vindizzLe

Your ball drinks cheap hipster beer?

Impressive.

Yeah, I'm not sure what the vendetta is either.

"These are his works."

"These are the things he researched, the things that he drew."

He paced, loading picture after picture. It was apparent now, Corradine didn't request the researchers for assistance; he wanted to lecture.

"When he ran out of answers... this is what he sought!"

"AND THIS IS WHAT HE FOUND!"

"Magic. Sorcery. ARCANA. Of the darkest design. Hamidon Pasalima unearthed secrets that not even the greatest Occult sects dared to dig up. He found answers that had been buried for hundreds, if not thousands of years. His desire to unlock the potency of his mind and body was unparalleled. He combined our sciences with these workings and transcended existence! He is a multiversal entity existing in separate constants. That is a power that the human mind does not have the computing power to even comprehend!"

The researchers drew breath; short and sharp as they listened. Despite the cleanliness of his appearance, and the organization that had taken back his laboratory, here were the roots of madness; they were showing themselves now. Corradine had warped his own mind to understand that of one who had come before him. He had not deviated one step from the course, in order to understand, he had to become.

"This is far beyond what Crey Biotech has ever done. Even we have limited ourselves. But no longer. You, gentlemen, are messengers. Go now, find the Countess and tell her that I have the results that she has so desperately sought after. Tell her that I have found the key. She will not question the resources that I request, or the demands that I make. I will bring her the world in due time, and all will recognize the noble sacrifices that I have made."

Corradine turned his back to the researchers as they filed out, peering at Hamidon Pasalima's work; wanting to grasp the man more and more. What he would give to sit and have one conversation with him, just one. But this would have to do, in his place, his last footsteps before attaining a level of godhood. It would not be difficult now. The Miller brothers would be perfect subjects for the experiment. They would undergo the full devouring process. Corradine would give them the very power that Pasalima had given himself. He would make them, and then he would unmake them. And with that knowledge, Corradine would unmake Pasalima himself. In order to defeat one's enemy, you had to understand them first; you had to respect them first. Raymond admired his predecessor; part of him even wished that it had been he in the place of Hamidon. But instead, he would play the role of the silent champion; the man that would do what heroes from across various dimensions had striven to do, only to fail miserably, losing countless innocent lives in the process.

From the works on the holoscreen in front of him, Raymond turned, staring at pictures of the Miller brothers. Through them he had found the key. He had found the Hamidon's children. And through them, he would save the world. But for now, there was more knowledge to be gained.

There was so much more that needed to be understood.

Nah, you get a pass.

I'm sure that you do.

The list on the Guildportal is subject to change just like everything else is.

I find the simplicity of this GP to be peril's best work. A far bigger improvement than say... his "Veritas" GP from back in the day.

I said the same thing to Red about marking out.

The argument that "X makes Z sets more viable" can easily be countered by the fact that "X makes Y fotm sets even more viable".

Sure, my hypothetical Claws/SR Scrapper has a higher damage output and more options with the various Incarnate abilities, but a top tier toon with the same options immediately catapults itself ahead of everything else that you're attempting to level out.

IMO, allowing Alphas only is the way to go.

Office, Perez, Tech, Atlas are fine, but I don't see the problem with opening up Skyway/Astoria/Steel Canyon/Outbreak. Previous 3v3 tournaments have been held on both live and test servers in the past with these maps due to our inability to select maps, and things went smoothly.

I would however consider a rule regarding taking matches to Sudden Death.

Also, Masque mentioned a 3v3 league. Bad idea, stick with your Tournament instead.

Good, you'll be our first draft pick.

It's cold down here. Cold and dark.

My mask was adjusted by rough movements as we traversed the cave network beneath Athena's island, Bia and Kratos pushing me and throwing me against rock face along the way, grunting that I wasn't moving fast enough. My eyes don't match up with the slits in the costumed head that I'm wearing; I can barely see. Though, I have a feeling that for what the twins have in store for me, I won't want to be taking a good look at them anyway.

You know, the world is a beautiful place, so is the universe. But with all of its' beauty, there are times where it gives way to a glorious machine, a machine that is cruel and unrelenting in the punishment that it delivers. It tests us, conditions us so that we may make the right choices when the time inevitably comes. The world, the universe, this... machine does not stop, it moves from person to person, demanding penance and tribute in whatever form it deems necessary.

That same cruel machine: call it fate; call it circumstance, probability; it pitted me against my hero and my mentor.

You know I was 5 years old when my parents bought me my first Defenders of Paragon action playset, I had the Xanatos and Bayne figurines and I would fly them around my room all day.

I was 8 when I played the Ascendant's videogame. My parents had moved my brother and I just outside of Providence, away from all of my friends at my Elementary School. To help me deal with the adjustment, they brought home a Super-Nintendo with a copy of that game. I stayed up for hours playing it.

14 when I bought my Havok Brothers poster. My brother thought that I was an idiot; those guys didn't even know who I was.

They didn't know me by my first name.

I was 17 when I sat in my room sewing my first costume together. I remember Adrian sat across from me, legs folded Indian style while I slowly got better and better with my needlework, occasionally glancing up to the poster for inspiration and guidance. They didn't know me, but they taught me. My brother didn't think I was such an idiot anymore.

I was 20, sitting in a Hotel room in Singapore, pictures strewn about me, tears streaming down my face. Pictures of Tyler and I, happy and uninhibited in our love for one another. I ran away from her because I was a coward. She stayed with me when I confronted my doubts and confusions in Thailand; my way of repaying her was by running because I was afraid that she wouldn't be able to take it this time. I didn't have the poster this time to look to for guidance; I didn't have the action figures, but in my mind I wondered if this was something that they too were familiar with.

I was 20 when the driving force behind the path I had taken stepped into my life. 20 years old and I earned his respect by walking in his footsteps to the best of my ability. 20 years old when I watched him step into my life, and take a life not long after. 20 years old and I condemned my personal hero. 20 years old and I forgave him and vowed to help him fight his demons.

I am 21 now and another driving force behind what I've done and the decisions that I've made has become my mentor. He did so without question, without argument. I debated, I told him that there were better, stronger candidates. He assured me that there were not. He told me that I would be the future some day, and I did not believe him. I did not believe because the future I see is a future in ruin. I have not told him; he does not know of the world I see; he does not know of my inheritance, my birthright.

He does not know, but something tells me that beneath the surface, there is a glimmer of understanding.

I am 21 and today I battled my mentor in what was supposed to be a deathmatch. He told me not to hold back, and he fought me with the full extent of his abilities. In 1960, he froze the entire Earth, and he unleashed everything that he had, asking that I do the same. I was not strong because I wanted to be, I was strong because I had to be.

They have chained me and I am kneeling. I could break these chains if I wanted; I could alter my bodies molecular structure and walk right through these chains. I could cripple Athena's two bodyguards if I made the choice to. I could walk out of this cave unharmed.

I am making a choice.

Bia leans in and sneers, "Did you really think that she would kill me?"

His breath is hot and acrid, I choke on my own saliva. I could break these chains if I wanted.

"You have sealed your fate, little Tiger. You will not live through your next battle after we have done with you." Kratos speaks, his voice haunting as it echoes throughout the cave.

"We will not stop until you are called for your next match, and who knows how long that will be?"

"We will not tire."

"There will be no respite."

"Are you ready?"

I hear their footsteps as they walk towards what I imagine is a long banquet table behind them, or perhaps a wall with an assortment of devices attached to it. My imagination gets the better of me and I feel fear; I could break these chains if I wanted.

I am 21 and today I was asked to murder my mentor and a personal hero of mine. We have a cover to maintain; I could have killed him to prove my worth as a warrior; I could have honored Athena's code and been seen as a favorite to win this tournament. Perhaps in that moment I should have asked myself what my peers would do, what the people that came before me would deem the worthy action. But why? They have given me guidance without knowing it since I was 5 years old, they have helped shape me alongside my Father, my Mother and my Brother. I didn't need to ask what they would do, what choice they would make when I already knew.

I surrendered myself, better me than Xanatos. I can take this, this is something I must endure.

Fortunately, their elation of the hours of torture that they will get to inflict upon me overshadows their better judgment. They don't investigate the authenticity of my anatomy in order to find that my guise is a fraud. I silently hope that the cheap, thick matted fur will mask whatever wounds I am given.

The first chain strikes my back, it is white hot, kissed by a scorching fire set aside in an oven for this purpose alone. Tears rush to my eyes and my retinas burn from the stench of singed flesh as the chains continue to find their mark. These two brothers are skilled; I am a canvas and they are painting a masterpiece. They want me to cry out, but I do not. I endure. I survive. My body does not adapt, my skin does not harden, but I shut down and begin to meditate. I breathe deeply and try to force myself outside of these cave walls.

Bia's fist finds my face, and my jaw breaks. Bile rushes to my throat and I force it back, I hear his laughter and I can hear what I swallow back touch the pit of my empty stomach. They are both laughing.

Kratos places his boot against the back of my head and drives my face into the ground, upon impact my arms recoil and my shoulders dislocate.

The chains lash at the back of my neck, I breathe in dirt and ash.

Gidge is afraid of me, and I am afraid of myself. I am afraid that one day she will look upon a monster and I will not know how to love her anymore, I am afraid that I will not recognize her, that I will recognize no one. I'm doing the best I can, I'm trying to make the right choices. I don't want to inherit this.

I close my eyes for a second time as Bia drives a hard iron object against my ribcage. My body works desperately to repair itself, but I am long gone.

I see her now; I see Gidge. She is looking at me with tears in her eyes and sadness in her heart. She is telling me that she is sorry, she is asking for my forgiveness and she is closing a door. My heart breaks, but deep down I understand. This is a looking glass, I am observing the future in fragments.

I see a man holding a gun.

I see myself, stepping towards a light.

I see my brother, defiant with hatred blazing in his eyes.

In these visions I am dying, I am fighting, she is leaving. I feel fear but I feel acceptance as well. I understand what you must do, and I understand what I must do. I know now that I am not running in these visions. No, never again will I run. I will step towards the darkest, deepest pit and reach my hand out to the person that needs me. Fear and acceptance. I love you and I understand what you have to do, Gidge. These visions are clear and I understand. I am dying. I will miss you, I will always love you.

I will make the right choices because I have to, because I want to. My name is Grant Miller. I am 21 years old and I am many things, but I am no coward.

I will do these things, fight, fear, love, accept, die. But for now,

I endure.

Within Clarissa Van Dorn's most secretive, secured facility there stood an anomaly. He was an outsider, but one brought in of the Countess' own knowledge and accord. At times, flirtation with the competition was a necessary evil; it was an end that did indeed justify the means. But that outsider loathed being confined in those four walls as much as those that stared on with suspicion as his boot heels clicked against the polished floor. His posture perfect, gaze unflinching, hat brim kept low. He did not need to deviate his gaze from the path in front of him to feel the eyes pouring over his weaponry: two Austrian Pfeifer-Zeliska .600 Nitro Express Magnums holstered at his side, each modified and engraved to his liking. This was an honor in particular that he had earned. The Malta Group did not preach individuality to the members of their organization; they were a collective with a purpose, separation through creativity was an unnecessary endeavor that would hinder procedure. But this one, he had earned his separation.

He did not need to be a telepath in order to find the thoughts behind each pair of eyes that found his person, here was a mythical figure that was spoken of in the darkest corners of influence and industry. Here was a member of that Illuminati; that shadow organization that sought some nefarious purpose; here was conspiracy personified. A proverbial "man-in-black" garbed in an all-too-familiar shade of Navy.

This was an arm of the beast that was spoken of, known by so many, but never truly confirmed. But this one knew, this one knew that his calculated steps, his precision in his posture and his calculating gaze would be enough to assure the silence of every individual in this facility. After all, this was the Crey Corporation. Secrecy and subterfuge were prerequisites of any position here, no matter how small.

They called him Echo-Seven, but his squad members and peers referred to him by a different name.

Dust.

Echo-Seven did not encourage, nor laud that nickname. It was insignificant, as long as the job was complete, what did it matter what they called him? The name brought with it a certain level of respect, and that was what was important. He commanded and executed with a surgical accuracy that was not unlike any individual with the designation of "Gunslinger". To join the Malta Group, one needed to be considered the best of the best. Physical, mental and social charting would indicate that each operative was in the top percentile of their prior affiliations. These were men, but men not unlike that of Perseus; gods made of sinew and bone who strived for their excellence; it was not handed to them.

The security officer did not speak when they reached their destination, he merely input a series of numbers and letters into an advanced Keypad. Echo-Seven recognized the script immediately, it was coded in Rikti. He afforded himself an instant to be impressed. This was not standard procedure for the Countess, she truly was as paranoid as they said.

"Enter." A voice called coolly from behind a large, luxurious chair.

Echo-Seven did as commanded, removing his hat as the chair spun to reveal a woman; she with her initial gaze earned a comparison not unlike that of the gods and mythical creatures associated with them. If a Gunslinger was he, not unlike that of Perseus, then the Countess was a Medusa.

"On time to the millisecond. You do not disappoint." She stated, eyes not hungry, like her personnel. She did not find his weaponry, his posture, his tactical armor to be impressive. His punctuality was what made the impression.

"In matters such as these, we find that surprises can be an... inconvenience."

She nodded curtly, spreading her hands out across the desk.

"Very well, please sit." She beckoned, moving a hand lightly to indicate one of the comfortable armchairs that sat in front of her.

"I would prefer to stand, thank you." Echo-Seven replied, removing his hat. The Countess watched his movements carefully, nodding her approval only after he had stilled himself.

"You are aware of Dr. Raymond Corradine's involvement in the operation?" She asked, gesturing to a small, insignificant man standing next to her.

Echo-Seven feigned ignorance. Of course he knew who Corradine was. Long before joining the Crey Corporation as one of Van Dorn's leading Biotech Engineers, it had been he that had spearheaded the Malta's genome manipulation project. With it, they had quickly become the most powerful Shadow Organization in the world. Corradine's work was coveted by the likes of individuals such as Dr. Lazarus Crom, and even Sebastian Kain, but the Malta protected their investments. Inserting him into the Crey Corporation had been a brilliant tactical maneuver on their part. It tainted his work in the eyes of nearly every powerful group that sought him for their own purposes. The viewpoint was maintained that the Malta and Crey groups were both weak, inferior and behind in the times.

How wrong they were.

"I was briefed minutes ago, yes. I take it that there has been a... breakthrough?"

Corradine smiled as the Countess turned in her chair, indicating that he take the floor momentarily.

"Our studies are conclusive. Grant and Adrian Miller are to inherit this Earth. We have introduced their blood samples to Mitochondria cells taken not only from the Hamidon itself, but from the cell structures of entities that have experienced a process that is known as 'The Devouring'-"

Echo-Seven nodded. He was aware of the physical mutations that humans and animals targeted by the Hamidon underwent. They were both excruciatingly painful, and prolonged in their duration.

"-they both tested with a 100% positivity rate. We have found the Children of the Hamidon."

Echo-Seven felt it now, an insatiable appetite; it was that same appetite that had brought him into the ranks of the Malta Group. He hid it well, masked by his cold demeanor. It was there, now, on the tip of her tongue. The order to execute; here and now this joint partnership would finally come into fruition.

Van Dorn smiled, adjusting her glasses with her index finger, soft exhale escaping through a slit in her lips; she held the moment.

"You, Echo-Seven, are to enact Labyrinth Protocol immediately."

The corner of his lip twitched; the remnant of a smile. "My orders?"

"Kill Michael Miller, and bring Adrian Miller to Facility #498 for preparation. You will be briefed further upon completion."

A bloodcurling laugh escapes his lips and he crosses the distance between us with a surprisingly unnatural speed. I observe his weapon: a crude sledgehammer that weighs more than he does. His bones crack and I hear his muscles rip from the tension of lifting and swinging it down. The weapon cuts a path through the air as it travels towards me; I leap over him and plant a swift kick to his temple, aiming to end this fight quickly.

He swings backwards as I pivot mid-air, and I draw breath, clenching my stomach, I know what is coming. I hear his hips pop out of socket as the mallet slams into my abdomen, lifting me into the air. I crash into the marble fountain at the center of the ring, Showtime laughs.

I see his face now, a flash into the past as he draws his shotgun quickly, discharging a buckshot into my chest that tears a quarter of my upper torso clean off. I survived then due to grief over the loss of Damian, Coldcrash. I feel that anger rise within' me again, this man was a coward when I confronted him, but here he stands, uncaring of his past deeds, uncaring of the pain that I dealt to him.

I should make him remember.

I rush forward, ready to break him apart. Ready to employ every single deadly martial art that I have in my repertoire; I am prepared to make this man, this murderer, piss blood until the Mayan's come back and say "Sorry about the calender, we were just messing around."

But I hesitate, I hesitate and his teeth flash as his mouth parts into a triumphant smile. He lets loose with yet another scream, driving the sledgehammer into my shoulder. I am plunged into a small crater in the ground, my shoulder snaps upon impact, the pressure too great for my body to withstand.

"meow." is my only response.

Can't do this. Can't compromise this operation. There is something far greater than Showtime at stake here, something far greater than my personal guilt and grief. That is something that I can contend with any day, something that I will contend with. But now, that grief is not my responsibility, no. Showtime's defeat; that is my responsibility.

I need my arm back, I snap it into place, and my body reacts instantaneously; it repairs itself temporarily. I shrug off the pain and spin my body onto the palms of my hands, lifting up drives my feet towards Showtime's jaw with the force of an oncoming car.

Touchdown.

He is lifted into the air and hits the ground several feet away, bouncing. Eventually he gets up, his laughter quieted by my unorthodox recovery. After all, I am just a cat in a disco suit to him.

In slow motion, I see the range of emotions play across his face. Disgruntled at first, like a child that has had his favorite toy taken from him, replaced instead by a look of utter humor and denial. Surely I will not beat him, surely that attack was a fluke. He will kill me and more than likely wear this cheap suit that I bought from Burlington Coat Factory as a souvenir of his victory.

But that last look, this is what I know; this is what is familiar to me. The fear.

I understand you, Showtime. The Sledgehammer was a fantastic novelty trick. Using the immense weight against your own body mass as a means of throwing off your opponent and forcing you into a twitchy movement style was a clever tactic... for the first five seconds.

I cross the gap between us, careful strides as I calculate my opponent and analyze the path I need to take.

I don't need to touch you and read your mind to know that you have played into a 3 move checkmate, Showtime. Again I center myself, find the important lessons that you have learned and apply them. I hear my Guru speaking to me now; I feel the breeze on Athena's Island and for a moment I am once again training in Doi Inthanon; I am back in Thailand and I am free.

My fist becomes pure energy, I am traveling at a speed that not even Johnny Turbo's eyes could follow.

I am free.

There is a brief flash, and for the first time, I see Xanatos and Red-Havok recoil. Showtime swings his hammer down, anticipating where I will be. To the normal onlooker, it is as if time itself forms a field around me, I alter my movements and then burst towards him as he strikes air and nothing more. My fist collides with his chest, knuckle (or paw, if you will) to sternum. His mind leaves consciousness before the air leaves his body. He hits the ground and slides with all of the unerring skill of a professional Baseball player. I walk to him, pull his unconscious body up from the ground; I examine him.

Xanatos is there again, hand to my shoulder. There are no words, and if there are, I cannot hear them. For I am still in Thailand, and I am still at peace for an instant. I have won, and not just because Johnny asked me to. This went beyond jeopardizing the mission, this was something that inevitably needed to be done for me. This is a transcending step, albeit a small one.

I am free.

I have made a choice and taken a step towards confronting what seeks to envelop me.

This moment is a lesson, I remember my Guru, and I remember my promise.

"Honor in Spirit."

I take in that breeze yet again and realize that this is but one moment, a mere instant. But it is an instant of flight, I am not bound by apprehension. I am free for this moment, but the next moment is beginning; it is time to move forward.

Not long after Don Hoefler's publication of the now famous "Silicon Valley in the USA" article in Electronic News, hardware and software engineers began to scramble to the West Coast in order to scoop up the funds being secretly funneled in at that time by the Defense Department. The belief has always been maintained by the government & the military that free reign to experiment and create would yield far greater technological advancements than ones done under the constraints of harsh supervision. While San Jose garnered praise and recognition, a second Valley, or "Canyon" of sorts also took its' hold in the world of electronics.

To call Paragon City a "shapeshifter" would not be an inaccurate term to use. It has, over the years, supplemented the needs of the popular majority. It provided the grounds for movie development and television production when Hollywood and New York City fell short. What Studio 54 could not provide, various hot-spots throughout the neighboring boroughs in Paragon could. No matter the era, no matter the need, Paragon has changed its' face in order to remain relevant. Despite this, it was never taken into account due to the fluctuating crime rate and the influx of super-powered heroes & villains each attempting to make a name for themselves.

The Crey Corporation was hot on the heels of Bill Gates as he worked towards coding his first operating system. With each advancement in processing, with each new microcomputer, Paragon changed itself; a concrete chameleon.

When dotcom start-ups poured into San Jose, Seattle and New York, so too did they come racing into Paragon. Steel Canyon became an epicenter for rich college kids with quirky ideas and large bankrolls. The need for office space increased exponentially, the Canyon expanded and the construction Unions thrived because of it. With each new building there came twenty new businesses.

But just as quickly as they came, they quickly departed. The Rikti War, the Rularuu Invasion, and the establishment of the War Walls drove those hungry college kids out. And while the War and the relief effort practically made Paragon City recession-proof, the danger that living in such a city presented was too much. The office buildings began to gather mold at the corners; each window a book placed on a shelf never to be read again.

The running joke with fledgling heroes in Paragon is that there are never too many office buildings for criminals to inhabit. This is more than a gag; a theme. It is a convenience on account of the cities need to change itself in order to remain current. To not be caught in the undertow, Paragon becomes what a nation requires; an adaptable creature due not only in part to the resiliency of its' protectors, but more importantly, its' citizens.

Clarissa Van Dorn saw the wisdom in purchasing those dotcom start-ups early on, knowing how easy it would be to scare off those eager business owners. Pay a criminal to hold a few kids at gunpoint while they're up late at the office working on building their paper supply company, and they'll sell the business back to you for relatively cheap. The profits that the Crey Corporation pulled in were enormous. It did not take long before Van Dorn would build secret installations in many of those buildings throughout the city.

Doctor Raymond Corradine sat now, in one of those facilities, high-resolution view screen illuminating his face, casting a tranquil light against an entirely Impervium surface. He thumbed the rim of a glass, filled with imported Swedish drinking water, contemplating an article in front of him.

Somewhere, perhaps below the xyphoid process, Dr. Corradine felt a twinge of jealousy boiling; an irritant, causing indigestion at the very thought. This young man, like many others had found himself published while in College. But this was no Collegiate paper. No, this was the groundwork for a powerful Thesis. This young man could be a Doctor. But again, Corradine checked the date. The young man had only been a Sophomore at the time of articles' writing. Perhaps that feeling of jealousy was justifiable.

But this young man's gift, his inherent intellect was something that he had not worked toward. This was the irritant; the boiling in his pit that caused him to sneer and return to his work, rather than read the aforementioned article. The Doctor had studied Miller off and on for years. True, it had been his mathematical algorithms and deductions that had lead to the discovery of a DNA pattern that could inevitably mirror the path of evolution that Dr. Hamidon Pasalima had taken on. Not long after Pasalima's journey into his "evolution" into a reality devouring monstrosity, the varied secret "societies" of the world clamored to gather up the Doctor's work. Van Dorn, in her foresight had gained a substantial portion of it. Though none on her staff could quite understand the brilliance of Pasalima's work.

None, until Corradine came on board, that is.

Raymond allowed himself a small triumphant smile in that regard. To what need would jealousy suit? It was a fruitless endeavor, laboring over his emotions like a child. It was time to return to the world of professionalism. Grant Miller had not worked for his brilliance, and he had not worked to attain the near godhood that now existed beneath his fingertips. No, these gifts had been thrust to him on a silver platter, and he had found himself competent enough to maintain the facade that he was worthy. He, like the city that he protected, was a chameleon, shaping himself in order to suit the needs of those around him. He did not have the ambition to build something for himself.

Imagine, a child of such ability seeking International Business as a major, when the wide world of applied sciences lay before him. The world lay at his fingertips, and he chose to squander it on ideals, virtues, morals.

For these reasons alone, Dr. Raymond Corradine understood that Grant Miller was beneath him. He was beneath everyone. He was scum, insignificant.

He was the means to an end. A gateway, a bridge. The inadvertent inheritor of Dr. Pasalima's work, but nothing more.

Corradine smiled and returned to his work, the twinge of jealousy stilled by the ferocity of ambition, and the brilliance of mind.

I'm still waiting for a surprise to come out of nowhere.

Like, say, a good player showing up on that roster we've already confirmed.

Adroit techniques are our specialty.

Much like being a passive-aggressive ninny on the forums is yours.

This.