DeviousMe

Silence.

The roar of the masses fades into the stillness of delusion as I step out of the car. Helped from my seat and through the open door by the warm touch of a great, blue hand, the soft report of my boots against the ground is the only sound I hear. The rest is simply washed away, there is so much of it.

Prometheus. The Titan. He who stole fire from the gods and gave its gift to men. So they say, at least. He smiles to me and I to him. We say so much without a word. I still recall when we first met - but that isn't for today. Today, he takes my hand and aids me to my feet, greets me with his palm's firm grasp and enigmatic smirk. Today, that smirk is genuine, not a doubt within, a true reflection on where we've come. Today, the crowd's applause is his, and he basks in their praise, a candid ease within his eyes.

Atop the stage set at the feet of Atlas, an unassuming man of countless descriptions takes the word. He welcomes us with a wide sweep of an arm draped in the finest robes, the amicable face of his hairless head just a detail different every time it sees my eye. He speaks with a strong, powerful voice, like thousands into one, but not once is it unpleasant, does it harm. No. Rularuu the Resplendent is no man, but he is a kind and thoughtful being, taking care and compassion in all he does. Today, the sky is a deep-blue stage for the sun's warm smile, its clouds thin and drawn in grand, yet carefully worked shapes, and it is his doing. Today, he is simply one of us as well.

"Thank you." my words echo over the expanse and through the crowds when it becomes my turn to speak, "On this thirtieth November of your year twenty-sixty-two, we come together to remember what happened today fifty years ago - the day your world came to an end."

And as I speak, I too remember. I remember well. I remember the end. I remember the beginning. I remember one becoming the other.

I see Rularuu. I remember the power, the boundless, unfathomable, uncontrollable might, trapped within a shadow of creation, unleashed to sew destruction. I see the man who wanders dreams, whose one voice among immeasurable others brings peace and unity to one made of so many.

I see Prometheus. I remember the hate, born of fear and distrust, fed by betrayal, exile, and rejection. I see the enemy become friend, age-old wisdom in balance with the open mind of renewed youth, fear of the unknown once and always washed away.

I see Marcus. I remember the broken wall that would yet stand, shamed and haunted by his deeds, but still ready to die for each and every soul in need of a defense. I see the Statesman stand tall among his people, both in their midst and in their hearts, his power theirs and theirs his in turn, different and yet equal before one another.

I see Stefan. I remember the grasping hands, the raking legs, pulling all he could and reaching desperately for what lay beyond their reach. I see the stormy seas now calm, washing gently at each and every shore, their reach the world and its peace theirs, a masterstroke to link them all.

I see Gerhard. I remember plans within plans, wheels within wheels, twice once and over again, a mad conflict of conflicts within and without. I see the machine become man, the heart of brass alive, keen, cold intellect and hot steam combined to warming tune and comforting melody, a boundless smile atop an outstretched hand.

I remember them. I remember the others. I remember still more. I remember them all, and how they were that day so long ago. What they desired. What they said they desired. What they meant. What they didn't. How they fought. How they planned. I remember a world prepared for war, ready for battle, layer upon layer of defense and resistance, waiting to face the Coming Storm.

"Yet it was nothing like what we'd come to expect." I say with a wry smile, for I remember this too, "Battalion we were called, consumers of all that made a people. And consume we did, taking what none could before."

And I remember you.

We may have met, we may have not, but either or, I remember when we reached out to one another. I remember just as I do when I reached out my hand to take that of my would-be enemy, took the Titan's palm into my own. I remember the friend I gained that day, and the boundless potential that we all gained with the same - for when something is taken, something is given as well, and that well springs forth new potential, new possibilities, ensuring that as something old meets an end, something new finds a beginning.

"Thank you." I say to you, "For all you've done and all you will still do. This city, this world, and all of it are what they are today, at peace, because of you. So thank you, now and always, for making Paragon, all this, a City of Heroes."

Gimme dat 77!

Taken: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 29, 31, 33, 36, 37, 42, 43, 45, 46, 47, 49, 53, 57, 63, 66, 68, 71, 73, 75, 77, 78, 82, 83, 84, 87, 93, 95, 99

20

Remaining: 38, 60, 61, 62, 86, 91, 94, 96

Miner's 49er.

Used so far: 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,16, 17, 18, 19, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 30, 31, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 54, 56, 57, 58, 63, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 80, 82, 83, 84, 87, 88, 89, 93, 97, 98, 99

I'm game, yeah. What's the line-in?

Color.

The airlock doors part, and at once I stand awash in it. Above, the gleaming glass towers that mushroom 'round the spaceport festoons with flags and banners stories high, radiant and vibrant in every color of the rainbow. Below, the throng of crowds is an ocean of every hue my eye can see - and likely some it can't, for the limbs that wave their owners' jubilation to the air are not only arms. Between, the massive Jade Seeds cast their bright, chitinous iridescence, their half-organic exoskeletons scattering diffracted sunlight down on those above whose heads they stride, eight long legs holding each up high as they stalk slowly through the masses so nimbly it confounds belief.

The path before my feet spills color just the same, an amalgam of reds and golds kept clear only by virtue of the brassen automatons of the Great Clockwork Orchestra that line its sides, their shining metal frames but only just keeping the masses of many-hued banners that wave behind their backs at bay. Before them, of course, perhaps every dozen or so down the rows, stands a shining semblance of the great Lord Eisenstadt, brass baton in hand and awave, pirouetting through the air as the wondrous steam organs concealed within the frame of each produce the melodious flutes and clarinets of Johann Strauss' Radetzky March.

The original meanwhile stands apart, an unassuming man upon his place here at the edge of pad Orion, and yet with a presence so boundless that it seems to reach to every one of his creations. Every stroke of their violins flows from his fingers, every sound of their trumpets from his lungs. He is an impressive man, and I greet him Gerhard with respect, this wondrous human who literally reinvented himself not once, but many times over on his long and arduous journey to be the enormity he is today.

Indeed, were it not for that presence and that perseverance, he would surely pale to those two behemoths before whom I now stood, their grab of spotless, shining white and flawless, gleaming gold a stark contrast to my relatively drab fatigues of grays and blacks.

And we smile.

"Stefan." I nod to one, and then the other, "Marcus. It's good to see you again. I see you still draw a crowd whenever you step outside."

Stefan Richter. Marcus Cole. The Lord. The Emperor. Not that they have anything to rule. There is no empire over which to lord. Such needs vanished long ago. No, these two may be titans, but the works for which they are held high are not the deeds of gods. They are the deeds of men. Men who reached across the chasm between two worlds and took anothers' hands, inspiring those within their wake to do the same, not with might, but heart. It was both the end and the beginning, the undoing of the old and creation of the new.

Today, however, our talk is of just that: today. The past has its say, but not just yet. As we stride from the ship and toward the city proper, color and music all around, we speak of things present and future, of where we are and where we shall go. Firstly of course, we make to depart for the east. Galaxy City may be the grandest of all the spaceports this planet has, but even New Paragon's own is not the place to host all still to come this day...

Yeah, chances are I'll be mainlining CO for my superhero fix if this game goes down for good. While it's no CoX, it's fun enough to keep me if I don't have CoX anymore.

Been trying it out a while now, handle @deviousme.

She is beautiful. All long angles and sharp curves, her body is a masterpiece of engineering. She is tall, easily a head above mine, and her frame so lithe and thin that it seems she could float away at any moment, even in the sound hold of the artificial gravity.

Well, to my eyes, that is. I question that a human would feel the same at her sight - and with that, I fall into the very same trap as they. Or do I? Her physique is markedly different, after all. Her skin is gray and leathery, yet still somehow smooth, and her long face reminds me of that of a hawk. Thin, dull-red eyes rest beneath angled, measuring brows, stretching long and deep like those of a demon, and the widened rear of her skull that stretches back into a softly flattened, almost frill-like shape garners likeness with the spread hood of a serpent.

Below, her neck is thin, thoroughly fragile in appearance, as is the rest of her towering frame. Though she seems almost gaunt at first glance, any second reveals that as false, even though her broad shoulders currently hide beneath a silky robe of flowing turquoise. Rims of gold and highlights of electric blue accent the garb in all the right places, and each of her three-fingered hands holds a silver band of technological wizardry about the bony-looking wrist. A loose collar of the same wraps its segments about her neck.

She takes notice of me, and I smile. No, she is not human. Even with all that has happened, with all that they share, humans and Rikti are distinct people in both body and mind, just as are mine from our progenitors. We have much in common, but both physique and psyche set us apart. We are not they anymore. We are us.

But still we are together.

I guide my steps into the muted darkness of the observatory, nearly all of what little luminance exists in the broad dome of the ship's primary telescope either product of a mattely shimmering hologram or the starfield outside. It is quiet here. Peaceful. It is why she comes here.

Hello, godfather.

I smile again as I 'hear' her 'voice' in my head, my implant promptly translating the thoughts sent to me. She has the presence of her father. I see his great strength in her posture, his unwavering determination in her gaze. Hro'dtohz may have had his faults, but his merits stood grand - and they still do, in her. The eyes of that gaze, however, are those of her mother. The scientist. I see her open mind, her boundless thirst to know the how, the why - and C'kelkah passed every drop of that to her.

I stand beside her as the Oblivion Gate rends space and time, a vortex of swirling reds and crackling yellows gaping like the hungry maw of some infernal realm where the twinkling blackness stretched just the instant before. She looks to me as I lay my arm softly on her shoulder, and I look back upon the little girl whose eyes went wide in fascination the first time she beheld the roiling mass of colors. Oh, how the questions had flowed, not a twinge of fear in any fiber of her being, courage of the father and inquisitiveness of her mother both pressed so firmly against the transparent armor of the observatory dome as we fell through the space between worlds, toward the shining blue planet that awaited on the other side.

As it does today.

"Contact REQUIEM, we are receiving." the intercom crackles out the first syllables of words sent from the ground, "This is Galaxy City welcoming you home. You are cleared for landing on north port pad Orion. Be advised that the Seventh Fleet has just joined the parking orbit, so we've got a lot of traffic at the moment. Please link with Shiva satellite two-four and switch to station control..."

My money is still ready. Just waiting for them to shut up and take it...

Okay, so forget DDO. I found my old account, but very quickly remembered why I stopped playing that.

Anyway, even though I figure a bunch of people here know about this already, I stumbled across this thread in the City Life section, which has people discussing (sort of) where they think they might head to if CoX goes belly-up - so if you know someone there who's posted, it might just help you find 'em in another game.

Nice. A bit hard to follow at times, but nice. Makes me wish I'd known more about the characters, heh - not to mention how your hero did 'send them away'. But eh, such's the world, at least for a little while longer.

So as I'm writing my take on the End Of The World As We Know It and the Coming Storm, it occurs to me that aside from the hooligans I hang around with really regularly - and a few snippets I've picked up in other threads - should we really be unable to save this game, I have no idea where this wonderful RP and plotting community that I've (more or less) been a part of for so long is headed.

I don't think I like the flavor of that. And Im fairly sure many others don't either. So that's what this thread is for. If you feel so inclined, let people know where you're going and how they can find you in case the worst happens. Personally, I don't really know if I'll get into another MMO after having been spoiled by this one, but eh...never know. Been trying out Champions some and mulling around the idea of booting up DDO again, so if you'd like to come find me sometime.

Champions: @deviousme (of course )

DDO: uhhh...I'll update this if I manage to remember my account info and actually log in again sometime

Ridolfo Uzzano. A short, lanky man whose clothes always seems half a size too large, no matter the kind he wears. The characteristic folds and crinkles cover nearly his entire uniform, from the shimmering black luster of his longcoat to what can be seen of the like-hued trousers. He keeps the coat closed, as always, and his thick gloves and boots almost suggest that he is a man perpetually cold - were it not for the deep-violet haze that seems to constantly ooze and flow from his gaunt, pitch-black human head. Of course, Ridolfo is not human, not anymore. He is a composite being, a fusion of two different creatures. He is the REQUIEM.

And that is meant quite literally. Ridolfo is a Kheldian.

The starship meanwhile hangs low in the sky like a titanic squid, its long, smooth curves accented by elaborately curled adornment, blue-gray hull festooned with complex patterns of reliefs and waves. It has a flowing, almost organic appearance that seems to veritably soak up the rain it prevents from falling to the ground about Ridolfo and me.

I smile, and we greet another fondly, then extend out hands and attempt to each crush the life out of the one of the other. I win. We laugh. Tradition is a lovely thing.

"How do you do that?" he wants to know, shaking what I presume to be the feeling back into his fingers, "By all reason, I should be the stronger of us."

"Ridolfo," I feign myself wounded, "I'm not yet that old.

"So you say." he counters snidely, "I see you were out again this morning. Forty...maybe fifty kilometers by the taste of it. I thought Wolfgang had told you to keep it to thirty?"

"Thirty kilometers?" I nearly laugh aloud, "I would not tie my boots for that!"

"Yes, I know." he gives a sigh, "It's like you never change. Come on then, or we're going to be late."

I smile a nod. He is right. We set swiftly down the steps before my door, to the path of rough-hewn stone that snakes so majestically past the top of the hillside that crowns the seaside cliffs. Tall, aged-looking lanterns flank the walk to overlook the hissing ocean, and taller trees flank them in turn. It is a thing of beauty, this wild, and yet still pleasant scene.

One that can cause loss of heed to the dangers at hand.

The walk outside is cool and pleasant, but the earth is softened from the rain. We leave the steps perhaps a bit too swiftly. A stone gives way beneath my feet, and down toward the ground I go. Innumerable thoughts zip through my head, already commanding my body to react before I even fully realize I am falling. My hand snaps out toward the nearest lantern pole, but catches one of its ornate spokes instead of secure grip, and all that I receive is a bloody cut scored into my palm. My fall is not arrested.

Not that there is any need to. In fact, had I the presence of mind to suppress the training so deeply ingrained into my being, no harm would have come to me at all. The Hamidon Vine that erupts from the earth below the path catches me gently long before my response is actually needed, absorbing my impact like a pillow of soft, supple leaves.

Hamidon Pasalima. The man become the world. He looks...well, the Hamidon does not look. It is formless, without shape or even figure. Its caring presence, however, is felt all around. A bacterium, the Touch of the Earth, gives its will being, gives its thoughts strength - the same strength by which the vine lifts me up and sets me back upon the path.

"Just in time." I tell it with a grateful smile, though I know it cannot 'hear' me. Not as such, at least, "Thank you."

The vine blooms.

"Quick thing, that's for sure." Ridolfo remarks, "Are you hurt?"

"Just a scratch." I show him my palm, then shake my hand to bring it more air, "Gone soon enou-hm?"

I notice the vine take hold of my hand, tugging it softly to its colorful flowers. A minute mist arises and settles on my wound. I smirk as it quickly begins to close. The Tellurian Embrace. I quickly command my cybernetics to stand down. These spores are not intruders. They are the Hamidon's gift to all who call this world home. This...and several more.

I speak another word of thanks, and then Ridolfo and I proceed to the road. Already, a pair of Uplifting Seedlings have taken full form there, their transparent, open cores awaiting us expected passengers. They take us aloft with speed, and before too long, Ridolfo sets a hand against the large, faintly glowing purple cylinder that dominates the sophisticated bridge inside.

And vanishes.

With a hum of power, the interface glows more brightly, and the REQUIEM rumbles to full life, the thrum of the engines reverberating through the silver-blue plating of the floor.

We are away...

With a hot hiss, the water stops, and steamy clouds condense against the glass. In hindsight, perhaps I did set the shower a little high this time. Still, I relish the feeling of the scalding water on my skin. It seems one of the few things to truly warm my aged bones - and aged they are. I near the third decade of my second century, and thinking back on all the time since that fateful day, I feel quite old.

But as I regard my body in the mirror, built lean and toned with the rippling of tight packs of muscle, the feeling fleets once more. Oh sure, in the eyes of a human, I greatly doubt I am attractive. First, and likely foremost, I am orange. While I can don a suit of armor and pass for human in physique, my skin's hue is very distant from their norm - and that my hands hold but four fingers and my feet three toes, complete with long, sharp claws, doesn't serve much in that sense either.

Second, I have no nose. Well, at least not in the sense of a protruding hump of cartilage. Rather, my nostrils sit where my face begins, which in turn rounds up a head resembling that of a snake - though more blunt, and with a good measure more cranium. I still have a full head of sandy hair as well, and while I imagine that my short, militaristic cut isn't much to make a fuss about, the four hand-long horns that curve from it and to the rear do give me a profile that I'm sometimes told is quite demonic.

Third, and lastly, my flesh harbors a fair amount of metal. That same face is graced by segments of silver that arch above my eyebrows and rim down behind my cheeks (as well as partially upon them before they sink into the skin), then run along my jaw and nearly to my chin. Come to think, I'm not entirely sure how that escaped, considering both the front of my throat and the bridge of my nose are metal as well. There are even two small patches beside my nostrils, stretching just a bit toward the segments on my cheeks. I am glad for it though, for though I'm by no means considered disfigured, I have no desire to expand the implant with any further injury. One such did almost cost me dearly after all, and is the reason for the metal spine fused to my back, its external cybernetic vertebrae giving strength and support to the implanted ones around my spinal cord.

The rest of me is flesh still though, or at least is so on the outside. While a number more implants are responsible for things like letting me perceive the various virtual entities of the augmented reality that now announces the forthcoming arrival at my door, those two are the only ones with external components.

I sweep a hand through the AR interface, chasing the information from my reflection in the mirror, then proceed back to my bedroom. In the closet, my formal attire already hangs, fresh and spotless. I smile. I have seen few make ceremonial dress of functional armor, but never a reason not to. The pants are black and simple, the thick boots made for marching. A sleeveless shirt provides anchor to both the thin coat that hangs from shoulders to past the hips and the black-gray armor protecting chest and abdomen. Deltoid pauldrons guard the shoulders, expertly crafted to protect the ball-and-socket joints.

A pair of armbands in the same design completes the ensemble, the sheath of my short sword added to the belt in little more than ancillary measure. The blade within is a gift from a dear friend no longer among the living, more memory than weapon. Still, I am glad for his teachings with the sword even when I did not consider it a 'real' weapon. Time has shown me otherwise. I gaze long into my own eyes, reflected in the scarred, but still quite gleaming blade.

"Contact at front door." the audio system of the house announces melodically in tandem with the AR impulse from my door, "Mr. Uzzano has arrived."

I slide the sword back into its sheath. The time has come to leave...

Marcus Cole. A barrel-chested titan who invokes the image of a granite block, he stands as distant from the norm of humans as the storm approaching from the sea is from usual weather here. Broad, brutish, and built, his uniform bulges with muscle from beneath despite being tailored specifically to his frame. He is the soldier, the warrior, he who leads the front from the front, and spearheads command just where it should be. He is the Reichsman.

Not that any call him that still. There is no Reich. Not anymore.

"What are you still doing here?!" he shouts toward me in return, a brow arisen just beneath the visor of his decorative cap, "You're going to be late!"

"I could ask the same of you." I chuckle upon this as I come to close, quieting my voice while my gaze passes over the recruits pushing from the mud in form. Up they come and grunt their number, and then go down and start again. Marcus gives a smirk and nod. He is fond of discipline.

"I'm merely making use of opportunity." he says with just the barest hint of humor, "They can use a little toughening. But really, shouldn't you be getting ready?"

"I am already making my way back." I smile to him in turn, "This is my last point. There is plenty of time."

"Never as much as you might think." he turns his attention back to the recruits, "If you're not there on time, I'm telling Wolfgang to collect you."

"You traitor." I laugh and turn, knowing better than to risk him doing so, "I am going. I am going. But so should you. And do not be so hard on them."

"I have my time." Marcus tells me as I up my pace, "I'm already dressed."

Then he turns his words from me and barks them at the ones before his feet. They rise, and this time fully. Breaths of relief and words of elation reach my ears as he hurries them inside. Today is a day of celebration, and they are glad to have the time...

Come one, come all this Thursday eve, when we shall honor the great Tyrant by firmly kicking in his head! We shall depart for the Magisterium from Dark Astoria around 8:30 PM EST, so if you want to leave a boot print on Emperor Cole, come and bring the biggest cleats you have.

Thunder. Gray clouds hang low in rainy skies. The storm has come, as they said it would. Wind jostles leaves and foams the waves, softly falling water prattles all around, and thunder grumbles distantly after absent-minded flitters brings luminance to clouds.

It is a beautiful day.

My breath is steady, my heart the same. The rain is cool against my skin, and it feels good. I pass the eldest tree upon the corner of the road, the splashes of my boots upon the wettened pavement sounding more gently for the short time I spend in the shelter of its branches. Long and wide they reach, twisting gnarled from their core upon the hillside all the way past the cliff looming at road's edge, the guarding rail making echo of the crashing waves of churned-up seas.

I smile as I look out upon the open ocean. I slow my pace a bit. A comfortable jog. This place holds many memories - oft fond, some not, but still come treasured. I will miss its voice.

The wind rustles in the leaves again, and the woodlands all around speak wordlessly once more. I breathe more deeply and increase my pace. No sense in wasting time. Wolfgang is irate enough with me as-is. Says I will get sick. I smile again. Honored be what tries. I may be old, but it will take more to make me bow.

The runway emerges from behind the woods beside me as I round the final corner. Long and broad, it juts out into the sea high above the churning waves, held aloft by gargantuan hydraulics anchored firmly in the docks below. The road-filled tiers of the city hewn into the cliff above connect the two, and rise on up above, all the way to the massive tower looming at the top. The glittering of innumerable orbs of light merges with the glimmer of reflection from the lightning out to sea. Again, thunder rumbles.

But it is not the only one.

By the edge of the titanic fortress walls, I spot a behemoth of a man, nearly wide as he is tall. Clad in black and rimmed in gold, he towers over the recruits laboring before him with a morbid scowl, arms crossed before his chest and head held high, as if daring the storm to try and touch the peaked cap atop his head. It seems that it knows better.

"Marcus!" I call out over its grumbling tones, and the crimson glow within his eyes turns its gaze toward me...