Nalrok_AthZim

I alpha tested the original mac client. Then I beta tested it. Then I watched it go live and was happy.

Then I was never invited to another closed beta again and I watched as the client turned into a buggy, crashing mess. Now yes, this is Transgaming's fault, but the game shouldn't have upgraded to the crap-tastic cider wrapper that came out about Issue 14 and it sure as HELL shouldn't have come down to THIS.

Very true, but did it really have to come down to the wire like this?

I beta tested the original mac client, and I can guarantee you I was the first gent on Virtue to sport the Valkyrie Pack items.

I haven't been in a Closed Beta since. It seems like less and less mac players get invited to Closed Beta releases and THAT is why these problems haven't been solved. It really bit us in the *** here; because no active mac user was involved in closed beta for I21 this whole store problem is now THREE days from going live.

My point is this: We've had the same problems for two years, and I've only ever seen Cuppa report his/her findings when the closed beta goes Open. This time he/she didn't have the chance, and with no active feedback the **** hit the fan.

That lesson could have been learned about six issues ago.

I've been too busy in Mercy checking out the new arcs and blasting people to dust with my Beam Corr.

Woo loo loo! Woo loo loo!

Well, you have four days. :/

If the VIP headstart launches without this being fixed I don't think I can properly describe how let down I'll feel.

I used to work night shift for a college campus.

That job kicked my ***.

What a gorgeous dog, Elec.

Diesel (No hero name necessary), Invul/SS Tanker: Diesel is our Puggle (which is a Pug/Beagle mix; just take a Beagle curl his tail and smash his face in). Diesel traded all of his intelligence for charisma; that is, what he lacks in brainpower he makes up for in lovability. While he has a tendency to fall down the stairs, run in to open doors, bonk his head on the couch, and walk directly into walls, he's always more than happy to grab his big chewy and hop up on the sofa for some cuddle time. He's Invul/ because he can barrel through our condo at 485mph, smash face-over-butt into the closed bedroom door, and run right back the other way with his tail wagging as if he'd never run into a thing.

He's SS because... well, we bought him this big "indestructable" chew toy called the Galileo that was reputed to be literally indestructable; the company that made it had tested it with mastiffs, St. Bernards, pit bulls, bulldogs, the big chewers. Diesel broke it in half. Oh, and he also turned his cast iron crate into this weird bent-inward geometrical thing by pulling the walls inward with his teeth.

Lilou (The Teeny Poofball), Empathy/Psychic Blast Defender: Lilou is our 6 month old Pomeranian. She's chocolate/blue merle in color, and she has the cutest ******* face I have ever seen on a dog. She biffs and arfs and woofs and does this little foot-dance when you praise her. She HAS to be Empathy because every time my fiancee (who plays CoH on and off) has a bad day, I hand her Lilou and everything is better. She also HAS to be Psychic Blast because looking at her making a sad face is like having someone throw darts at my feelings.

A warning about Roleplayers; if you join, take everything with a grain of salt. A few members of that channel really like telling people their character concepts are invalid if they fail to meet certain concept guidelines, which is absolute BS.

Part IV
Mister Sandman
Baumton, Paragon
"Booker, I'm…"

Orange. Lots of it.

The sound of laughter, derisive and venomous. Cold steel. Thunderous and hollow metal thuds.

Thomson. Thomson's familiar face, lit in orange. He was screaming. His eyes were filled with terror, pity, mania. He was screaming, screaming like he was being drawn and quartered.

The herculean hero, Safeguard. His face. Solemn, stern, but mingled with apprehension. "… coming with me, Calhoun," he said, staring.

Thomson's face again, burned and charred, the eyeballs having popped and melted out of their sockets onto the cold steel floor. Cold… steel…

Larger now, louder now, eyes becoming bloodshot, tongue swelling, skin frying to a deep red; Thomson's screaming, ghastly face.

"BOOOOOKKKEEEEERRR NNOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAUUUKKKKCKKCHHkk…"

Booker shot bolt upright, screaming even louder than the disintegrating face of his dreamworld-dead brother, the cannon snapping into his hand. He screamed and screamed as he sent a plume of orange energy at an eighty degree angle into the dusty Baumton sky. The rifle overheated, opening in two places to vent viscous, glowing blue smoke.

He gasped for air, his lungs burning as if he'd been deprived of oxygen for several minutes. His heart was hammering like those cold steel thuds in his horridly vivid nightmare. Cold steel, his mind repeated to him. Orange light and cold steel.

He finally grasped reality and swallowed hard, laying back down on his stomach. He began to weep quietly. His eyes clenched tight, the sweat from his brow mingling with his tears and stinging his already watering eyes. Thomson's face was so clear, so detailed. Booker had seen things in less detail under a magnifying glass. Tears streamed down the side of his face, dripping onto the inside of his visor. The suit, motionless from the outside served to conceal his occasional sobs from the rest of the unwatching world.

He was suddenly and acutely aware of six very present spots of dull, throbbing pain along his upper body. There were two on the sides of his shoulders, two on either side of his navel, and two on either side of his sternum above his nipples. He went to rub at them, but only patted metal with metal, realizing too late that it would do no good. He kept his eyes closed, swallowing with an audible click in his throat.

"Pull it together, Booker," he said to himself "you're not out of the woods yet."


"You really aren't," Desert Runner said quietly, a pair of binoculars pressed to his goggles. "Not for a few miles yet."

He was camped out among the ruins of a small gas station about two hundred and two yards east of Booker 'Beam Time' Calhoun's location. He'd used Boomtown as a sort of getaway when things got hot, whether it was hiding from Paragon or avoiding flak from the Isles. On a whim he'd decided to start his own personal offshoot investigation here. Couldn't have turned out better, he thought. A minute or so after Safeguard radioed him that they were moving in, he'd seen a sudden shift in the wind pattern about a mile north of where he'd been. Acting on intuition he set up camp at this very gas station. The past four hours had been about to convince him to move on, but the faint screaming and startling beam of orange light spiraling into the early morning sky had confirmed his suspicions. Calhoun had given the three heroes in Bricks the slip and had fled here for some downtime.

But Mordechai "Desert Runner" Escarceda was not about to notify any of his task force allies about this; he was going in for the kill. Calhoun would still be in the dreary stages of post-awakening, and now was the time to strike. He stashed his binoculars and rolled down the side of the gas station, breaking in to a quiet sprint towards the building Calhoun was in. Upon reaching it he ran up the steep angle of the fallen structure with no effort at all. His cloth-wrapped right arm pulled a handle from the back of his belt. It folded open into two angular rods and whispered two opposite-facing blades to life. He steeled himself; the kill was just over that shattered section of wall…


WARNING. WARNING. PROXIMITY ALERT. ENERGY WEAPON DETECTED.

Booker shot to his feet and hoisted the cannon to the ready. His targeting reticle was slowly rising from the bottom of his HUD, indicating the energy source rapidly coming up towards the ridge of shattered cement and rebar. He pumped the charging rod on the underside of the cannon. Three… Two… One…

And there he was, sailing over the broken ridge with a blue energy sword in his right hand. He was headed for Booker, poised to thrust the huge blade forward. Booker had his number though, and he fired the cannon right as the HUD measured eight feet distance. The beam seared through Runner's midsection, barreling out into the early dawn.

"Hahaaaa! Not so—" But Booker cut his quip short. Runner was still hanging in the air. Except… he was light brown. Completely light brown. Booker lowered the cannon and touched the man; the entire floating silhouette suddenly fell to the floor, some of it blowing away on the wind. Sand! He turned into sand! How did—

The thought was silenced by a rough slam on the right side of his helmet. He staggered sideways and rammed into the wall, the cement cracking. He was standing there spinning the sword idly.

"Nice trick," Booker spat and shook his head around. "Now hold still."

"No thanks," Desert Runner said and blew away on the wind again. Booker hesitated, and ducked out of the way just in time to avoid being decapitated by the crackling blue sword. He whirled around and sent a left hook into Desert's face, and watched his head puff into a cloud of sand.

"Son of a *****," Booker roared and focused his mind. Time came to it's usual halt, and he started to run down the angle of the fallen building. At about three hundred yards from his resting place, he turned around and allowed time to resume. Find me now you sandy jackwagon, Booker thought.

But without a sound Runner was in front of him, catching him in the visor with a solid punch. Booker stumbled backwards and swore. He fired the cannon and cut Runner's sandy silhouette in half. Time froze again, and he made his way another few hundred yards away. As soon as he let time flow again Runner was there. He fired, scattering more sand. He gritted his teeth in rage and had the strangest feeling to duck. So he did. The blade sizzled just over the top of his helmet.

"ENOUGH!" Booker's voice exploded outwards like a cannonball being shot into a cement wall. Time seemed to crumple and fold before him, and he could see where the sandy assailant was going to be next.

Ho-lee hell, Booker thought. These watches do more than just stop time, they can manipulate it in more ways than one! He looked around, and saw Runner materialize, semi-transparent, before him. He decided it was time to throw the Runner for a loop. He turned his back to the temporal prediction.

He thrust his elbow backward just as the 'shadow' faded and actually landed a hit to Runner's gut. He heard the hero's breath fly out of his lungs and he knew it was his time to strike. He shot his right arm backward, dropping the cannon and seized Desert Runner's right hand, the one holding the sword. He swung Runner with the incredible strength of the X-0 suit, and just as he was about to let go for a hail-mary hero hurl, he felt the man's arm give.

"Oh **** no," he cried out as he felt the limb tear from Desert Runner's torso. Runner skidded to a halt on the ground, the rubble of Baumton slowing him rapidly. Booker flung Runner's arm aside with a horrified yelp. He ran over to the crumpled form of the hero and dropped to his knees.

"Jesus Christ Jesus Christ I'm so soooo sorry, are you okay, oh god," he stammered out. He popped open his utility belt and took out his medical nanodevice emitter.

"Eat me," Runner said and punched him in the jaw. The hit was substantially weaker; the X-0 suit's servos cushioned the hit. Booker then noticed the sparks flying from Runner's shoulder. The blade sprouted out of nowhere and almost took Booker's left eye had he not moved to the left to avoid it. Rage boiled up inside Booker again and he grabbed Runner's head and smashed it into the ground.

"I don't want to kill you, you idiot! Stop giving me reasons! Now listen to me!" He pulled Runner's face out of the rubble and held it close to his helmet. "You tell them I'm gone, you tell them I fled to the Isles! And you go back to my damn house and you make sure my brother is still alive, you hear me?"

Pain arced through his midsection as he heard the energy blade's static pop. His HUD began flashing, warning of structural damage in the abdominal region. Booker looked down, watching his blood sizzle and dry on the hot energy blade. His teeth clamped together and the rage he felt before amplified ten times. With a swift and brutal motion he hammered Runner's face into the ground so hard he felt the hero's skull shatter. His left hand swung around and grabbed Runner by the stomach. He focused, he focused hard. He ignored the pain and felt time begin to crumple and fold.

Desert Runner's body began to age. Slowly at first, then at an astonishing rate. Blue and tan wisps of temporal energy crackled about the near-dead man's body, and in less than eight seconds his clothing, his skin and his bones all dried to dust. He blew away on the wind, and Booker knew that he wasn't about to come back to hit him.

The energy sword blinked off, and the handle fell. He slumped backwards and picked up his nano device emitter. With a small flick of his pinky the green-tinted machine began to spew a cloud of neon green nanites into the hole in the X-0 suit.

The pain faded, and the device made a happy little chirp. His hands fell to either side and he lay there.

He really was a murderer now. He wasn't noble. He wasn't a man wrongfully accused. He wasn't a hero.



The worst part was, that didn't sound so bad.

Methinks you're reading too far into that, GG. Maybe we try giving the credit for that to Duray first, since as far as we've been told, he's the one who did it.

Sound good?