BlueBattler

The first few days I spent in Longbow custody were … unpleasant.

Again and again, Dietrich asked—demanded, rather—that I tell them all the locations of the entrances to Oranbega, the weak spots in our defenses, methods to banish the possessing spirits from human hosts. Again and again, I pleaded ignorance. I was neither a warrior nor tactician; the defense of our City had always lain in the hands of others.

That was, perhaps, not entirely true. I certainly knew far more than I was willing to tell Dietrich. I had turned aside from my people, but I was not willing to countenance their absolute extinction, however much we might deserve it …

Eventually, she saw fit to place me in protective custody. I would not be able to travel anywhere without armed guards, but I would serve as a consultant to the authorities in regards to the various occult threats facing the world.

All things considered, it was more than I had expected, and I was curious as to why Dietrich had agreed to this situation.

My curiosity did not go unsatisfied for long.

I was busily engaged in answering some questions for MAGI about the history of demon summoning when one of the Longbow who guarded me, Edgar, opened my door. “Sir, there’s a Naomi Hutchkins asking to speak with you.”

I glanced at my other Longbow guard, Belinda, who had been standing in the room next to me doing her best not to look bored. “Would it be acceptable for me to speak with Ms. Hutchkins?”

Belinda put her hand to her head and reported the situation to her supervisor. “As long as one of us stays with you, that should be all right, sir.”

I’ll say this for the Longbow; they were polite. None of them have ever treated me with anything less than professional courtesy and respect, even those that had personally suffered at the hands of my people. If it had been necessary, they would have cut me down without a second thought, but they wouldn’t have been needlessly cruel as they did so.

“Thank you, Belinda. And please, call me Akarist.”

“Yes, sir.”

I chuckled, and was rewarded with a surprised smile from her.

I was pleased by this. As yet, I had no particular plans that would involve escaping Longbow custody, but bonding with my captors would only help me in the long run. One never knows what the future will hold.

Naomi Hutchkins was not a beautiful woman … certainly neither as fit or as youthful as Belinda. She studied geomancy, and her skin and hair showed the effects of a longtime exposure to the outdoors. To my senses, she literally smelled of sunshine.

Perhaps that’s why I saved her …

“Ms. Hutchkins, how good of you to visit me. Can I offer you some tea or perhaps something to eat?” I was unsure of the appropriate responses to a visitor; even in my first life, I had never been one to entertain very often.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She bit her lip and paused.

We stared at each other uncertainly.

Finally, Belinda cleared her throat. “Perhaps you would like to sit down, Ms. Hutchkins?”

“Yes,” Naomi shot her a grateful look and sat down on one of the chairs that had been provided for me. She looked around. “This is a nice place.”

“It’s very pleasant.” What did she want with me? Why was she here?

She laughed uncertainly. “This is much more awkward than I expected. What should I call you? Archmage, Mage …?”

“Akarist will do fine, Ms. Hutchkins.”

“Naomi, please.”

“Certainly, Naomi.”

We stared at each other again. She blushed, and looked away.

“What can I do for you, Naomi?”

“First, I wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

“It was nothing.” The words come automatically, but I know it’s a lie. In saving her, I changed not just my own destiny, but perhaps that of my people as well.

I hope that is so. I fear that it is so.

My failures in the past led to the cursed fate of my people … will my defection today lead to our redemption or our final extinction? Only time will tell …

“And second …” Naomi squared her shoulders. “There’s so much about your people your people that we know nothing about. Your history. The war with the Mu. I want to know about it. MAGI wants to know about it. It took some convincing, but Ms. Liberty and Captain Dietrich agreed.”

“I see.”

“I realize this may be hard for you,” Naomi said. “If you want some time to think about it …”

“No.” I shook my head. “No. Perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps it is right that your people should know how mine came to be what we hated. Perhaps that will enable your race to avoid our fate if you should ever wind up in a similar situation.

“Very well, listen carefully and I will tell you of the time before darkness, the time when Oranbega dwelt above the earth instead of inside it, the days of my youth …”

You know, ideally, they should make Statesman a blond, Tyrant a redhead, and Reichsman a brunette...

Just seems to fit if you ask me...

Mjollnir Blue knows that Frostfire has to be stopped. There are no other heroes available, so he will have to do it on his own. He has fought his way through Frostfire’s stronghold, and now he stands just outside the Outcast leader’s throne room. There’s still a room full of Outcasts in there with him.

He has no choice. He’s going in … but he desperately needs all the luck he can get.

Skyway City.

Patrick Duncan knew Robbie Prescott, too. The self-proclaimed hero Dauntless had been something of a joke, back in the day. A young kid with no powers whatsoever, a delivery boy, no less, armed with just fists and his wits and a heart as big as all outdoors. Everyone who met him knew he was carrying a Talos-sized torch for Galaxy Girl, but neither of them ever acknowledged it.

“We all laughed at you, Robbie,” Patrick Duncan murmurs, his voice heavy with regret. “Heroes. Villains. The public. We all laughed.

“But you proved us wrong, didn’t you, Robbie? When Protean defeated Kelly, when he was about to murder every man, woman, and child in that charity kitchen, you proved just how dauntless you were in the defense of those you cared about. Those you loved.”

He lays his hand on the plaque of the statue of the vibrant young man, and when he pulls his hand back, his fingers glow with an amethyst light. “To the last breath, you defended those who could not defend themselves, Robbie Prescott. The City is humbled by your service, and you will be remembered forever.”

Mjollnir Blue rushes in, and it’s like nothing—no one—can touch him.

One by one, the Outcasts fall to the crackling electrical power of his armor. Long after his followers have gone down, Frostfire fights on, cursing, but never once begging for mercy or offering to surrender. He fights on until he can’t fight any longer.

But he never once touches Mjollnir Blue.

“Guess it’s true what they say about fools and children,” MJollnir Blue murmurs to himself. “I have never been that lucky in my entire life….”

Patrick Duncan removes his glasses and wipes his eyes and nods his head in salute to Dauntless once more as the City takes him to his next destination.

The Peacebringer calls itself Drake Griffin because the Kheldian part of it has never stopped grieving for its lost soul mate, its prior host. The human part of it knows that something is missing—something vital—but Drake Griffin is not a man to stand idly by and allows innocents to be hurt regardless of his own inner pain.

The Freakshow have taken innocent people hostage in the name of their twisted game, and he must escort them to safety. His massive White Dwarf form has taken what they throw at him, but as the cybernetic madmen swarm over him once more he is not sure he has the power to stand against them once more …

He is not afraid. He is angry. But anger by itself is not enough …

Dark Astoria.

This place saddens him. He remembers when Astoria was bright and vibrant alive. He remembers teaching in the schools here.

“These are dark times,” he murmurs to himself. “Death and destruction. Perhaps the darkest times of my life. And yet …”

The living members of the Banished Pantheon do not see him as he walks the streets towards Moth Cemetery. Those who do not live shudder and turn aside. The restless ghosts of Astoria know a moment’s peace in his presence, and he is saddened that he cannot offer them the eternal rest that is denied him.

“Someday,” he promises them. “Someday Dark Astoria will be alive once more, and you will be no tormented no more. The City promises you this.”

In the Cemetery he comes to a crypt. On this crypt is a plaque. He shuts his eyes as he lays his hand on the plaque.

“Heroes who fell in defense of the City against the Rikti. You could have run. You did not. You chose the life of heroism, to put yourself in harm’s way to protect those who could not protect themselves. You could have used your powers to take what you want, but you did not. You gave everything you had for the City, and the City treasures you.

“Be at peace, heroes. You have done all that anyone could ask for, and more. Rest now in this place of the restless dead. Leave your hatred and fears behind you—and your rage.”
When he draws his hand back, his fingers glow with a furious red light.

And suddenly his anger is a source of power. The Freakshow scatter before his heavy, slow blows … and when they fall, they do not get up. Inch by torturous inch, he batters his way through them, leading the sobbing citizens behind him.

The anger frightens him, but it sustains him too, and when the last hostage has been escorted to safety, he wonders where it came from …

Patrick Duncan takes a deep breath. He does not like taking anger upon himself, even for the sake of the City, but he knows that it was something that had to be done. He takes another look at Dark Astoria.

“This will change. The darkness will be driven back. The dead will rest in peace.”

And with his promise hanging in the cold air, he is taken once more by the City.

The creature called Colorific is not a man or woman. It’s not exactly sure that it is even alive as humans understand life. It is a dream … a dream given shape and form and vibrant color. A dream that does what the dreamer—or dreamers—cannot.

Protect the City.

It’s not doing such a great job of it now.

“You really think your pitiful powers are a match for mine?” Mother Mayhem shrieks at it as she sends blades of concentrated thought into his mind like daggers dipped in acid. “I do not understand what you are, but you have a mind—and what thinks, Mother Mayhem can destroy!”

Colorific groans in agony and clutches its hands to its forehead as it falls to its knees. It cannot fight, but it must fight. Somehow … somehow it must break free!

Atlas Park.

The nondescript warehouse shows no sign of the horrors that had once been unleashed in it. The plaque in front of it tells the story, though—here the heroine called The Grimm Fairy rescued the innocent victims of the Lost messiah Ishmael. It was the greatest adventure of her young life—and the last.

“Sometimes the greatest heroes are the ones who acknowledge they can’t do everything on their own,” Patrick Duncan whispers as he touches the plaque. “When you saved them, you knew that you could not stop the Lost on your own. You swallowed your pride, and you went to the Freedom Phalanx for help.

“No one knows where you went after Ishmael was defeated, Grimm Fairy. I would like to think that you’re out there somewhere, doing what has to be done without regard to fame or self promotion. I would like to think you will be there when you are needed again. The City still stands because of your service, and we thank you for that.”

And when he draws his forth hand, a purple light surrounds his fingers …

And Colorific is free!

Its mind is its own again. It lowers its hands from its head and stares at Mother Mayhem with eyes that no one can see… eyes that may not even exist.

In its strangely sexless voice, it says, “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

And the colorful Phantom Army it unleashes surrounds the stunned Mother Mayhem.

“Break free.” Patrick Duncan smiles.

Lord Recluse himself is pounding on the Granite Tank called Bedrock Blue.

Bedrock Blue groans as his heavy body is slowly forced by the onslaught of the super powerful Lord of the Rogue Isles.

“Do you really think you can stop me? I have defeated the mightiest champions of Paragon City! Statesman himself has fallen to me more than once! And you think you will stop me from robbing this bank?!”

“I don’t have to beat you!” Bedrock Blue retorts. “I just have to keep you here till Statesman and the Freedom Phalanx get here! The only way you’re getting out that door is over my dead body, Recluse!”

“Indeed? Then let us see how long it will take for stone to shatter!”

Great fissures began to form on his body, but still Bedrock Blue does not relent…


Galaxy City once more.

Patrick Duncan stares at the great statue in front of him.

“Matthew Barnes. M1. When the world needed heroes more than ever, you were there. Against the greatest human evil the world has ever known, you held the line. Thanks to you and others like you, freedom endures.”

He touches the statue’s mighty leg.

“The City respects the sacrifices you made, M1.”

And when he removes his hand, an orange glow surrounds it …


And though the damage is terrible, the cracks do not deepen any more on Bedrock Blue’s armor.

“Fall!” Recluse shouts. “Fall!”

“I’m still standing, Recluse!” Bedrock Blue taunts him. “I’m still here!”

“Recluse!” Statesman yells as he bursts through the doors of the bank. “Surrender!”

Granite cannot smile, but inside Bedrock Blue grins as he is joined by Paragon’s greatest hero …

“I held the line …”

“Hold the line, hero. Hold the line,” Patrick Duncan murmurs.

He waits, but the City is silent.

“Wish you could have made this trip a little more convenient to me,” he mutters good-naturedly. “Now I have to take the Yellow to Atlas Park!”

In a way that only he can hear, the City laughs in response.


“Daddy!” Ms. Liberty sounds in uncharacteristically girlish glee as her father comes walking up to her.

“Hello, little girl,” Patrick Duncan smiles at his only child. “Your mother suggested that we have lunch today. Your old man will spring for it. I hear Hero Burger has a Ms. Liberty Fun Meal …”

Ms. Liberty laughs and hugs him. “Sure. Just let me activate the hard light hologram and we’ll be on our way. What did you do today?”

“Oh nothing special. I just took a walk around the city.”

“Sounds kind of boring, Daddy.”

“Oh you know your old man, Megan. I’m just a boring kind of guy.”

“You know that’s not true, Daddy! You’re one of the most inspirational people I’ve ever met…”

And Patrick Duncan smiles in response …

I was doing some research on Paragon Wiki for a story, and I found out that Positron supposedly set up a Task Force to help the Grimm Fairy deal with Ishmael the Lost's plot to destroy the city using mind control.

Two things came to mind:

1) That would make a really GREAT TF for the game as there isn't a Lost TF now.

2) Why not give Posi-- and the other non-zone related TF contacts two or more alternating TFs that would count towards the TF Commander badge.

If they're going to be revamping low level content anyway ... why not do it this way? That way, those people who like the TFs as they are now wouldn't lose anything, and people who don't like them would have a chance to earn the badges on a mission they may enjoy more.

Just tossing the thought out there to see if anyone salutes. 8-)

I have a toon that's level 8 that I can't bear to delete because I've had him since 04, but I can't bear to level either because it's a combo that I already played to 50 and didn't really like that much the first time.

I really wish that we could have one powerset swap on a toon. I wouldn't even object if it was a one time thing, restricted to a fairly low level ... say 10 or so ...

I know full well the Devs don't want to allow powerset respecs, and I understand why, but it'd be nice if it was permisable at the lower levels ...

Actually, I just assume it's because the Sky Raiders and Council (they sometimes have robots as the bosses in Radio mishs) are just more progressive and don't believe in keeping the Robot down like the Man does!

(Though isn't it established that the PPD uses some robots that are able to give orders to human cops?)

Robots are not supposed to know fear, but Blue Battlebot cannot suppress the emotion within him as he considers the endless mob of Devouring Earth in front of him. He has used everything he has to protect the innocent hostages of these monsters. He has no strength, no power left to him, and the Devouring Earth are coming for him … and the people in his care.

If only he had a little more strength!

Perez Park.

Patrick Duncan can remember when this place was once filled with happy families having picnics and shopping at the nearby stores. How many times had he taken Megan to the park while her mother attended to Freedom Phalanx business? He had a lot of good memories of this place …

Of course that was before it became a home to monsters, madmen, magicians and assorted gangs …

He is safe. Even here, the City protects him, conceals him from those who would do him harm. He walks safely among Hydra, Clockwork, Lost, Vahzilok, and the Circle of Thorns without even the most powerful Mages being aware of his presence.

Finally, he comes to the Tree of Atlas.

In 1941, Atlas’ widow Gloria Branson had planted this tree in memory of her husband. In spite of all the dark magic, the twisted science, and the sheer evil that has permeated Perez Park, the Tree remains …

Patrick Duncan lays his hand on the thick tree trunk. “Rest easy, Atlas. The City remains. The City endures because of you.”

And when he draws his hand back, his fingers glow with a faint blue light …

And suddenly, the strength is there. It’s not much, but it’s enough … enough for him to launch himself once upon his fearsome foes and lay about him with shadow-shrouded fists … enough to save lives!

And though it may sound odd, a robot gives thanks to whatever unknown force gave him the sudden burst of energy when he needed it …

Patrick Duncan smiles as the City takes him to his next destination.

Hunter From Ice frowns as he uses his newly earned magic to hover in mid air. There is much he does not understand about the strange new world of this time, but he knows good, and he knows evil. He knows that he must act.

The Council Archon rants and raves, while the innocent girl cowers beside him. The Archon’s free hand is wrapped in her hair; his pistol is pressed up against her forehead. He shouts threats at the Paragon Police Department as they try to talk him into releasing the girl.

Hunter From Ice knows that he has but one chance to make his shot. If he fails, if he misses, then the girl’s death will be on his head. Nevertheless, he draws back his bow and prepares to let loose his arrow.

He must not miss! He must not miss!

King’s Row.

The wind whistles around him on the high voltage tower. He would not be human if he did not feel a certain twinge of fear, but he trusts the City to keep him from falling. He is not here to fall.

“Manticore,” he whispers. “How many times did you stand here, watching over the City before you finally made your presence known? Keen sighted archer, the City honors your service.”

He kneels down and touched the platform he stands on, and when he rises, his fingers glow with a pale yellow light.

Hunter From Ice fires. As the arrow leaves his bow, he knows that it will hits target. He has never been surer of his target in his entire life.

Straight and true, the arrow flies, knocking the pistol out of the Archon’s hand. The gun discharges as it lands, creasing the Archon’s forehead and causing the Council leader to fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

Hunter fires arrow after arrow at the other Council thugs as they scramble to get him. He has no fear; he knows that each arrow will find its target.

He has never been so sure of his accuracy in his entire life …

Patrick Duncan smiles. “Straight and true …”

Monday Blaze curses as she strikes down yet another Rikti with her flaming sword. “I knew I should have waited for Sunday!”

“We have to get out of here!” Arnold Decker shrieks. Monday doesn’t blame him for being afraid, but she wishes that he would shut up.

She’s hurting. She’s tough, possessed of an iron will, but the energy blasts, psychic powers, and Rikti swords have sapped her strength. Each step takes more energy than the one before, and she feels so weak that she knows she won’t get up if she falls.

She hurts so much …

Galaxy City.

Patrick Duncan nods respectfully at the statue of Kelly Graham. He remembers her, remembers the countless times she worked with Alexis, the innumerable times they shared late meals, holiday parties …

“The City remembers you, Galaxy Girl,” he whispers as he touches the pedestal at the base of the statue. “It remembers your courage. Your power. The sacrifices you made for it, and for the people you loved. The City treasures your memory.”

His hands glow with vibrant green energy …

Suddenly, she’s whole, healed of every injury as though it had never been. She laughs and brings her flaming sword down on the surprised Rikti Chief Soldier. “Come on, Arnold! We’re getting out of here!”

And she doesn’t know where her newfound strength came from, but she’s thankful for it all the same …

“The City remembers you, Kelly, and so do I. Thank you for your friendship, your courage in dark times, and thank you most of all for saving my wife’s life. I miss you, Kelly.”

But the City has need, and there is little time for grieving, so Patrick Duncan closes his eyes and lets the City take him where it will once more.

Patrick Duncan wakes up alone as he so often does these days. He feels the old aches and familiar pains that have come with age, and he finds himself wondering again how many mornings are left to him. Sometimes he finds himself envying Marcus Cole for his prolonged youth, and then he glances at his wife and he is thankful that he will not share Marcus’ fate of having to outlive those he loves.

That at least was something that was promised to him when he took up the task that was offered to him.

“There’s more than one way to save the world,” he murmurs to himself as he showers and shaves. He slips on his well worn suit and shoes, and eyes himself critically in the mirror.

He is not a tall man, and what hair he has left has long since gone gray. His eyes had always been his best feature, and Alexis tells him that they are still the same vibrant blue they were when she met him, but these days the thick glasses he wears obscures them. For a man his age he is in surprisingly good shape, but there’s the hint of a potbelly that remains with him no matter how much walking he does.

“Vanity,” he says with a chuckle. “You know that Alexis didn’t marry you for your good looks.”

There’s a note on the kitchen table along with his breakfast. In crisp, clear handwriting Alexis has told him that she won’t be home for lunch today, and suggests that he see if Megan would care to join him.

“Suggests” is perhaps not an accurate turn of phrase, though, as Alexis has a way of expressing her opinions quite strongly: one doesn’t grow up as the only child of Statesman and Maiden Justice without developing a strong will.

Patrick Duncan does not mind, though. He had not expected a demure housewife when he asked her to marry him. Even after all these years, he still loved everything about her—even the way she sometimes drove him crazy.

And then he feels it.

The City is calling to him.

He drinks his orange juice and dutifully finishes his bran muffin.

“All right,” he murmurs. “I’m ready.”

And the City takes him.

Excellent work as always, Mr. G.

A question about the Circle of Thorns.

Where are the females?

Redside, there are succubi that we fight, but I think their description points to them as being pure demon. Also from Redside, we know that the COTs will definitely possess a female body if it's in their interests to do so ... even if the COT was originally male ... (though if you're a bodiless spirit for 14,000 years how relevant is your original gender anyway?)

We also have rescued female hostages from the COT both on the streets and in missions.

Do the COTs who possess a woman's body give it the appearance of a male (either physically transforming it or giving the illusion of masculinity via magic) or are the succubi possessing female victims? If the latter, are the spirits possessing the female victims originally Oranabegans or creatures from the hellish dimension the COT are allied with?

If there are no female Circle of Thorns, what happened to them?

I tend to take the self-rez as the last power, too.

In terms of flavor, I really like the look of Rise of the Phoenix and the Peacebringer Rez. (In my mind, the Peacebringer Rez is the visual that should occur when a human and Kheldian merrge for the first time.)

I'd like to know why the stores in Croatoa and Faultline have names but no backstories.

And how do we rate becoming a store ourselves? 8-)

The first breath is always the hardest.

The body is not your own. It will move for you, speak for you, fight for you, and even die if necessary, but on some untranslatable level of being it knows that the spirit animating it is not the one that it belongs to, and it fights. Even once the native soul is gone beyond all hope of recall, the body remembers. It remembers, and it fights.

Some of my weaker brethren cannot win that battle. They remain as bodiless spirits because they are not able to overcome this resistance. It does not please them.

If they could go mad, they would.

I have already lost count of the number of times I have had to wage this war of possession, but I am still considered a novice at it by my more experienced kinsman.

(I must not think of them as such. I am outcast, now. The Circle is closed to me. I will never know again the company of those I had experienced damnation with for more millennia than I can count. I have chosen a different path. I cannot let the pangs of regret overcome me now; that way lay madness.)

“Akarist? Can you hear me? Are you there?”

“I hear.” I open the eyes that are now mine. “I hear.”

The woman who looks at me would scarcely be considered more than a child in the time that was once mine, but I can sense the carefully concealed power within her. I can taste it, but it has a bitter flavor in my mouth. “Mu.”

“Such is my lineage,” she nods her head in a curiously graceful gesture. “My name is Azuria.”

“Azuria. I did not expect to look upon the world of men again with human eyes.” I am bound securely to a chair with heavy chains. I am wearing an orange one piece garment. “I take it you are responsible for my resurrection?”

“Not by choice.” I have to smile at her honesty as I spot the crystal that had until recently been my prison. “I was asked to perform this ceremony and did so against my better judgment. My people have not forgotten the treachery of the Oranbegans.”

Old wounds are easily reopened by such words. “Perhaps if my people had not been so treacherous then the Mu would have been destroyed long ago. If we had not shirked genocide then your people would have vanished ages ago and mine would still walk in the sunlight.”

The woman raises her hands and I find myself wondering if my return to mortality will be a short one.

“That’s enough. We didn’t go to the trouble of releasing the mage’s spirit so you could blast him back to Hades, Azuria.”

It is then that I notice the other woman in the room with us. She does not have many more years than Azuria, but the hardness in her eyes belies the youth of her flesh. She wears a red and white uniform. “I’m Captain W. M. Dietrich, Akarist. I work for Longbow. Have you heard of us?”

“Somewhat.” The acolytes—the foolish mortals of this time and place who join us thinking that they will be given power and immortality—have spoken much of this world. The Longbow are an organization led by the granddaughter of this time’s Incarnate, Statesman. They strive to protect this land, but like so many defenders they have often lost sight of the things they are fighting for.

Not that an Oranbegan can accuse another of hypocrisy—not with a straight face, of course. Were we not once a peaceful and noble race? Did we not throw away everything we were in an attempt to preserve ourselves?

“We arranged for your resurrection because we needed your knowledge and skills, Akarist. There is much you can tell us about your people, and about magic.” Dietrich says the word “magic” as though it leaves a foul taste in her mouth.

“And if I refuse?”

Dietrich draws a pistol and places it to my head. “Then we send you right back to hell.”

“Then it seems the choice is an easy one. Would someone please release me?”

Azuria mutters a word and the manacles that hold me fast open.

I rise to my feet and rub my wrists. (It is important to think of this body as my own. It will help me maintain my hold over it.) “Not that I am ungrateful, but I am curious as to the origins of the flesh that I now wear.”

“A murderer. Scum.” The look in Azuria’s eyes—I remember the first time that I saw such hatred directed towards me. I was a mortal then—and it was the first time that I had met a member of the race of Mu. More than 14,000 years have passed, and yet so little has changed … “Like you.”

“The prior … occupant of your body had been sentenced to death. He was given the option of a sure death or an eternity as a bodiless imprisoned spirit—he chose the crystal.”

“More fool he, then.”

They do not know. They cannot know. Better death—better oblivion-- than an eternity in that hellish crystal.

There are worse things than death. The pity is that I did not know that 14,000 years ago.

“We chose that body carefully, Oranbegan.” The smile on Azuria’s lovely face is an ugly thing indeed. “There is no trace of Mu blood in his ancestry—no power that you can seize for your own purposes. Your lore survives—but the power is gone. I have seen to that.”

It’s true.

If there were any sorcerers in this man’s bloodline, it was in a time even more ancient than my own. There is scarcely enough magic to keep me tethered to his mortal frame. My knowledge is intact, but the power …

I smile slightly to myself.

There is a small ember of power left to me. There is meager fuel in this body to power it, but it exists. A small flame …

But even the smallest fire can become a roaring blaze in time.

I am Akarist of Oranbega. Once I belonged to the Circle of Thorns. My home is lost to me, my kind calls me traitor, and those I must seek shelter with do not trust me and will use me for their own purposes.

But I am still Akarist.

I have parleyed with an Infernal Prince of Hell and lived to tell the tale. I have broken the bonds of darkness and damnation that have held me for thousands of years. I have betrayed the Circle of Thorns and walk in the sunlight once more.

I am Akarist. I am a Mage.

And no one will ever own me again.

No one!


(I've been doing the Library of Souls Arc lately, and this popped into my head. Hope you enjoyed it!)

My still semi-new LCD television in the living room has a computer input, and I'm
leaning towards setting up a computer with it to allow me to play COH on an extra large scale!

I have some questions, though.

1. I know that some people play the game using game controllers. How does that work? Do you map the powers to buttons or do you simply use it like a mouse to select the powers on the power tray or what have you?

2. I plan on using a wireless keyboard to play the game. Any recommendations on one that works well for COH? Is there one you can buy with a built in mouse? or mouse-like interface?

3. I've seen something called an air mouse ... it's not cheap, but it looks like it might work well in place of a game controller if I should find that awkward. Anyone had any experience with that?

Do they come with rechargeable internal batteries or do they eat batteries like nobody's business?

Any information would be appreciated.

Thank you! 8-)

Rick and Caitlin Davies lived in an upper floor apartment in Steel Canyon. It was not as expensive as the residences in Talos Island or Founders’ Falls, and was closer to their places of employment in Galaxy City and Atlas Park. (At least that was the reason Citadel assumed they had chosen to live in Steel Canyon as neither of them had ever told him anything else. Human motives often surprised him, and he would not have been shocked to discover that his reasoning was completely in error, but it had never been a subject of conversation between them.)

Citadel landed on the balcony of their apartment and tapped on the sliding glass door to announce his arrival. He was wearing a suit that he had purchased from Icon because he had read that one should “dress up for dinner.” He had also brought with him a bottle of liquid refreshment and some flowers for Caitlin.

Rick smiled up at him as he opened the door. “Hello, Citadel. Right on time … though we were expecting you to come up the elevator.”

“I felt that would draw undue attention to my arrival.”

Rick laughed. “Because the sight of you flying through Steel Canyon in a tuxedo is something that people see every day.”

Citadel smiled … not because he understood the humor in the situation but because he found that a blank look of incomprehension tended to make his human companions uncomfortable. “I have brought liquid refreshment and some flowers for the lady of the house.”

“Come on in, Citadel. Caitlin! Our guest is here. Have a seat, Citadel.”

Citadel stepped through the door and looked around for a piece of furniture that seemed capable of supporting his bulk. Fortunately, Rick Davies was a longtime friend of the major heroes of Paragon City, and there was a chair that looked sturdy enough to support Back Alley Brawler … that one should suffice for Citadel as well. Bottle and flowers in hand, Citadel sat down as directed.

“Citadel!” Caitlin Davies walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “How lovely to see you …” She took in Citadel’s outfit. “Rick, didn’t tell you that this was to be a casual dinner, did he?”

Rick shrugged helplessly under his wife’s glare.

“These are for you.” Citadel thrust the bottle and flowers into Caitlin’s hands.

“Why thank you, Citadel.” She handed the bottle to Rick and brought the flowers to her face. “They’re … plastic?”

“It seemed more economical to provide you flowers that would not die. This way you will not have to replace them.”

“Thank you, Citadel. That’s very thoughtful of you.” Caitlin smiled at him gently.

“Why don’t I get this”—Rick looked at the bottle—“sparkling cider on ice so that we can have it after dinner?”

“Given that you will be adjusting my internal mechanisms I did not feel that alcohol would have been appropriate,” Citadel explained.

Rick covered his face with his free hand. “It’s fine, Citadel.”

“Are my gifts adequate?” Citadel inquired uncertainly. He was not sure, but it appeared that the evening was not proceeding as he had expected.

“They’re wonderful, Citadel,” Caitlin told him firmly. “Thank you very much.” She patted his arm. “Would you like something to drink while we wait on dinner?”

“Lemonade,” Citadel said instantly. “I like lemonade.”

“Lemonade it is, then,” Caitlin told him with a smile. “Rick?”

“Lemonade sounds fine to me too, dear. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back. Excuse me, boys.”

“I just about have everything set up for you, Citadel. I’ve got you a job lined up in a small teleservices office. You’ll be helping people with their computers. There won’t be a lot of people there, but it’ll give you a chance to observe normal people on a long term basis.”

“I appreciate that, Rick. You do not mind my request to use the alias ‘Cole Davies’ while I undertake my observations?”

“I’m honored, Citadel.” Davies smiled. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.” Citadel reached into his jacket and pulled out the device. “Once you have installed this, I will be able to successfully impersonate a normal human being with no one being the wiser.”

Rick whistled as he opened the case up and looked at the device Mark IV had given him. “Citadel, this is an amazing piece of technology. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?”

“I would prefer not to say.”

Rick nodded briefly. “I understand.” As the former hero called Horatio, he had often kept not only his own secrets, but those of others as well. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“I am sure. As you know, my understanding of humanity is … limited. I feel that this is my best way to truly understand the human race. As long as I am obviously an outsider, I will never be able to achieve true comprehension.”

“Luminary seems to do all right.”

“Luminary has an exemplary ability to interact with human beings.”

“Is everything all right, Citadel?”

“I am functioning within normal parameters. Why do you ask?”

“You reacted when I mentioned Luminary. It was pretty slight, but I’ve known you too long not to be able to read you. What’s going on between the two of you?”

“There is nothing going on between the two of us.”

“Citadel, there is something bothering you. You can talk to me. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Citadel paused. He had not mentioned this to anyone else because he did not feel that it was of concern to his teammates. “As you know, my personality was based on the public perception of Marcus Cole. My voice, my manner of speaking, the phrases that I use—all were culled from recordings and analyses of Statesman.”

Rick nodded.

“But I was not programmed with a human template as its basis.” He paused. “Luminary, on the other hand, was designed to imitate Jeanette Rafter, the wife of the original human Luminary. She is as artificial as I am, but her ability to assess the motives of and interact with human beings far surpasses mine. Recently, when I have advised her on her behavior, she had refuted my statements by asserting that I am incapable of understanding human beings … or her programming. She has told me that I am nothing more than a machine.”

“That’s not true!” Rick said angrily. “Why that heartless mechanical—“

“I am not offended, Rick Davies. I do not dispute my artificial origins. I accept what I am, and I have no desire to be other than what I am—“

“But--?”

“But I have to know if I am nothing more than my programming. I have to know if I am what I am because I was programmed to be so.”

“You already have the answer to that, Citadel. Crey designed and built you to be a tool, a weapon of their power. You became more than that. You became a hero.”

“But am I a hero because I chose it or because there was something faulty with my programming—that perhaps they made me more like Statesman than they anticipated?”

“Citadel, you have friends—the Freedom Phalanx care greatly about you—“

“The human capacity to empathize is well known, Rick Davies. Soldiers in battle often become emotionally attached to the bomb defusing robots they employ. I wish to know that I truly deserve human friendship and respect. I want to know that I am not just a machine, Rick Davies. I desire to find out whether or not I can become more than I am.”

“I think you’ve already proven the answer to that question, Citadel.” Rick Davies smiled gently. “But after dinner, I’ll do what you want. And tomorrow … tomorrow you start your new life.”

Sorry about the job loss, DR. 8-(

And you really have the most amazing things for this game with your videos.

Now if only you shared my Penelope Yin/Clockwork King 'ship' ... ^_^

I've only got one Corruptor up to a signficant level, and that's my rad/rad (he's almost 34), and he really disappointed me for some reason. My Rad/Rad Defender seemed to be a much stronger soloer than the Corruptor.

It might just be the way I was playing him, but it did get me thinking.

What would you say are the strongest soloing Corruptors?

For me, the benchline for a toon that I consider to be a good soloer is if they can solo at Level 4 difficulty.

I've been finding myself tempted by thoughts of a Dark/Dark Corruptor lately ...

I've been slugging through Croatoa lately, and something I read there during the Kelly Nemmers' arc made me think about something I've thought about before:

Are the Red Caps evil?

What I mean is, you find out during Kelly's arc that the Red Caps are sustained by the conflict they have created: quite literally, the suffering of others is their "food."

That being the case, is what they do "evil"?

There's a comment in a George RRR Martin book, Fevre Dream, which roughly paraphrased is: "Without choice, there can be no evil."

If the Red Caps' lives depend on the suffering they create, do they have a choice in what they do? Or are they just like a predator doing what it has to do in order to survive?

(The reason that this is on my mind is that a while back I created an ice/ice blaster whose origin is basically that he's a human/elf hybrid ... and his particular breed of elf depend on happiness and joy to survive ... they're a kind of anti-Red Cap.)

So what do you think? Are the Red Caps evil if they do what they do in order to survive?

Given that the Devs seem to be coming up with a way to give us practically everything else I've been wanting in this game, I'm curious as to how long we'll have to wait before we'll be able to team with our friends on different servers ...

Interesting. So you're assuming an urban renewal on the part of Tyrant to make the Praetorian world what we see in Going Rogue, looks like.

Mark IV was something of a legend among the artificial life forms that Citadel had met. He was neither the most powerful nor the most intelligent, but he had broken free of Crey Industries and charted a course for his own destiny. He did not work for humans or with humans; he did not define himself in terms of what he did for mankind. He was free.

And that was something that not even Citadel could say.

Mark IV provided for his needs by constructing and selling devices to Technological heroes to aid them in enhancing their abilities. What he could not build himself, he had the contacts—official and not—that could help him locate a desired item. It was for this reason that Citadel had come to him.

“I have constructed the device you requested, brother,” Mark IV had told him. The little robot didn’t call every other construct he met brother; he used that term because Citadel had also been originally constructed by Crey. “Are you certain that this is what you desire?”

“It is a vital part of my plans. I require that device, Mark IV. The price has been agreed upon. Why do you seek to alter our bargain?”

“The device will do as you ask, Citadel. It will prevent all known forms of detection from determining that you are not a human being. You will look, sound, and feel like an organic being. Only the most sophisticated telepaths will be able to get past the artificial telepathic screen to discover your nonbiological origins. But in human terms, there is a ‘catch.’”

“A ‘catch’? I am familiar with the term. What sort of problem does this device have?”

“It will do all these things, but the power requirements are such that your offensive abilities will be offline while it is in use.”

“I see.”

“That will not dissuade you from your objective?”

“No. I am prepared to accept the risk.”

“I calculated that would be your response, brother. May your experiment be successful.” The little robot handed a ring-sized box over.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mark IV. If you require, I will gladly share any insights that arise from my experience.”

“I do not think there is much you will be able to tell me about the human condition, brother,” Mark IV told him, a curious undercurrent in his voice.

There was nothing more to say; they were not humans to waste time in frivolous farewells. Citadel nodded once more to his companion and then took to the air.

The logical choice would have been to simply fly to the Green Transit Line and take that to Talos, but Citadel preferred to take the long route and fly back. Aside from the possibility of spotting someone who might need his assistance, he simply enjoyed flying. Of course, being an android, he did not know if he appreciated flying for its own sake or because he had been designed to do so.

Obviously I am much more visible from the air—not only does this make it easier for me to render assistance where needed it also would have enabled my Crey handlers to have kept track of me.

That’s true, Citadel, the curiously warm “voice” of Sister Psyche murmured into his mind, but it could also simply be something that you enjoy it because it’s fun.

Greetings, Sister Psyche, Citadel thought back courteously. He remembered how surprised that Rick Davies had been when he told him that Sister Psyche was able to communicate with him telepathically.

You can call me Shalice, Citadel. You have known me long enough. Sister Psyche’s laughter was warm and rich in his mind. I was just thinking about you when I caught your thoughts and decided to say hello.

You do not wish to dissuade me from my plans, do you? Citadel asked curiously.

Of course not.

Manticore does not approve, Citadel noted, surprised.

Justin and I do not see eye to eye on everything, Citadel, Sister Psyche told him in a level tone of voice. But that does not mean that we are not both concerned for your welfare. Justin is simply afraid that you might come to physical harm. Both as a member of the Freedom Phalanx and as an individual you have made many enemies, Citadel. There are many people who would enjoy having you at their mercy.

I will be careful, Sister Psyche. I am not the same naïve entity I was when I first met the Freedom Phalanx.

You have come very far, Citadel. We are very proud of you. You do not have anything to prove to anyone. You are our friend … you are part of our family. And you are loved.

Thank you, Shalice.

I know that you feel this is something you must do in order to grow as a person, Citadel. That is why I support you in this undertaking. But do not forget that you are not alone, and call on us if you need us.

It is physically impossible for me to forget –

Sister Psyche laughed. Oh, Citadel. Do be careful. You will, won’t you?

I will, Shalice.

Good luck, my friend. We’ll miss you.

And with the equivalent of a mental kiss on his cheek, she was gone.