyguards were not with her. If she was alone, that meant she was here without the Council's knowledge, which meant she was not under their protection. That revealed an entirely new spectrum of options as to what he could do to her. Fortunate, because the needed to let off some steam.

"Did Paorou order this?"

"The Council has dispatched the Purger-"

Count Markov paused.

There was the sharp sound of inhalation from Tegan. The Count had released her. The woman coughed and massaged her bruised throat. But her eyes held his, and the count knew that she did not fear him.

Kids these days. They just don't know any better.

"I'm not yet sure of who he hunts, they're keeping mum about it," Tegan knelt to retrieve her fallen hat. "You know what it is they are trying to make."

A Gorgoneion. So that was it.

"Tell me, little star, why it is you have come- risking your very life, to tell me what I already know?" He was collected once more, which made him seem much more dangerous.

Tegan grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief, "I still owe you for that favor."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't worry, the memory will come back to you."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Whu't you tell 'em, luff?" Sharp eyes peered out from beneath the driver's top hat as he glanced at Tegan through the rear view mirror.

The woman let out a soft sigh and placed a cigarette between her lips, then took the blue matchbook offered by the driver.

"Thank you."

"Don' men'tion it, luff."

They drove through the district in silence, aware of the possibility that at any moment, they could have a six hundred pound werewolf on top of the car. So, Tegan really wanted to enjoy her cigarette.

The broken shafts of ghostly lights halfcast their tense faces. Then, there was a flash and they were out of the shadows.

"The Count suspects the Council and JackShade. The Shifters are uneasy, they're planning something-get ready to fan some fires." The woman removed her hat, along with the pins that held her hair in place. "It's only a matter of time."

The driver grinned, revealing a glinting gold tooth.

"Got me some news while you were out, luff."

Tegan glanced at him, curious.

"Feral never ma'de the rendevouz, and the ISAF's all worked up on account of some angel."

The fractional widening of her eyes was the only inclination of shock she outwardly expressed. Her blood had suddenly run cold.

"It gets bett'r, luff. About five minutes before you got in the car ISAF stormed the Cbox-seems a bunch a' suspicious folk were holin' up in there, and an official got involved."

Tegan pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. There was no way this was happening. If Feral was near the Cbox. . .

"No bleedin' way Feral's still alive-not enough lives for that kind of death. Plan's a wash, luff. Should get you in'ta hiding."

"Don't be so dramatic. Take Main Street, there's still time to fix this."

The driver winked at her in the rear view mirror.

"Anywhere you wanna go, luff."

--------------------

The vampire lord stood before the expansive window of his study, his gaze following the black car as it eased down the boulevard. Behind him, the shadows stirred.

"Do you think she's telling the truth?"

"Nothing is certain with that one. But if her words prove false, not even Paorou himself can keep us from her." The cries from below had long silenced.

"Follow the Purger."

"As you wish."

- - - - - - - - -

shit! fuck! FUCK A SHIT!!!

Feral clutches the suitcase tight as she runs. She doesn't know where she's following them, but that doesn't matter. Just have to get away from ISAF, then get away from everyone else.

He saw the head. There's no way he's not going to ask questions, and she can't answer them.

Feral glances about, trying to see through the smoke, trying to figure out where it is they're running.

 

[Jack Shade]

I swallow air and taste decay, the aftertaste to smog and first cousin to death. It's a perfect sort of taste...if you go for that sort of thing. I let myself hang back, none to sure if this pain is still an ulcer or flat cancer. They say that angels can't catch diseases, like their divine nature is some sort of super immunity. Is getting sick a sign I've lost it all? Or maybe I never had it. Not my place to argue fate and prophecy, the Heralds get to mutter their messages and the rest of us clockwork into motion. No free will among us, wasn't written in the footnotes of this story.

I can still taste the bread on my tongue.

Who was he? Without my sight I can't fit a face to match the proffered hand, and the voice didn't match anything I already knew. I refuse to believe it was just a citizen, they lost their faith in me before Paorou came...they have no reason to help me now. A former soldier? A shape shifter?

I'm dwelling more than I should.

It's the sound that draws me, always is. Explosions and gunfire ricochet across my eardrums and continue down the empty street, hardly diminished by the downpour. Rain makes it harder to 'see', but I've learned to cope. Gotta treat every tiny rain drop like a proximity mine, exploding on the surface that I need to avoid. Of course listening to the buggers individually is catching the single violin in an orchestra of strings...but I'll make do.

I have to.

Likely the ISAF found another target, maybe unregistered.

Or maybe my target.

I curse my nose for not warning me about the rain. Usually I can catch stuff like that, but I've been dodging the worst of a cold since...well, since awhile and my smell isn't what it used to be. The damp touches my bones like tentative child fingers, cloying and almost playful. I pray to be indoors before they grow more needy.

I don't rely on touch, that sense is limited to what I can put my hands upon. I feel the cold rain, the soaked skin of leather hugging my contours. I feel the sharkskin wrap around the katana, also soaked. I feel my own skin, wrinkled in the places not already rough with callous. I feel that beetle burrowing deeper into my stomach, my colon. I feel the rain slip into the cracks between scars and unseeing eyes.

Undependable.

I can't rely on my nose, damn thing still can barely mark the district I'm in...much less people through the rain.

My eyes...Ha. Well my eyes only see the truth. That there is nothing here but a poorly contrived oblivion.

I rely upon my ears, following the patter of footsteps and the retort of gunfire. The angles for the city play merry with my sense of accuracy, but live here a year or two and you start to feel the way the waves get confused. Can't feel how the city got to be this way though, wasn't it so much prettier at one point or another?

I can't see the change, only feel its scars.

They're coming down the alley now, and I have a chance to strike without notice. Not my style, not even now. I step into the mouth of the alley, stained sword drawn and dripping from my right. I must look a sight, but being blind, one starts to forget about how one is supposed to appear. All they need to know, however, is that I carry a blade in my right and a badge on my left breast. Council sanctioned, crimson hued, I'm not to be messed with.

At least that's what the higher ups tell me.

Doesn't stop people from trying.

"I'm here for the angel, the rest of you are not my concern." I count them, or rather, try to. When they bunch together in the rain it's hard to get the correct estimate. It might be two people or a really big person...or a four legged person. With shifters these days, why not? My charge is among them, that itself is right enough. I don't know what you'd call it...a tremor? An...aura? But the air shimmers in my ears and I 'hear' his presence. Bet he smells fresh out of the sky too, if only I didn't have this damn cold.

I wish I could see who else was with him, I'm not in the habit of killing friends. Of course if they impede me, I'll have to do something...and murder works best for this kind of job. Maybe just concerned citizens, or an underground resistance.

Mandibles clamp over my stomach like a vice and I sway.

I wish Grant was still alive...he'd shoot me straight.

Like hell any of those scared citizen doctors will, and no necromancer is getting within five feet of me again.

"Submit yourself, angel, and I will make it quick." It's a small service, but one some assassins won't offer. "Resist and..."

I don't have the heart to finish, not today.

"Don't make me drag this out," I finish, bringing the sword up "I don't want you to suffer."

A lie.

I think part of me wants everyone to suffer at least a little bit.

Another spasm of pain.

I pray it's fatal.

 

[Hydronine]

Spoiler

One step. Two steps. Three steps..... Pause.... Look over your shoulder at the remains.... One step, two steps..... three steps.... TK paced, and in the middle of walking, the tattered blanket fell from around her body, and she grabbed at empty air, she stared at the blanket on the ground for a moment, blankly, like she couldn't remember what it was for anymore.

Keep walking.... One step.... two steps..... three steps.... four steps...

She saw the ISAF, but didn't mind them. They didn't mind her. She wasn't worth a shit to them, so she had nothing to fear. She kept walking, ignoring the way the air made her skin prickle up with goose flesh. Ignoring the way her body was so tiny now, that it barely even fit the undergarmets she wore. The bra hung off her frame, one of the straps torn. The panties had holes and countless stains in them. Her body was painfully thin and smeared with dirt.

She couldn't even become her true form at this point if she tried with all her might. She was too weak.

And yet..... All she could think about was that damned smile. That fucking smile that Rory used to give her. Like everything was alright. It drove her mad. All she wanted to do was rattle that idiot and demand why the hell he smiled like that. Didn't he know what was going on these days? Didn't he know who he had left behind?

He he even cared? He just left her! Left her with that woman! He didn't care about her....

No one did.

It was ok, though, because she couldn't be bothered to care about herself either.

Her bare feet bore the marks of numerous callouses, suggesting a lack of shoes for some time, meanwhile her eyes still held that catatonic look as if her mind was thousands of miles away from her body. She kept walking.

Just keep walking.... find some guy... find some drugs... it would be ok... nothing hurts... it could be worse....

Where was Rory? Where was Kitti? What happened to all those people?..... Don't think about it... keep walking...

She found a man at some point, and in moments, she was walking out of another alley, counting a small amount of bills.

Just enough for drugs.

TK finally smiled, for all the wrong reasons.

 

[Asmodeus]

Less than a quarter of a mile away, in the apartment block at the edge of the parklands, Spammy was alone against the coming terror.

And he had made the mistake of not turning to run.

At the end of the hallway, between the bedroom doorway and the living room where Glazer sat in stone, the bathroom door drifted open. And from the sodden darkness an eye opened, looking directly upon its next victim. It was only a glimpse, for Spammy had already turned in horror, but it was enough to make a scream rip from his lungs. Agony assailed him and he fell out through the doorway, into the main corridor. The left side of his face tightened all at once, the skin losing its moisture and flaking in an instant. His left arm felt heavy, his knee joints seized up. Even his heart stuttered a little. He crashed down, knocking over paintings and vases in the corridor as he fought to suck air into his heavy lungs.

The petrification did not take hold... not quite. His skin started to return to normal, his joints loosen again... but the pain did not recede. He began crawling, his gaze switching between the doors of other apartments, the stairwell, the elevator.

And as he dragged himself away, he felt a presence moving from the bathroom behind him, crossing the hallway and approaching the corridor to pursue him.

 

[Neko Archy]

[DASH="blue"]Okay, so the C-box is not exactly my kind of place. It sounds like a less classy version of that place in Casablanca, and I've always been more partial to a local pub than anything else.

'course I don't drink, but they're still nice places to hang out.

Zypher does some rummaging around in her bag as we're going forward and I can't help but wonder if the bar's going to require I.D. If so, things might get a little bit complicated...

...but as it turns out, I.D. is the least of my worries. There are sounds of battle coming from the direction of what I must assume is the bar, given that Zypher runs off that way, leaving me alone.

I'd rather not rush headlong into combat just yet, and the street she's heading down doesn't seem to offer quite as much concealment as I would like, so instead I opt for a side route and hope it gets me there. And hey, if I'm lost, I've got the apartment pinned down and can be back there with some momentary effort.

It starts to rain, and I briefly ponder creating a shield to keep me dry.

Probably not worth the attention.

Shortly it becomes clear that the roads of this city are laid out by people not familiar with the revolutionary concept of right angles, squares, or sanity. This town continues to find new and innovative ways to annoy me! Really, it's dedication is admirable.

I do hear explosions, though-much nearer than the Cbox should be. So I do get a bit closer to investigate, making sure to keep to the shadows and suchlike.

There's an angel fighting some gas-masked soldiers while crying out for peace.

The multiverse just doesn't ever give up on it's strangeness, does it...

Still, the man's fighting faceless soldiers over the body of a woman, so he can't be all that bad. Though I do have an urge to punch him in the face.

I check up on the woman, for a bit-she's alive, at least. The man, on the other hand, starts getting choked by the soldier. I would have expected more divine fire from an angel, to tell you the truth. Still, I'm helping out here, so the soldier earns a bullet in the head and a one-liner for his troubles.

"Looks like some people can't hold their drink."
...Okay, that was horrible. Note to self: have better one-liners for later.

Pretty quickly it becomes clear that he's not one of the soulmates, and needs to go to Zypher's apartment for...some...reason. Even his ladyfriend doesn't seem to know what it's all about.

I lead them on for a block or so before talking.
"Why do you need to get to the apartment so badly? Doomsday prophecy, artifact of ultimate power, oracular urchin give you directions? I'm going to need to know what's bugging you before I take you there."

But no answers are to be had for the moment, as a blind man introduces himself and we stop for a bit. Specifically, a blind assassin man introduces himself. And he's at least somewhat polite. Also, he has a sword, so the man's gotta be some kinda crazy Zatoichi type. And he must be friends with the soldiers or something, because he's after Uriel here as well.

"Mind telling me why you're after this feathered person here before I decide to hand him over or resist? I'm new in town." Zatoichi will probably hear me, but I whisper to the angel anyways.
"Know anything about that guy over there?"[/DASH]

 

[Myrnodyn]

Myrn, being a scientist, did not believe in Omens, good or bad. If anything could be seen as a bad omen though, was that the powerfist of the law around here burst into the scene the moment he spoke about breaking said law. The shifter girl (or the desperate husk of one) was torn apart by bolter fire before the resistance leader had time to blink. She was probably better off displayed on the walls than displayed on the stage. at least the humiliation was over for her, the pain gone and the desperation in the past. She could rest now, it was just too bad most of her would probably be mopped up and poured down a drain like the filth she had been seen as.

He was pulled out of his quick reflection of her state (as well as his position on the barstool) by Torsty, who had taken action as Myrnodyn had been sitting around, too drunk to really take in what was happening fast enough to act. As he shook himself trying to get rid of the haze in his head the viking spoke to him and what was worse, a girl he might or might not have seen around before joined them and started shouting. The meaning of their words penetrated the fog in his head eventually though, and he got into a crawling position behind the bar before answering.

"We're having a party here, girl. Can't you see were having fun!?" He bit at the newcomer. He then turned to Torsty and his vikings, whose question DID merit a proper response. Formulating his words carefully he answered that question. "I...We have a place in the cult quarter. Accommodations are rather poor, but we should have plenty of room after the ISAF raids of the last month. There's some shapeshifter sentries along the way, so we should at least be able to delay any pursuers long enough for us to disappear."

Myrnodyn peered over the edge of the counter to see Karsikan in a deadlock with the Warmaster and once again turned his attention to the owner of the C-box. "Seems now's our chance to get the fuck out. Follow me." He said, as he motioned for the back door.

 

[Spammy]

Spammy's legs kicked against the floor frantically as he tried to crawl away, trying to pull his feet under himself, but they they refused, still stiff and on fire with pain. After what seemed like an eternity, he could finally bend his knees enough, and launched with a sudden, unexpected burst of speed, running himself into the door. Painfully literally, ran into the door, his shoulder pressed against it as he fumbled for the knob, trembling hands finally closing around it, twisting it, trembling even more as the door refused to open. Somehow through the fog of panic, he managed to remember that the door opened inward, and took a step backwards, a step closer to it, so he could pull the door open enough to squeeze through and spill out into the hallway of the building. Painfully literally.

He looked both ways down the dark hall, at shut doors, wondered briefly if the other people living here were dead too. But a thump behind him was enough to remind him of what nearly killed him, and he started to sprint for the stairs, bursting through the door and half-running, half-falling down the flights until he fully fell, rolling down the stairs and landing at the bottom, groaning.

"Oh God please, not now, not now..." He whispered as he managed to pull himself to his feet, shaky, falling and petrification starting to take their toll on his nerves. He managed to cover the last flight of stairs, limping to the door, throwing it open into the rain and staggering out into the street, limping through the downpour onto the other side. Off away from him, it sounded like a war. The sounds of fighting finally made him remember that he had a gun, and under the safety of an awning he pulled his coat open enough to draw it, looking back at the entrance to the apartment building as he pulled the hammer back, the sound thunderous to him even over the rain.

 

[Pirogeth]

-Central Council, Offices

It was starting to get late. The meeting was generally one of the last things on the agenda for the day but today a certain important Council Member had some wrap up work to do. There was a knock at the door and the figure at the computer stopped typing for a moment. "Mr. Weavel we have ten minutes before security locks this place down." The messenger said closing the door shortly after. Weavel shrugged off the warning and kept on typing away at the computer. Several diagnostic analysis sheets were up on the screen along with a report file. He saved all the files to a secured server so he could finish the work back at home.
"Wonder how Pirogeth faired with the boss." Weavel whispered to himself. "Perhaps I'll pay him a visit at his home."

-Cbox

There was still a ton of fighting going on. Piroko managed to get out of the ISAF's way before the bullets started flying. "Damn it, and here I thought I could catch a break from the action for once." Stumbling a bit she somehow found herself pushed into the back alley. Noticing the back door opening she saw several people stumble out avoiding fire. An ISAF soldier spotted them from around the corner but before he could do anything a black lance was materialized and shot toward the low grade scout's face. She ran following Myrnodyn and Torsty hoping that Pirogeth will eventually be able to find her. As she got a good distance away the lance dematerialized just leaving the body. It definitely seemed that they had something else on their mind today.

 

[Hecatoncheires]

"...Assassin," I hiss, my eyes locking with the empty sockets of the man who's just stepped out of the rain to face us.

Blind One. A killer in darkness, the blade of the Council that seeks their enemies.

...Purger.

We are up shit-creek, it seems, and I haven't brought a paddle.

The hiss suddenly shifts to a guttural snarling of ancient words that offend the ears of those around me, and I level my hand at the Purger whilst stepping forwards. Shadows drag themselves together in the night, forming a wall of darkness that separates me from the rest of the group, leaving me facing the instrument of death that I can't help but respect...

...yet quite possibly fear a bit, too.

I can see the souls that hung around him, still screaming from what he did to them. The lack of eyes suggest weakness, but that is a trap the Council knows people will fall into all to readily.

This man is a finely crafted instrument of death, and should my Angel face him, I can't help but feel he will perish.

Is this... compassion coming from the likes of me? A noble sacrifice to save my friends in a time of peril? I doubt it; one such as I cannot really feel such a... heroic emotion, I think. The Angel is my one shot at getting the answers I seek, and I can sense his soul from across the city now I've seen it. Such a soul is hard to miss. If I hold the Purger off for a time then make my escape, I can meet up with them again later.

Through a gap I force in the wall of darkness I turn to look at the Angel.
"I have one piece of advice for you right now, Angel.

"Run.

"Turn around, and start running. Find another way to the place you seek. Take it from the Necromancer, this man is Death incarnate..." I grin as the gap closes, "...and he's come to collect you, it seems."

Turning to look at the Purger, I smile though I know he won't be able to see it. "I'm afraid you will have to drag it out, my friend. You see, I need that Angel. That puts us both in conflict, does it not?" I extend my hand and hiss the name of my blade. It forms in my hand, the drain on my energy stores hitting me like a solid punch to the face.

First the Terminator, now the Purger.

This is not my night, it seems.

But then, has it ever been?