Very nicely written. When I read the bit about Sai Ki going into Mime's mind I was dieing to know what would happen after that. It gave a damn good read. 
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Twitter: @TonyParkeze
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Yeah I thought it was well written and was actually gripped by it, feeling sorry for the little fella in Atlas. The behaviour of the rookie heroes wasnt nice but I do see some heroes ingame as being no better, so quite thought provoking and real to me.
He will honor his words; he will definitely carry out his actions. What he promises he will fulfill. He does not care about his bodily self, putting his life and death aside to come forward for another's troubled besiegement. He does not boast about his ability, or shamelessly extol his own virtues. - Sima Qian.
Well done Eddy I really enjoyed (helps that I have teamed with you) - I will be interested in how this progresses will you include how Mime enters the DHP's!
Altitus doesnt have a cure just more alts
Well thanks for all the great feedback! Nice to know that my story actually managed to grab your interest.
Pain, was thinking about including the DHP into it, using names of ppl from the SG would probs be usefull. Already got an idea of how it might happen, mostly relating to Von Whiplash.
Well with feedback like this, im encouraged to write more about Mime and what happens to him. Stay tuned folks!
great story man
Well for anyone who wants to continue with this story as it progresses, please check out this site.
http://mimeartiste.wordpress.com/
I'ts pretty basic atm, but ile expand it as i go.
Hope you enjoy the other chapters as much as you enjoy the first.
Nice story, good concepts.
Some of your langauge could do with a revisit, you have "your" for "you're" and "site" for "sight", for example.
Well picked up. It took me a long time to find 'site' in there. Well I don't pretent to be any kind of grammarian or decent speller, but I do try.
Glad you liked the story though.
The second chapter for those who might want it, and don't feel like clicking a link 
Chapter 2: Arrival
Location: Communications Tower - Mercy Island, Fort Cerberus.
"Flyer Zulu - Alpha - Golf, do your copy?" Three attempts is standard. This was his 6th. Tower Controller Greenberg didn't want to have to call the Arbiter over, but it looked like he was going to have to.
"Flyer Zulu - Alpha - Golf, do you copy? Dammit is anyone there?" His voice went just a little too loud at the end. The Arbiter was walking over.
"Problem?" The plain white visor of the Arbiter gave little away.
"Sir! It appears this flyer is having some kind of comms malfunction. No response to hails sir"
"Send flyers to intercept. Tell the pilot to decrease speed and descend with escort. He can explain to us the problem on the ground. Send Vos and two Wolf Spiders to meet the Flyer" The Arbiters voice was flat, calm, almost robotic.
"Yes sir!" Greenberg issued the orders. Amazingly the Flyer responded to the commands and followed the escort down to the helipad.
"Phew, might just survive another day after all." said Greenberg, the relief far from hidden in his face.
Location: Helipad - Mercy Island- Fort Cerberus.
The mystery flyer had landed without incident. Vos and two Wolf Spiders were waiting for the Flyer's hatch to open. Vos looked impatient.
"I haven't got all day. You! Get that hatch open!" He barked at one of the soldiers. He didn't know their names. Why should he? The soldiers exchanged nervous glances. The one Vos had pointed at took a step forward. The hatch door suddenly opened. The soldier took a step back. They both exchanged slightly more nervous glances.
"Well get in there! Someone might be hurt!" What shred of patience Vos had left was fading, fast. Both the soldiers raised their TacOp Clubs in the ready position, and carefully entered the Flyer. A silent minute passed. Silence wasn't good.
"What in Recluse's name are you two doing in there?" His patience had completely left him. He was never going to be able to concentrate on his paperwork after this. Vos stormed towards the Flyer's silent, empty hatch. Without drawing his Club he entered, and saw the two soldiers crumpled in unusual and anatomically uncomfortable positions.
"What the..." His right knee exploded in pain and quickly gave out from him. He landed hard on his side. Tidal waves of pain engulfed his entire body. His vision blurred. Teeth gritted together. The last thing he saw was a white-gloved fist coming at his face. Mime Artiste had arrived. He smoothed out his white glove as he strolled out of the Flyer. No one in the Tower saw anyone leave the Flyer. One of them could have sworn he saw something, but then he looked around at the ten empty coffee mugs at his desk, and promptly went back to work before the Arbiter caught him.
Location: Hobo Bob's Alley - Darwin's Landing.
Shanty Shacks. Rusting sheet metal. Damp cardboard. Rats. Stench of unwashed bodies, rotting food, vomit and worse.
"...would of moved if he'd just asked. No respect from some people. Wonder if that cute new nurse will..." Hobo Bob had come out of the alley rubbing his groin, and slowly shuffled away, continuing to mutter to himself.
The now former residence of Hobo Bob was one of the better-built shacks in the area. It only leaked in torrential rain, and the roof wasn't entirely metal, so it didn't sound like a machine gun testing range either. Inside the shack was a small metal waste bin with a crackling orange flame contained within, barely emitting enough heat to keep a rat's paw warm. The flickering light cast deep oppressive shadows. Probably a good thing, or you might locate the source of the rancid smell. Stacks of dusty old newspapers were everywhere, though they probably provided the support for the structure. Crumbs from a stale loaf of bread were slowly being carried away by the rats, which seemed blissfully unaware of the unmoving presence resting upon the stained mattress. Mime Artiste was asleep. His white-gloved hands gently folded across his chest. His painted face unmoving. But behind that calm exterior, things were not as quiet...
"They've put it up! They've put it up!" came the cry. The excitement spread though the brightly lit halls like fire through the forest. Mass of students jostling for position to look at the board in the hallway. Cries of joy. Celebrations. The call-back sheet was up for the Talos Talent Show. Waiting. Crowd moving on. Empty hall. Sound of solitary footsteps. Posted high up. Again. Getting box. Standing on it. Disappointment. Not on it. Again. Stepping off the box. A yellow Notice card at the bottom of the board. Message for him. Head's Office ASAP. What now?
"Come on in" friendly voice. Old voice. Door creaking. Grabbing a cushion to put on chair to be able to see over the desk. "Thank you for coming so quickly. We've got a few things to discuss" Old voice, not quite so friendly anymore. Hint of concern edging in. "Guess you saw the call-back sheet? Sorry you're not on it. But that's what we need to discuss. It's just...well, mime acts just don't cut it anymore. The whole not talking thing, worked fine before we had recording equipment. Now, well it isn't what people are looking for. Your tutors and I have been trying to figure out whether you don't talk because you do mime, or if you do mime because you don't talk. Actually, no one here even knows if you talk at all. And well my point is, I don't think we can continue your scholarship here at this school. Do you have anything to say?" Expectant look. Sliding off chair. Putting cushion back. Walking out door. Door Creaking.
Heartbreak. No one to say goodbye to. Room cleared. Stuff packed into invisible bag. Last look around. No good memories. Echoing hallway. Main door slamming in wind. Looking up at sign "Skyway City Performance School - Where the sky ISN'T the limit!" Head down. Scarf flapping. Hefting invisible bag. Heavier than it looked.
Rat squeaking. Mime Artiste's eyes snapped open. No time to hide. Someone sat down already. Newly stoked fire at her back. Odd shadows. No face visible.
"I would say I'm sorry to wake you, but I'm not. And no, don't try to move too much, you cant. At least not till morning. Speaking is so much easier when you have a 'captive' audience." The voice was female. Cold. A killer's voice.
"I have something of yours. May help you on cold nights such as these. But first you have to do something for me. I want you to retrieve something of mine and deliver it to my office." The voice had warmed slightly, like someone had struck a match in the Arctic. The woman's stiletto heel stomped down hard, crushing a rat's skull beneath it.
"Like you, I have a problem with rats. However mine are bigger and have names. This one is called Birch." Birch was uttered with a venomous edge. The woman talked for one more minute, giving a few details to Mime Artiste. She emerged from the shack, and signalled. Her bodyguards stepped out of the shadows.
"I quite like working with mutes. They don't ask questions." They strode off into the night, stiletto heels clicking.
Location: Kalinda's Office - Fort Cerberus
"Listen knuckle head. I don't care what you say you will do to me. Kalinda will do a lot worse. Her earliest appointment is next week. Take it or leave it" the secretary looked flustered. Dealing with so-called 'Paragon Refugees' had added ten years to the lines of her face, and probably shortened her lifespan by twenty. She was too busy trying not to scream down the end of the phone to notice the sound of Kalinda's door clicking shut.
Kalinda gazed out of her plate glass window. Hands folded behind her back. Her leather clad body, casting a harsh but womanly outline as the remains of the day's sunlight, surrendering to the night, cast a sepulchral shadow in the room. Kalinda turned around sharply. Her previously empty desk now had a data disk in the middle of it. Kalinda smiled.
"Well done. That's one less problem to deal with." Kalinda surveyed the room. Couldn't see anyone. There was no response.
"I know you are there. No need to hide from me. If you want your reward, I suggest you look in the bottom drawer of that filing cabinet." Kalinda directed her voice to the far corner of the room, where it was darkest, right beside the filing cabinet. A white-gloved hand appeared from the shadows, and gently opened the bottom drawer. A black and white scarf was carefully pulled out. Mime Artiste stepped out from the shadows. The scarf was loosely wrapped around his neck. He gave a slight bow, eyes fixed upon Kalinda.
"We know how much that scarf means to you, and as a gesture of good faith, we have returned it to you. Now, as much as I would love to have you continue working for me, especially after your work today, I have been ordered to refer you to a contact of mine; Seer Marino in Cap Au Diable." Kalinda had actually sounded sincere when saying she would like to keep Mime Artiste on. She had actually surprised her self with that. Mime Artiste gave a deeper, more theatrical bow and left Kalinda's office. The secretary jumped when she noticed him leaving. They always made her jump. When she recovered, she picked up her red pen, and crossed off the last name on Kalinda's appointment list.
Location: Cap Au Diable Ferry - 1 mile off the Coast of Mercy Island.
Nautical winds. Bitter cold. Sea spray. Grey skies. Waves crashing. Mime Artiste was sat on the top deck. His scarf tightly wrapped around him, shielding him from the harshest of the chilling wind. Eyes closed. Dozing...
Birthday. Single present. Plain brown paper. Soft wool. Happy. Loved
Liked it. Liked it very much keep up the good work
Sorry about the delay between the chapters, but things have been hectic lately. Hope you like the next chapter. More will be coming soon.
Chapter 3: Sol Falling
Location: Devil's Coat Tails' Ferry Landing - Cap Au Diable
Salty sea air. Slight chill to the wind. Gentle rocking of the boat as passengers depart. Angry voices. Protestors. Rough looking. Homespun clothes. Luddites. Red and white placards. Clever slogans. Chants. Songs. Crowd of onlookers.
"Dr Aeon must be stopped!"
"Death to the Doctor!"
"Check out our leaflets!"
Onlookers reluctantly took leaflets and listened to the mad ramblings of the protestors. Printed leaflets on pristine white paper. Professional looking.
"Hey this was printed by Alpha On! Don't you losers know that's a division of Aeon Corp!"
"Hah! You losers got a website too?"
Bored crowd. Moving away. Suddenly a smoke grenade explodes in the middle of the protestors. A squad of Seers and Blood Widows led by a Fortunata Mistress in their distinctive long red-leather coats had arrived. Onlookers staying to watch the protestors get cut down. Massacre. Luddites firing feeble crossbow bolts. Not one bolt hitting its mark. A Blood Widow eviscerates the leader of the protestors in a smooth slice with her blade. Blood pooling on the floor. One protestor slips. The attackers continue, unhindered.
Mime Artiste watching in the shadows. The grace of the Widows is beautiful to see. Reminds him of his own training. Old memories of blood and pain come back. Time to move on. The protestors are all but cut down now. The Fortunata Mistress is standing slightly back, overseeing the proceedings, but in the way of his exit route. Sneaking past people is easy though, when they don't want to see you. Treading gently, quietly. Just stepping behind the back of the Mistress. Almost past her. Suddenly she turns on her heel and grabs hold of his scarf. Mime Artiste stops and looks up.
"Of course I can see you little one. We Fortunata's are not so easy to sneak past. Remember that. I have a message for you from Fortunata Seer Marino. Find her in her office at the airstrip. Now" The voice seemed to come from inside Mime Artiste's mind. At least, he never saw her lips move. The Mistress let his scarf go, and turned back to the action. One protestor was left. His face twisted in pain. Two Seers were toying with him, slowly tearing his mind apart.
Location: Cap Au Diable Airport
Private Planes. Arachnos Fliers. Black Helicopters. Large Hangers. Cargo Containers. Arachnos troops moving around. Guards on patrol. No one noticed the shadow. Small back office in one of the hangers. 'Marino' stencilled on a brass plaque on the door. Only sign of anything official in the whole hangar.
"Come in" Came the soft female voice. Too soft. Almost seductive. Mime Artiste had only just put his hand on the handle when this was said. He hadn't made a sound. He opened the door and walked in, slightly wary. A pristine office. Clear desk. Slight smell of polish. Same as Kalinda's office.
"Glad you took heed of my message. Sorry about having to deliver it like that, but after a while kidnapping people gets awfully tiresome." No humour showed on her delicate features as she said this. She remained sitting upright in her high backed chair.
"My name is Pia Marino, and I believe we have something of a mutual interest in a certain individual; Sol Rising" The name caught Mime Artiste's attention...
That fateful day. Atlas Park. The taunting. The pain. The humiliation. Unable to move. Feet surrounded by a ring of fire. Laughing faces. Spandex clad heroes. Costume blended to look like a sunrise. Symbol of the Sun emblazoned upon his chest. Can't move. Too much heat.
"So you do remember; good." Seer Marino's soft voice was now laced with sympathy. Mime Artiste's painted face showed no emotion. Seer Marino knew his mind wasn't so calm.
"My brother Paulo was sent long ago to investigate a warehouse believed to be inhabited by members of The Lost. A fire started and killed many Arachnos troops. A good friend of mine, a fellow Seer, was there along with my brother. She survived, in a sense, and I have not seen my brother since. I learnt however that it wasn't The Lost who started that fire; it was a 'Hero' called Sol Arium. In condition for my future compliance, Lord Recluse captured Sol Arium and tortured him to death. His ghost now belongs to Lord Recluse. Personally I wish to continue to see him suffer, even after his death. Rising Sol is the son of Sol Arium." Seer Marino's voice verged on the edge of breaking as she said this. Her voice only gaining strength as she spoke of wanting to see him suffer. Mime Artiste remained still, listening intently.
"Rising Sol has been sent to patrol somewhere we can get you into quite easily; Bloody Bay. I thought you might enjoy paying him a visit while he is there." Seer Marino smiled at this. It brightened up her previously dark face. Mime Artiste didn't smile, his painted face remaining unchanged. As a response he simply opened the door and walked out. Two Blood Widows met Mime Artiste outside the door. He hadn't heard their arrival. No words were spoken. Mime Artiste just followed them to a black helicopter that was ready and waiting.
Location: Arachnos Base - Bloody Bay
The Flier landed smoothly. Its outer hatch opened, but the motor was kept running. The pilot had remained silent for the flight. Mime Artiste exited the flier, flipping his scarf over his shoulder as he did.
"Ah welcome Mr Artiste. I am Operative Oudot. I oversee operations here in Bloody Bay. I understand you are here to help us out with a certain problem in the Green Nugget area. If you would like to take a few minutes to learn about the history of Bloody Bay I think it would...umm...err...what was I doing?" Operative Oudot looked puzzled. Hadn't he just been talking to someone? He looked around, but saw no one around except the pilot inside the Flier. He looked down at his clipboard. A page had been torn off from the top leaving just a torn slip inside the clasp. Oudot shrugged and went about the rest of his day.
Location: Green Nugget - Bloody Bay
Deserted Shops. Eerie silence. Rubbish blowing about in the wind. Strange shapes visible in the distance. Shivans. Odd glow around them. Slow. Brainless. Alien. Mime Artiste stood silently in the shadows of an alley by an abandoned shop. Moving out of the alley something caught Mime Artiste's eye. The faded sign on the front of the shop; 'Ye Olde Magick Shoppe' Mime Artiste's mind suddenly flashed with a long-repressed memory...
Pretty lights in the sky. Stars? Daytime. Odd. Sense of unease. People looking up. Tugging at a black trouser leg. Familiar face looking down. Old face. Worried face. Black top hat. Black silk cloak. Red lining. Smart suit. Smell of old smoke. Air raid sirens blaring. A meteor shower? Deafening noise. Explosions. Flying rubble. Green glow. Panic. Screaming. Being picked up and taken inside. Rushing. Gather things. Be Quick. Get out. Running. Short legs not moving fast enough. Falling. Pain. Gravel embedded in knee. Crying. Left behind. Crying louder. Picked up. Held tight in strong arms. Smell of flour. Fresh Bread. The Baker from next door. Boarding small boat. Scared. Stench of fear. Paragon City. Must get to Paragon City. Safe. It's safe there. No, I haven't seen him. He will be fine. We will find him. I promise.
Mime Artiste knew this place. It had been home. Now it was just a hollow shell. Boarded up and barren. No life within it. A pale shadow of its former self. Like him.
Mime Artiste was brought out of his silent reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching. The distinctive sound of Longbow boots. Mime Artiste stepped back into the shadows. Silent. Waiting.
Rising Sol was being punished. At least that's how he saw it. So what if he had missed a few fireballs? The fire usually got put out by someone soon enough anway. Bloody Bay wasn't a threat to Paragon. A bunch of dim-witted alien-skeleton things and the odd ghost. He had been sent here to 'further his abilities', nice way of saying 'punishment' if you asked him. Not that anyone did. No one ever listened to him. Always telling him what to do. It was just so unfair. So here he was, just lazily flying around, trying not to let the boredom get the best of him. Last time it did he had ended up picking a fight with one of the Shivans. His head still hurt sometimes.
A shrill, ear-splitting scream snapped him out of his internal mutterings. It shocked him so much he nearly fell out of the sky. It came from just below him. He flew down to investigate. Hovering just above the ground he could see a lone Longbow Rifleman in the middle of a small park. His arms covering his face. Violently trembling and screaming. Endlessly screaming. No one around near him. Had he been attacked by one of the Shivans? One of those Circle of Thorns ghosts? Nothing was around though. Rising Sol landed and rushed straight to the Rifleman, and knelt down beside him. He reached out to touch the Rifleman when suddenly his arm gave a sickening snap. His arm exploded in a tremendous rush of pain. Nausea swept over him. He just managed to look down and see bone protruding from his arm, blood spurting out in an arterial torrent. The still trembling Rifleman began screaming again with renewed vigour. A soft hand touched Rising Sols' shoulder, as he writhed around on his knees in pain on the floor. He looked up to see Mime Artiste's painted white face staring at him over his shoulder.
"You? But...Didn't..." His words were lost in the sound of the still-screaming Rifleman. He never got to finish his sentence. Mime Artiste snapped his neck in one fluid motion. Rising Sol keeled over. His body now lifeless. No fire emanated from his hands. Snuffed out. Cold. Rising Sol was going to be with his father now. The knowledge of his misdeeds being his undoing, would bind his soul to this world. Rising Sol would become a servant of Lord Recluse, just like his father.
Mime Artiste left the Rifleman trembling in a pitiful heap, and disappeared into the shadows once more.
The Flier Pilot jumped when he felt the tap on his leg. The motor was still running so he quickly shut the hatch and took off. Operative Oudot looked up when he saw the Flier departing. He couldn't remember if one was even scheduled for the day. He still hadn't found the missing page from his manifest. Oudot had been doing this job long enough to know that sometimes, asking too many questions often led to too few answers.
Location: Cap Au Diable Airport
Seer Marino hadn't felt Mime Artiste coming this time. This made her smile. He was learning.
"I hope that you enjoyed doing that as much as I enjoyed seeing it. Well of course you did. A nice touch leaving that snivelling Longbow alive. You might just be what She said you were. I certainly hope so" Seer Marino suddenly realised she was flirting with Mime Artiste. Abruptly she straightened herself up and said in a slightly more authoritative voice "There is someone else who you will be interested in meeting. Captain Petrovich. Not normally someone we deal with, but he's brutal, ruthless and cunning, probably why he is on our radar. He is stationed on Sharkhead Isle near the docks. Follow the smell of rotten fish. You should find him. I do hope I see you again Mime Artiste. Good Luck." Seer Marino scolded herself again for flirting. Mime Artiste went to leave, and just as he was about to disappear out the door, he turned and blew her a kiss. Seer Marino blushed. She was sure she could feel the soft tender caress of lips upon her cheek.
Mime Artiste stuck to the shadows and alleyways of Cap Au Diable. People here were too preoccupied to notice him. He kept hearing snatches of conversation about gremlins and electricity, of the electrics playing up and a big ball of lightning being seen around one of the parks. Hushed mutterings about the Luddites being right all along. The word 'Deathsurge' kept coming up. Mime Artiste kept walking. A slight spring in his normally sombre step. Seer Marino was right. He had enjoyed it. He was too busy thinking about what that meant to notice his hair standing on end. The sound of a fight was close by. Mime Artiste stood in the shadows and watched the action. A ragtag group were battling with what looked to be living electricity. A manically grinning girl with orange dreadlocks floated above the action, seemingly sending jolts of energy into the other combatants. Mime Artiste walked on. Had he just seen a group of villains working together? And was that horde of zombies really taking orders from the girl with little fairy wings? Mime Artiste looked back, blinked twice and shook his head. He was beginning to like the Rouge Isles. Continuing on quietly, he made his way towards the Sharkhead Isle Ferry. Slipping on board silently, and without paying, he stood on the top deck and looked back over the shore. If Bloody Bay or Paragon City was no longer home, maybe the Rogue Isles could be.
For those of you who liked the previous chapters, heres another.
Chapter 4: Harken to the Call
Location: Port Recluse - Sharkhead Isle
High winds. Lots of shouting. Raised voices. Angry ferry captain. No dockworkers. Deck hands desperately trying to secure the ferry. Sounds of wood splintering, metal crunching. Passengers falling over. More shouting. More angry voices. Ferry tied off. Secure. Passengers departing. Fast. Green faces. Foul smells. Still no dockworkers.
Mime Artiste had been silent for all of this. His face was white, but then it was painted that way. Slipping off the Ferry after all had left. Unaffected by the violent docking. Mime Artiste looked around him. Sharkhead Isle was an industrial wasteland. Warehouses. Factories. Chimneystacks. Smoke. Pollution. Smog. Ash. Steel. Nothing natural. Bad smells, not just from the passengers. Mime Artiste had been told to follow the smell of fish. The fetid stench of it was everywhere. No dockworkers to ask. Mime Artiste started walking along the edge of the docks. Follow the smell Marino had said. Which one?
Location: Captain Petrovich's Shack
Marino had been right. The smell did lead Mime Artiste here. There was something different about this smell. More potent than the ones surrounding it. Mime Artiste wrapped his scarf tightly around his face. Just his black eyes showing between the scarf and his beret. The shack was almost as bad as where he had slept his first night in the Rogue Isles. At least this one had a proper roof. He knocked on the warped wooden door. No response. Odd sound from inside. Snoring. Mime Artiste slipped inside the shack.
Captain Petrovich was fast asleep. Dirty black boots resting up on an old wooden desk. Tilted back in a chair made out of driftwood. Half drunk bottle of rum still clutched to his chest. Pipe dangling from the edges of his mouth. Eye patch slightly askew, revealing the edges of an old scar. Mime Artiste moved round the desk to get closer to him. He reached up to try and take the bottle.
"Wash yarr doin'? Gerrorf me. Arr! It be you! They tol' me they were sendin' a scallywag. You be the one ay? Well don't be thievin' my bottle o' rum yah 'ear. Thievin' lil rapscallions like you should know better than to steal a man's drink! Now what can I do for ye?" The reddened face of the Captain was slightly jovial. Half a bottle of rum helps. Mime Artiste walked softly around the other side of the desk and perched himself on an old wooden pallet.
"Arr now I be a monkey's behind. Ye don't talk do ye. They did tell me, but I be old. Forgets me do. I forgets stuff too much nowadays. Anyways. Gots me a job for ye. Got me a box that needs fetching see? Important box. Also...well an 'idden box. Special box, that this ol' cap'ain needs back. Thing is see, this box is in a difficult place to gets to. I need a thivin' runt like ye to fetch it for me. Summin in it for ye too mind. 'round where that box be buried, they got one o' 'em 'eroes. One of those spandex types. Never could see the appeal o' that stuff misself. Odd bunch them 'eroes I tells ye. You be 'avin to take one of me boats to get there mind. Not a big boat, but she will do. I would be takin' ye there misself, but, well ye can see the state I be in. Barely gots me legs that stay stanin' o' the land. Best nots be tempting the fates to sweep me down to meet ol' Davey now is it?" The captains voice was slurred, but otherwise his accent was clichéd to the point of comical. Like something out of a bad pirate movie.
Mime Artiste sat and listened to the captain for a short while longer, scarf still firmly wrapped around his nose and mouth. The stench was even worse indoors. After a few long tortuous minutes, the Captain had laid out the details. The box was in Siren's Call. No information about the hero. Told to tell the Mime. He would be interested. Mime Artiste left the rank confines of the shack. Breathing in a gulp of air outside didn't help. The stench was everywhere. Time to go treasure hunting.
When Mime Artiste had left and the Captain was sure he was out of earshot he rapped his knuckles on the desk three times. A door opened and the smell grew worse.
"I did what ye asked, but I be feelin' bad 'bout it. Why do I be sending that runt to fetch me cargo when ye be 'opin' he don't be coming back? Makes no sense to me it don't." Captain Petrovich took a long drink from the rum bottle and slammed it back down on his desk. The figure in the shadows stepped forwards into the dim light of the shack. The figure was half human, half shark. He terrified the captain normally. That's what the rum was for.
"He comes back. You get your cargo. He doesn't come back. I make Her look like She has shrimp-brains. Either way, you get your cargo, even if I have to fetch it myself. If he does manage to take out two heroes, survive the Call and come back, well I might just have to resort to Plan B" The voice was raspy, hoarse and guttural.
"What be Plan B then eh? Me barnacles! D'you say two 'eroes?" Captain Petrovich picked up the bottle of rum and drained the last of its contents, tilting back in his chair to extract the last of it. He needed another bottle. Fast.
Location: Siren's Call
Siren's Call. The nautical graveyard of the Isles. Ghostly wrecks. Half submerged in the oily sea. Crumbling War Walls. Demolished buildings. The eerie sound of the un-dead, gasping for air. The great Lighthouse. Historic monument to death and destruction. The rocks. The terrible jagged rocks. Each with a story of its own. The Call was now inhabited by those of the Rogue Isles seeking treasure, seeking a way to the lights of the great Paragon City. Those seeking to prove themselves. Those with nothing to lose.
Mime Artiste's small boat drifted low in the water. Just another abandoned vessel, floating amongst the debris. The furthest beach on the left the Captain had said. Should be around here somewhere. Amongst all this debris, it was little wonder that something could stay hidden for this long. Laughter. A girlish giggle of delight. Mime Artiste's attention snapped towards it. He knew that giggle. It was one of them .
"Get her!"
"Take her down!"
"Ack!"
"Now we're mad!"
Explosions. The wet slapping sound of bodies hitting concrete. Silence. That giggle again.
"You big sillies never learn do you? You just can't hurt me in here. And when Bubbly Wubbly says you go splat now. You go splat! He he he!" The young girlish voice carried over to Mime Artiste. The Captain was right. There was something in it for him. Beaching the boat further up the beach, Mime Artiste quickly ran onto the grass. Footprints were too obvious on sand. Treading carefully along the grass bank, Mime Artiste got a clear look at his target. Bubbly Wubbly was young for a hero, even by today's standards. She was still quite short too, just over five feet tall. Her bouncy blonde hair was up in pigtails, tied up with pink scrunches. Her cheerleader outfit was pristine, and still as bright pink as when Mime Artiste had first seen her all that time ago. It was her who had used one of her very own force bubbles to send Mime Artiste flying. She stood on the beach alone. Arms folded. Big grin. Easy to feel safe when you're surrounded by your own little force field. Mime Artiste's cold stare grew colder. She was on the furthest beach to the left. The Captain's box was close by, somewhere. Then she started singing. Badly.
Two limp bodies suddenly dropped out of the sky. One fell directly on top of Bubbly Wubbly, but harmlessly slid off her force field. The other lay twitching. His body convulsing in the macabre dance of the dead.
"Big meanie! What you do that for?" Bubbly Wubby shook her little fist in the air quickly before she sent a short burst of energy from her hands sending the bodies away from her. Her hands glowed with a pink aura briefly as she did this. She liked pink.
"Sorry Bubble-head. Just some target practice" said a strong male voice from the air.
"Don't call me Bubble-head! I don't have to defend you when you get in over your head! Remember that!" Her girlish voice sounded angry now. She sounded like a five year-old having a tantrum, a super powered tantrum. A tall male figure landed softly near her. His arms and legs were robotic. The sharp crackle of electricity pulsed around them. Mime Artiste knew this one too. Kada; another one of them . The memory of being trapped in that cage of electricity made his hair stand on end. Mime Artiste stayed hidden. There were two in the bush. Now to get one in the hand.
A popping sound. Figure appearing next to Kada. Rush of wind. Kada knocked back. Popping sound. Figure gone. Another popping sound. This time away from the beach.
"Those dam Tsoo Sorcerors! This ones mine!" Kada popped himself up onto his feet and went speeding off to find the Tsoo Sorcerer that had knocked him down. Kada ran straight past where Mime Artiste was hiding. Mime Artiste turned and followed him. Bubbly Wubbly had stayed put.
Kada caught the Tsoo in a tesla cage before he could teleport away again. Trapped with no means of escape, the Sorcerer was helpless. Kada sauntered towards him. He could take his time with this one. Kada sent small jolts of electricity sparking towards the Sorcerer. The pain showing on his twisting face. His body convulsing. Kada increased the voltage to lethal levels. The body gave a final spasm. Gone.
"That just wasn't as fun as it should have been. Ah well" Kada went to turn away from the lifeless body but one of his legs malfunctioned. Hydraulic fluid was leaking out. The ground was stained with it. Kada looked down. Some of the wires were loose. His robotic legs having lost all pressure gave way. He landed hard on the ground, unable to get himself back up. Mime Artiste appeared from the shadows. A length of red electrical wire held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
"What in Paragon are you? How did you sneak up on me like that?" Kada's previously strong voice was now nervous. He knew this guy. But from where?
Mime Artiste held the long red wire aloft in his left hand. He then raised his right and made an odd gesture. Kada knew that gesture. He had done it a thousand times. Wire clippers. As Mime Artiste made this gesture a small length of the wire fell to the ground. The rest remained in his left hand. Kada remembered now. Mime Artiste approached Kada with caution. Kada went to raise his arms up, but these were malfunctioning too. Hydraulic fluid was leaking from his arms now, the ground saturated now. He was helpless. Trapped. Kada knew what happened to those who were trapped. Mime Artiste got round behind Kada. Pulling the long red wire taut, he garrotted Kada, who couldn't even struggle, just lie still. Gasping for air, desperate, suffering. Until the suffering ended, his life force sparking no more.
Bubbly Wubbly still stood in her bubble, oblivious. Kada could look after himself with just one, normally. Looking around for any other signs of trouble, she noticed a trail of footprints leading towards her. These weren't her prints. These were too small, even for her. That and there was no high heel impression. Slightly panicked she sent forth bolts of energy from her hands in the direction of the footprints. When she did this, she had to drop her force field briefly, and quickly closed it back up again. One of the bolts had caught the end of Mime Artiste's scarf and revealed him standing there, just a few feet away from her. His black eyes met hers and she stood frozen, too scared to leave the safety of her bubble. Mime Artiste had one of Kada's robotic hands. Curling the metal fingers into a fist, Mime Artiste used it to knock on the wall of her force field. It made a quiet clinking sound. Putting the hand in his black trouser pocket, Mime Artiste used his own gloved hand to knock. An even quieter clinking sound this time. Bubbly Wubbly realised that he was just testing her bubble. All she had to do was stay inside it. At least until backup arrived. She was a hero after all. Backup always arrived for heroes, didn't it? Mime Artiste tilted his head slightly and paused. Raising his white-gloved hands up together, his index fingers pointing outwards, the tips touching the edge of the force field. Mime Artiste then drew his hands apart, drawing a straight line outwards. Hands about three feet apart now, he drew his hands downwards, towards the floor. Straightening himself out again, Mime Artiste raised his left hand into a fist about waist height and seemed to be grabbing hold of something. Lowering his hand down with a slight angle, Mime Artiste then drew the hand towards him, as if opening a door. Mime Artiste took two steps forward, into the bubble. Bubbly Wubbly stood stupefied. How? What had just happened? What was going to happen next? Mime Artiste withdrew Kada's robotic hand from his pocket and closed its cold metal fingers around her throat. Gasping for air she tried fighting back. Her flailing fists never landed. Her struggles became weaker and weaker. Finally she went limp. Her blood shot eyes stared directly into the face of her killer. Her bubbly personality didn't show on her face any more, just tiny bubbles of blood from her last bloody gasps of air as she died. Her last thought was "Don't I know this guy from somewhere?"
Find the box. Quickly. Leave. Get out of here. Backup would be here soon. Searching around Mime Artiste noticed a metallic tip sticking out of a pile of rubble. It shone in the sunlight. It was gold. Clearing the rubble away uncovered several objects. The one that held Mime Artiste's attention was the largest one. A large gilded chest almost as big as he was. Faded stencilled letters read "e...rov...ch" This was the one he was after. It had a heavy-duty padlock on it. No chance to sneak a look inside it before he got it back to Captain Petrovich. Stepping away from the chest and looking around, Mime Artiste looks around him. Tilting his head slightly he raises a white-gloved hand to his chin, absentmindedly stroking his handlebar moustache. This thing is nearly as big as he is. How exactly, did the Captain expect him to get it out?
Below is what i wrote the other night when I got bored. Please leave some feedback, all constructive criticism welcome. If people like what they read, i'le consider writing some more, and maybe posting it up on a website somehwere. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 1: Prison Break
Location: The Zig - Paragon City.
Solid steel doors, cold stone, gloom. The big black hole that Paragon's greatest threats get thrown into.
An office: brightly lit, mahogany furniture, expensive pen, stacks of documents. A gentle knock at the heavy wooden door.
"Enter!" barked the Warden.
The door was tentatively pushed open, and in walked Jenkins. Jenkins was new here. A doctor of criminal psychology, Masters in Psychotherapy and advanced training from Longbow in Villain Management. However, being in this place, still totally freaked him out. He got this job remarkably easily, but then The Zig always seemed to be advertising for his very position. He was beginning to see why.
"We've got a new arrival today Jenkins. Inmate 230486. I want you to do his evaluation, write it up and report back." The Warden didn't even look up from his desk as he said this.
"On my own sir?" Jenkins audibly gulped.
"Use Sai Ki if you need to, but yes you will be handling this one on your own. I'm sure your ready. You may leave now Jenkins."
Jenkins entered the interview room with as much confidence as he could muster. Not as much as he would have liked, but it would have to do. The room was bare except for three stainless steel chairs around a square stainless steel table. A single uncovered bulb hung from the ceiling. The heavy steel door he had just come through was guarded by two longbow officers. Inmate 230486 was already seated, his hands in chains tethered to the floor. If Jenkins had seen the site that met his eyes anywhere else, he probably would have laughed, not that he did much of that these days. The inmate's feet dangled off the chair far from the floor, and a small face looked up at him, just peering over the table's surface. Jenkins didn't like ones like this. Vertically challenged was the politically correct term, but to him it would always be midget. Jenkins hated midgets. They freaked him out.
"Inmate 230486. Well I can't continue to call you that. How about you start by telling me your name." began Jenkins, a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. A new inmate always made him a bit edgy, he never quite knew what was going to happen. He got no response from the inmate, who merely stared at him, his painted face unmoving. His expression was as cold as the stainless steel furniture of the interview room.
"Do you have a name? Do you talk? You do talk don't you?"
The inmate merely raised a shackled, white-gloved hand, and closed it into a loose fist, as if he was holding onto something. He then lifted his other hand up too, forming another loose fist just behind the first. What happened next made the counsellor even more nervous. The inmate pulled himself forwards, as if pulling an invisible rope, and pulled his chair slowly closer towards the table. A brief shudder ran down Jenkins' back as he began to realise what the thing in front of him was meant to be, a mime. Jenkins pushed the intercom button,
"Get me Sai Ki please, this one doesn't talk" There was no response, at least not verbally, but Jenkins nodded. Soon after, the heavy steel door groaned as it was slowly swung open, and in walked Sai Ki, The Zig's in-house Empath. Sai Ki was a quiet girl. She wore loose comfortable clothing, too shy to wear the skintight spandex like other heroes. She sat down in the remaining empty chair, facing the new inmate directly. She first looked at him closely. His black beret, his baggy black and white striped top, his little white gloves, and his odd painted face. She looked deep into his eyes, and then slowly reached her hands out to touch him.
Delving into the criminal mind is dangerous at the best of times. The horrors, the violence, the pain and suffering that it can contain. But this mind was different. It was filled with sadness, rejection and loss. Sai Ki began to wander through his psyche, trying to discover the source of this sadness, but didn't have to wander long till she found what she was looking for. His sadness wasn&'t buried; his violent nature wasn't routed deep into his subconscious, but at the very forefront of his mind. Vengeance. The all-consuming desire to see those who would shun him, pay the ultimate price.
Paragon City, the City of Heroes. Statues. A park. Atlas. People, lots of people, and heroes, lots of heroes. Hot dog stands, vendors, public speakers, poets, park benches, picnics, entertainers; jugglers, fire breathers and spinners, stilt walkers and street magicians. People having fun, laughing and smiling. Everyone enjoying themselves, even when the odd hero decided to show up a fire breather, by doing a bit of their own. People going about their lives, just enjoying a beautiful day in Atlas Park. A lone entertainer in the midst of this, trying to please a crowd, earn a living, be noticed. Probably didn't help that he was only 4ft tall, but it seemed to add to the comedy of it. He would do the usual expected stuff, pushing against invisible walls, pulling invisible ropes, doing simple magic tricks; rabbits out of hats, flowers from his sleeve, coins from people's ears. When he got someone who snubbed him, who couldn't even take the brief second to acknowledge he was there, that was when his fun would really begin. He would sneak up behind his intended mark, and copy his actions; his walk, his mannerisms. When the mark stopped, he stopped. When the mark turned around, he turned around. When the mark got angry because people laughed at him, he would produce a fistful of confetti, throw it in the marks face, and run back to his spot in the park, just waiting for his next mark to come along. He was a mime. A mime artiste.
The image shifted sharply. Atlas Park again. A small group of rookie heroes, sauntering towards where Miss Liberty stood. One of them, Wally, a 7ft tall slab of muscle bound testosterone didn't look where he put his size 16s. He had crushed the poor mime's foot. Looking down he saw a tiny white-gloved fist banging against his leg, he had barely noticed. Wally didn't like mimes; they were the only things he was scared of, and for a guy that laughed at bullets, that was saying something. He picked up the mime by the scruff of his striped top, and threw him over to one side. The mime landed hard, but didn't utter a sound. Noticing what was going on, and in a very un-hero like manner, Wally's friends just pointed and laughed at the mime. No emotion showed on the face of the mime, it had one permanently painted upon it. The group of rookies then went on to make fun of the mime, he was taunted, surrounded by rings of fire, his feet encased in ice and trapped in a tesla cage. He was made to levitate, and the final insult, flung backwards by a force field from one of the new heroes. The mime looked around, looking for someone to come to his rescue, wasn't this city supposed to be full of heroes? Where was one when you needed one? Who would come to the rescue? The rookie heroes got bored quickly, and moved on to seek out Miss Liberty, but the mime was still down on the floor, his painted tear seeming to glisten, as if it were real. It wasn't a hero that picked him up, but another one of the entertainers, a juggler who had come into town with the Carnival. This unlikely Samaritan took him to meet the Ring Mistress, the Boss of the Carnival of Shadows.
"Hmm, I think we could use one such as you. Take him to the Training Tent."
Pain. Excruciating pain. Cold. Deathly cold. Darkness. Total Darkness. The Netherworld. The Dark Dimension, inhabited by the foulest of spirits, the most devilish of demons. More pain. And yet more pain.
Voices in the dark. Whispering. Ghostly. A bright blinding light. Power. Dark Power. No more pain.
"You ready? Well you'd better be!" A sandbag on a rope was released, swinging towards the mime, barely missing. More followed. Then, more than just sandbags: swords, axes and maces were swung faster and faster. Dodging the onslaught with supernatural reflexes.
The Big Top. Lights. Picture of him on a poster. Crowds. Laughter. Applause. Silence. Confusion. Panic. Screaming. Fear. Blood.
Sai Ki slowly opened her eyes as she gently removed her hands from the mime. Her head felt fuzzy, as it always did when breaking a psychic connection. She looked at the counsellor, and then back at the inmate
"Mime Artiste" was all she could utter. The inmate nodded.
"What happened to you was cruel and unfair, but you were an entertainer! You loved making the people of Paragon laugh! You used to revel in the musical sound of it! You must use that passion to heal yourself. To help you move on from the sadness that fills you." Her heart felt as if it was about to break with the terrible sadness that flowed out of the mime and through her. Mime Artiste merely looked at her, his painted expression still blank and motionless. There was no longer a tear painted upon his face anymore, just the cold hard stare of the criminally insane.
"You freak me out sometimes Sai Ki, but then I guess you already knew that" said Jenkins, nervously adjusting his tie.
"He was treated badly by those who should help. It made him bitter, angry, resentful, but worst of all, disillusioned." Sai Ki had a sad look on her face as she spoke.
"So what do you suggest we do with him?"
"I suggest that we...we uh...umm..." Sai Ki's mind had gone blank. Who was she talking about? What was going on? Jenkins looked more worried. Mime Artiste had made some kind of hand movement; right around the time Sai Ki got confused. Mime Artiste then raised his hand again, pointing his finger at Jenkins. Terrible images flashed through his mind trying to tear it apart; spiders encasing him in a giant web, a pit of deadly snakes slithering all over him, trapped in a coffin, desperately scrabbling to get free. He began to tremble, he covered his face with his arms, and trying anything to protect himself from the sheer terror he felt. He felt as if his mind was going to cave in. He cowered, scared out of his mind, his heart racing, the deafening sound of blood surging through his veins.
A sharp slap across the face brought him back to reality. Sai Ki politely ignored the dark stain running down his trousers. Jenkins looked up with wide eyes, and managed to just gain enough composure to notice what was wrong, so very wrong. Mime Artiste wasn't there anymore.
"This is going to mean a lot of paperwork." He sighed into his hands as he rubbed at his temples. Sai Ki went to hit the alarm. Before her hand got close, klaxons had already begun to blare out. Something else was wrong. Sai Ki stopped moving, and then her face went totally white. Arachnos troops were attacking! The inmates were rioting! The prison guards and Longbow were totally overwhelmed. Hatred. Rage. Pain. Blood. Slaughter. It was too much for her delicate mind to handle, and it promptly shut down, trying desperately to protect itself from the onslaught of negative psychic energy.
In the ensuing riot, no one seemed to notice the strange little shadow. No one seemed to notice the Arachnos Flyer taking off, leaving a pilot in a heap on the floor. They did however notice the radio tower exploding. The Mime Artiste was free. His painted face seemed to be almost smiling, almost. He was leaving the bright lights of Paragon City behind him. He steered the flyer towards the only place left for beings such as him, The Rogue Isles.