PART II: ON THE RUN IN THE ROW
One Week Ago
High Park, Kings Row
As Uppercut raced through the ice cold rain, he had only two things on his mind. The first, as always, was an all-consuming desire for Excelsior. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him and leave him drowning in rivers of filthy rainwater; the monster in his mind pressed against his temples, screaming. White noise filled all but a small corner of his mind, a corner on which a reassurance had been crudely scrawled in brain matter and blood: ‘CHARON IS DEAD’.
They had buried him a week ago, and if there was ever a good time to be on the run in Kings Row, this was it.
He knew even through the agonising wail of his withdrawal that fearing Charon was irrational. Not only because he was six feet under: even before his fortunate demise, Charon was a human being. Uppercut had fought him on several occasions and knew for a fact the rumours that he was a demon, a ghost or some kind of monster were entirely untrue. He was flesh and blood, albeit one with an impervium stick and a steadfast determination to put men like himself behind bars. But with the sirens chasing him through the wind, the last thing Michael needed was to run into a bloodthirsty dead man.
He rounded a corner into a decrepit back alley that split High Park in half. He had a safehouse in an old tenement nearby, all he had to do was reach it and wait – sweat – this out. Thoughts of Charon had disappeared; behind his half-dead eyes, all thoughts had turned back to glowing yellow liquid in tiny glass vials, and how he was going to survive without them. How could he apologise to Bile for this? He had killed one of his best men, and that kid, that kid could only have been-
And then he hit the floor with a grotesque splash, flood water and sewage soaking his costume through.
His arms whirred into action, the anti-gravity repulsors imbedded in his palms throwing him back onto his feet by instinct more than choice; an orange glow surrounded his hands as he looked into the shadows and realised he’d tripped over something human.
“… Have you seen her?” a feeble voice spoke out into the darkness.
There was a moment of silence; a flash of lightning. Uppercut recoiled an inch as he saw the vagrant’s face in a brief second of brilliant light; a scar ran from his forehead through his right eye, running all the way down to the side of his mouth. His hair was matted and soaked wet with rain, his stubble appeared to be filled with blood.
A deafening thunderclap rang through the alley.
“I thought she’d be here, I… she was here. She was right here…” the vagrant muttered into the darkness. He rose to his feet and came towards Michael; under the stress of withdrawal, Uppercut was rooted to the spot, watching this surreal scene unfold like a disquieting nightmare.
“WHERE IS SHE?” As the vagrant screamed through the storm, Michael’s senses came back to him. Was this guy high? It was worth a shot.
“Listen, buddy. I got no idea where your broad is,” his leg was shaking again; the monster had moved to the pit of his stomach, swimming in bile. “But whatever you’re on… I got cash. What’ve you got?” His voice was shaking.
The vagrant surged forward, grabbing Uppercut by the throat.
"What have you done to her...?” he hissed in almost a whisper. Even through his mask Michael could smell the alcohol on his breath. This guy didn’t have what he needed. The monster moved into his throat, bringing an empty stomach’s acid into his chest. His eyes began to mist.
Uppercut wrenched the vagrant’s arm away from his throat and raised his fist. No one threatened him. No one. Just as he felt rage tingling at the back of his eyeballs, a noise broke through the storm; a siren.
A squad car pulled up at the end of the alley. In a flash, Uppercut threw the vagrant back down into the floodwater. As he ran into the shadows, Michael heard the vagrant whisper into the wind:
“… Have you seen her?”
One Week Ago
High Park, Kings Row
As Uppercut raced through the ice cold rain, he had only two things on his mind. The first, as always, was an all-consuming desire for Excelsior. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him and leave him drowning in rivers of filthy rainwater; the monster in his mind pressed against his temples, screaming. White noise filled all but a small corner of his mind, a corner on which a reassurance had been crudely scrawled in brain matter and blood: ‘CHARON IS DEAD’.
They had buried him a week ago, and if there was ever a good time to be on the run in Kings Row, this was it.
He knew even through the agonising wail of his withdrawal that fearing Charon was irrational. Not only because he was six feet under: even before his fortunate demise, Charon was a human being. Uppercut had fought him on several occasions and knew for a fact the rumours that he was a demon, a ghost or some kind of monster were entirely untrue. He was flesh and blood, albeit one with an impervium stick and a steadfast determination to put men like himself behind bars. But with the sirens chasing him through the wind, the last thing Michael needed was to run into a bloodthirsty dead man.
He rounded a corner into a decrepit back alley that split High Park in half. He had a safehouse in an old tenement nearby, all he had to do was reach it and wait – sweat – this out. Thoughts of Charon had disappeared; behind his half-dead eyes, all thoughts had turned back to glowing yellow liquid in tiny glass vials, and how he was going to survive without them. How could he apologise to Bile for this? He had killed one of his best men, and that kid, that kid could only have been-
And then he hit the floor with a grotesque splash, flood water and sewage soaking his costume through.
His arms whirred into action, the anti-gravity repulsors imbedded in his palms throwing him back onto his feet by instinct more than choice; an orange glow surrounded his hands as he looked into the shadows and realised he’d tripped over something human.
“… Have you seen her?” a feeble voice spoke out into the darkness.
There was a moment of silence; a flash of lightning. Uppercut recoiled an inch as he saw the vagrant’s face in a brief second of brilliant light; a scar ran from his forehead through his right eye, running all the way down to the side of his mouth. His hair was matted and soaked wet with rain, his stubble appeared to be filled with blood.
A deafening thunderclap rang through the alley.
“I thought she’d be here, I… she was here. She was right here…” the vagrant muttered into the darkness. He rose to his feet and came towards Michael; under the stress of withdrawal, Uppercut was rooted to the spot, watching this surreal scene unfold like a disquieting nightmare.
“WHERE IS SHE?” As the vagrant screamed through the storm, Michael’s senses came back to him. Was this guy high? It was worth a shot.
“Listen, buddy. I got no idea where your broad is,” his leg was shaking again; the monster had moved to the pit of his stomach, swimming in bile. “But whatever you’re on… I got cash. What’ve you got?” His voice was shaking.
The vagrant surged forward, grabbing Uppercut by the throat.
"What have you done to her...?” he hissed in almost a whisper. Even through his mask Michael could smell the alcohol on his breath. This guy didn’t have what he needed. The monster moved into his throat, bringing an empty stomach’s acid into his chest. His eyes began to mist.
Uppercut wrenched the vagrant’s arm away from his throat and raised his fist. No one threatened him. No one. Just as he felt rage tingling at the back of his eyeballs, a noise broke through the storm; a siren.
A squad car pulled up at the end of the alley. In a flash, Uppercut threw the vagrant back down into the floodwater. As he ran into the shadows, Michael heard the vagrant whisper into the wind:
“… Have you seen her?”
PART III: WOLVES AT THE DOOR
Five Days Ago
Uppercut’s safehouse
High Park, Kings Row
Sixty-one hours, twenty-six minutes since the last hit, and he was convinced that he might be losing his mind. As he lay in an ice-cold sweat on a filth-ridden mattress, his mask leered back at him in the darkness from the floor. He was shaking uncontrollably.
The monster had slithered out of his brain through the corners of his eyes and was standing in front of him in the dark, dank tenement. Rain battered the boards that covered his windows, thunder rolled in the sky above. A cockroach scuttled across the rotten floorboards. The monster was holding a belt in his hand.
“You killed your mother, you know,” it said, pacing the floor. “She needed you, and where were you? Pumping your veins full of that sewage.”
It wasn’t real.
“I ought to beat you good, you worthless little ****,” it said, stopping dead on a floorboard that creaked like nails on a chalkboard. “She’d never let me teach you a lesson. But she ain’t here now, is she boy?”
It wasn’t real.
“Maggot!” it hissed, taking a step towards him, hate in its drunken eyes. He recoiled in terror and closed his eyes so tightly it hurt. His eyeballs throbbed.
In the darkness of his mind, vials of yellow liquid danced in a grotesque ballet. They sang out to him, taunting him. It was over. Bile would never forgive him for that kid. The kid… he was too young for his blood to wash into the gutter.
The monster had fallen silent. All Michael could hear was the howling of the wind; the never ending crashing of the rain; the horrible shrieking of the tenement. He opened his eyes and they immediately grew wide in fear; the monster still stood over him. It had changed shape now, battered old boxing gloves hanging from its withered hands, a bloodied towel wrapped around its neck.
“You were a great fighter, kid,” it said, shaking its head with disappointment that was impossible to bare. “Heavyweight Champion of the World. Didn’t that sound good enough? You didn’t need that stuff, Mike. You were great. Could have been the greatest.”
“It isn’t real,” he said to no one, his words lost to the dark.
“I tried to tell you, kid, I tried. You…” the monster stared at the floor. Michael knew what was coming next; it was a thought that entered his mind every single day, a thought that ate at him like a disease:
“…You could have been somebody.”
"...You could have been somebody."
It wasn’t real; thunder roared in the heavens.
“You just had to **** it all up!” it screamed, bearing over him.
“SHUT UP!” Michael screamed, wrenching himself into an upright position.
His cry echoed around the empty room, bouncing off cracked walls and a damp ceiling that looked only weeks from falling through. For a few brief seconds, he was alone.
“Did you think you’d get away with it?” a voice asked from over his shoulder. He turned to see the monster had shifted; Mr. Mud was leaning against a blackened wall in one corner of the room. “You think a little nobody like you was ever going to take what’s mine? We’ll destroy you, man. You're nothing.”
It couldn’t be real. Nobody knew about this place, nobody…
A metallic clang rang out as a cybernetic fist slammed against the door.
Nobody knew, nobody but…
“Break the door down,” a muffled voice said from outside.
Nobody but Bile.
Five Days Ago
Uppercut’s safehouse
High Park, Kings Row
Sixty-one hours, twenty-six minutes since the last hit, and he was convinced that he might be losing his mind. As he lay in an ice-cold sweat on a filth-ridden mattress, his mask leered back at him in the darkness from the floor. He was shaking uncontrollably.
The monster had slithered out of his brain through the corners of his eyes and was standing in front of him in the dark, dank tenement. Rain battered the boards that covered his windows, thunder rolled in the sky above. A cockroach scuttled across the rotten floorboards. The monster was holding a belt in his hand.
“You killed your mother, you know,” it said, pacing the floor. “She needed you, and where were you? Pumping your veins full of that sewage.”
It wasn’t real.
“I ought to beat you good, you worthless little ****,” it said, stopping dead on a floorboard that creaked like nails on a chalkboard. “She’d never let me teach you a lesson. But she ain’t here now, is she boy?”
It wasn’t real.
“Maggot!” it hissed, taking a step towards him, hate in its drunken eyes. He recoiled in terror and closed his eyes so tightly it hurt. His eyeballs throbbed.
In the darkness of his mind, vials of yellow liquid danced in a grotesque ballet. They sang out to him, taunting him. It was over. Bile would never forgive him for that kid. The kid… he was too young for his blood to wash into the gutter.
The monster had fallen silent. All Michael could hear was the howling of the wind; the never ending crashing of the rain; the horrible shrieking of the tenement. He opened his eyes and they immediately grew wide in fear; the monster still stood over him. It had changed shape now, battered old boxing gloves hanging from its withered hands, a bloodied towel wrapped around its neck.
“You were a great fighter, kid,” it said, shaking its head with disappointment that was impossible to bare. “Heavyweight Champion of the World. Didn’t that sound good enough? You didn’t need that stuff, Mike. You were great. Could have been the greatest.”
“It isn’t real,” he said to no one, his words lost to the dark.
“I tried to tell you, kid, I tried. You…” the monster stared at the floor. Michael knew what was coming next; it was a thought that entered his mind every single day, a thought that ate at him like a disease:
“…You could have been somebody.”
"...You could have been somebody."
It wasn’t real; thunder roared in the heavens.
“You just had to **** it all up!” it screamed, bearing over him.
“SHUT UP!” Michael screamed, wrenching himself into an upright position.
His cry echoed around the empty room, bouncing off cracked walls and a damp ceiling that looked only weeks from falling through. For a few brief seconds, he was alone.
“Did you think you’d get away with it?” a voice asked from over his shoulder. He turned to see the monster had shifted; Mr. Mud was leaning against a blackened wall in one corner of the room. “You think a little nobody like you was ever going to take what’s mine? We’ll destroy you, man. You're nothing.”
It couldn’t be real. Nobody knew about this place, nobody…
A metallic clang rang out as a cybernetic fist slammed against the door.
Nobody knew, nobody but…
“Break the door down,” a muffled voice said from outside.
Nobody but Bile.
PART IV: FOR THOSE WHO FEAR TOMORROW
Five Days Ago
Uppercut’s safehouse
High Park, Kings Row
“Seems like I don’t have to kill you,” the monster spat into Michael’s ear “You’re already dead.”
The door split in two as the foot of a Freakshow tank hit it with full force; splinters flew across the room. A lightning flash revealed the silhouettes of three men in the doorway: the tank, a Freakshow initiate holding a 12-gauge shotgun and Bile.
“I don’t see him, boss,” the Freak said, bewildered, as he took one step into the desolate room; a floorboard screamed under the immense weight of his cybernetic enhancements. “You sure this is the right place?”
Uppercut tried not to breathe. He was too weak to stand, let alone fight. His arms had routed all power to his cloaking device as soon as he’d heard the crash at the door; all he could do was hope that they didn’t hear him. The monster trickled back into his skull through his ears, laughing as it nestled back into the safety of his brain. Suddenly, it felt as if needles were being forced through his scalp; he stifled his own scream.
“Hm.” Bile stepped into the room, his voice muffled by the gas mask covering his mouth.
Silence. A rising pain was filling Uppercut’s chest as he willed himself not to breathe, to gasp for air. The tiniest sound and he was dust.
“I got something for you, Michael,” Bile spoke, reaching into a pouch attached to his belt. From it, he pulled a vial of yellow liquid that glistened like the sun. In Michael’s mind, it sang to him.
He lurched forwards, grabbing for it, his pathetic form dropping from the mattress to the damp floorboards. A splinter lodged itself into his face. Bile jerked his hand away, pulling Michael’s salvation further from his grasp.
“There you are,” he snorted. “Turn off the cloak, man, it’s useless now.”
Michael feebly reached across to the manual controls for his arms, switching off the device. Suddenly he was revealed to the Freaks: a sweating, worthless mess, veins lining his face like cracks across glass, a deadened look in his eye.
“Jesus…” Bile whispered, for a second shocked.
A beat passed; nothing but the rain.
“So, you just killing my boys now?” Back to business, that was more like it.
Without waiting for a response, Bile flicked open a panel on his cybernetic arm and inserted the vial of Excelsior. He pressed a tiny switch; there was an audible sound as the contents of the vial were emptied into his veins. As Bile’s eyes dilated, Michael closed his. To watch someone else have what he needed so badly was unbearable; the monster laughed.
“I just,” Uppercut’s voice was weak, shaking; he sounded like a frightened child. “I need a hit… Please, I need a hit…” He was begging, and he hated himself.
“When Dreck wanted to cut you into tiny little pieces and feed you to the dogs, who was there? Who’s been supplying you with Ex ever since you figured yourself too good for us? Who stopped Mr. D from breaking your ******* neck, man? Who? Us. Me!” Bile was standing over him now, the sound of his strained breathing filtering through his mask.
“… I’m sorry… The kid, I didn’t mean to kill – I just need one, just one…” Michael pleaded. History repeated itself; a child and a stepfather all over again.
“You’re pathetic,” Bile spat. “A maggot. I should have cut you off a long time ago.”
Michael closed his eyes; it was over. He filtered out all but the sound of the rain; even the monster’s manic laughter was reduced to a dull hum.
“Finish the job Dreck started,” Bile barked at his minions, and walked back out into the storm.
The initiate cocked his shotgun; the tank took a step forward. This was it. He braced himself.
“What the hell is that?!” the initiate screamed. Uppercut opened his eyes only to have to close them immediately; the room had filled with a brilliant blue light. The sound of matter crashing together; nothing.
Was this death?
Five Days Ago
Uppercut’s safehouse
High Park, Kings Row
“Seems like I don’t have to kill you,” the monster spat into Michael’s ear “You’re already dead.”
The door split in two as the foot of a Freakshow tank hit it with full force; splinters flew across the room. A lightning flash revealed the silhouettes of three men in the doorway: the tank, a Freakshow initiate holding a 12-gauge shotgun and Bile.
“I don’t see him, boss,” the Freak said, bewildered, as he took one step into the desolate room; a floorboard screamed under the immense weight of his cybernetic enhancements. “You sure this is the right place?”
Uppercut tried not to breathe. He was too weak to stand, let alone fight. His arms had routed all power to his cloaking device as soon as he’d heard the crash at the door; all he could do was hope that they didn’t hear him. The monster trickled back into his skull through his ears, laughing as it nestled back into the safety of his brain. Suddenly, it felt as if needles were being forced through his scalp; he stifled his own scream.
“Hm.” Bile stepped into the room, his voice muffled by the gas mask covering his mouth.
Silence. A rising pain was filling Uppercut’s chest as he willed himself not to breathe, to gasp for air. The tiniest sound and he was dust.
“I got something for you, Michael,” Bile spoke, reaching into a pouch attached to his belt. From it, he pulled a vial of yellow liquid that glistened like the sun. In Michael’s mind, it sang to him.
He lurched forwards, grabbing for it, his pathetic form dropping from the mattress to the damp floorboards. A splinter lodged itself into his face. Bile jerked his hand away, pulling Michael’s salvation further from his grasp.
“There you are,” he snorted. “Turn off the cloak, man, it’s useless now.”
Michael feebly reached across to the manual controls for his arms, switching off the device. Suddenly he was revealed to the Freaks: a sweating, worthless mess, veins lining his face like cracks across glass, a deadened look in his eye.
“Jesus…” Bile whispered, for a second shocked.
A beat passed; nothing but the rain.
“So, you just killing my boys now?” Back to business, that was more like it.
Without waiting for a response, Bile flicked open a panel on his cybernetic arm and inserted the vial of Excelsior. He pressed a tiny switch; there was an audible sound as the contents of the vial were emptied into his veins. As Bile’s eyes dilated, Michael closed his. To watch someone else have what he needed so badly was unbearable; the monster laughed.
“I just,” Uppercut’s voice was weak, shaking; he sounded like a frightened child. “I need a hit… Please, I need a hit…” He was begging, and he hated himself.
“When Dreck wanted to cut you into tiny little pieces and feed you to the dogs, who was there? Who’s been supplying you with Ex ever since you figured yourself too good for us? Who stopped Mr. D from breaking your ******* neck, man? Who? Us. Me!” Bile was standing over him now, the sound of his strained breathing filtering through his mask.
“… I’m sorry… The kid, I didn’t mean to kill – I just need one, just one…” Michael pleaded. History repeated itself; a child and a stepfather all over again.
“You’re pathetic,” Bile spat. “A maggot. I should have cut you off a long time ago.”
Michael closed his eyes; it was over. He filtered out all but the sound of the rain; even the monster’s manic laughter was reduced to a dull hum.
“Finish the job Dreck started,” Bile barked at his minions, and walked back out into the storm.
The initiate cocked his shotgun; the tank took a step forward. This was it. He braced himself.
“What the hell is that?!” the initiate screamed. Uppercut opened his eyes only to have to close them immediately; the room had filled with a brilliant blue light. The sound of matter crashing together; nothing.
Was this death?
((I read this on break at work... and spent a long time just sitting here afterwards. Brilliant work, man! Bravo! I'm really looking forward to the new ERA with all this RP greatness hovering about.))
My guides:Dark Melee/Dark Armor/Soul Mastery, Illusion Control/Kinetics/Primal Forces Mastery, Electric Armor
"Dark Armor is a complete waste as a tanking set."
Thanks, man, I appreciate that. There's more forthcoming, obviously. I'm taking a while to get to the point because I haven't really written anything CoH-wise for a while (the last thing being Mr. Mud's origin) and it's way too fun to get it all out of the way in one post.
((Amazing dude. I am just in awe. Now I feel all insecure about what I posted.))
Paragonian Knights
Justice Company
Your post's great, Grae! Should be another part to this up tonight (if I stop being lazy) or tomorrow otherwise.
Awesome, as always man.
-=Crey Threat Profile=- : : THE CHALLENGERS on Virtueverse
Shoot for miracles - the VALVe email campaign
PART V: A FIX IN TIME
One Week Ago
The Garment District, Kings Row
It was raining in Kings Row. The summer heat had subsided to a violent storm; wind ripped ferociously through the streets and the populace had retreated indoors. Those left outside were wasters, vagrants and lowlifes. Michael O’Brien, alias Uppercut, was one of them. He was standing in the shadows of an abandoned textile plant in the freezing rain, his formidable form lashed by the howling wind; not for the first time in his life, it was cold and he was sweating profusely.
Michael’s leg twitched uncontrollably beneath a battered trenchcoat. It had been sixteen hours, forty-seven minutes since the last hit. His head was pounding like some monster trapped in there was trying to escape through his eye sockets. Forty-eight minutes. Every second felt like an eternity. He was late. How could he be this late?
A voice spoke into the wind from the communicator strapped to Michael’s belt.
“Uppercut, you receiving?”
It was the unmistakable bark of Mr. Mud, co-leader of the Rogues Gallery: a coalition of supervillains Michael was mildly acquainted with. Things had hardly been amicable since a failed attempt by Uppercut and some others to usurp control of the group. The battle had been lost, bridges had been rebuilt, uneasy alliances re-established. That didn’t mean he was going to respond. He had more important things to do.
But Mr. Mud didn’t give up that easily.
“Yo, O’Brien. Wake up. We got a situation in St. Martial, we need muscle,” Mud spoke again; he was met with silence. A few more agonisingly painful seconds passed before a final reprimand: “Alright man, you better be busy, because if I find you lying with a needle in your arm in some back alley, I’m packing your ****, you got me? Over and out.”
Thunder roared in the distance as a car pulled around the corner. Michael took a step, before a hand slapped down on his shoulder.
“Say nothing. Don’t turn around,” a voice whispered into his ear. He recognised that voice.
The car’s passenger side door opened, and out stepped a member of the Freakshow. This was it. His heart started to pound, his leg steadied, the monster in his brain briefly retreated.
“I don’t know who you are, buddy, but that guy over there? He’s got what I want. You got ten seconds to take your hand off of me before I break your fu-” Michael didn’t get to finish.
“Shut up. Keep still. Say nothing. Believe me when I tell you I could kill you where you stand,” the voice said. He knew that voice and, strangely, he believed it.
“Mikey?” The Freak shouted into the shadows, sheltering his mohawk from the storm. “Mikey, you out here?”
The monster began to squirm like an itch at the back of his skull; the twitch in his leg returned.
“Give me one reason why I don’t just tear your head off and go buy my Ex?” Uppercut asked through gritted teeth, keeping his voice low enough so that the Freak couldn't hear; bravado. The vague memory he had of that voice told him he was going to do no such thing under any circumstances.
“Firstly, because if you don’t do exactly what I say, this situation results in your death whether I become irritated enough to destroy you myself or not,” the voice replied, a strange calm in its tone. “Secondly, because I have this…”
A gloved hand held out a vial of beautiful yellow liquid.
“Mikey? Yo, Uppercut?” The Freak screamed into the storm. “Ah, **** this,” he muttered, before turning back to his car. “Guy’s a waster anyway,” he said as he climbed back into the car. Faintly, Michael heard his driver – a kid who could have been no more than fifteen or sixteen – reply:
“Whatever you say, boss…”
The car tore off into the distance, splashing a wave of floodwater onto the sidewalk.
“Take it,” the voice insisted. “Dreck is a personal friend of mine.”
A beat passed as Uppercut hesitated. Dreck may have been a personal friend of whoever this was, but he certainly was no friend of his. The monster screamed; his doubts vanished. He grabbed the vial; hastily, he opened a small hatch on his left prosthesis and inserted it, hitting a switch. There was a vile hiss as the liquid entered his blood stream. He had never felt so alive.
His eyes dilated, his chest filled with air; for a second he was God.
Then the world span and crashed to black.
One Week Ago
The Garment District, Kings Row
It was raining in Kings Row. The summer heat had subsided to a violent storm; wind ripped ferociously through the streets and the populace had retreated indoors. Those left outside were wasters, vagrants and lowlifes. Michael O’Brien, alias Uppercut, was one of them. He was standing in the shadows of an abandoned textile plant in the freezing rain, his formidable form lashed by the howling wind; not for the first time in his life, it was cold and he was sweating profusely.
Michael’s leg twitched uncontrollably beneath a battered trenchcoat. It had been sixteen hours, forty-seven minutes since the last hit. His head was pounding like some monster trapped in there was trying to escape through his eye sockets. Forty-eight minutes. Every second felt like an eternity. He was late. How could he be this late?
A voice spoke into the wind from the communicator strapped to Michael’s belt.
“Uppercut, you receiving?”
It was the unmistakable bark of Mr. Mud, co-leader of the Rogues Gallery: a coalition of supervillains Michael was mildly acquainted with. Things had hardly been amicable since a failed attempt by Uppercut and some others to usurp control of the group. The battle had been lost, bridges had been rebuilt, uneasy alliances re-established. That didn’t mean he was going to respond. He had more important things to do.
But Mr. Mud didn’t give up that easily.
“Yo, O’Brien. Wake up. We got a situation in St. Martial, we need muscle,” Mud spoke again; he was met with silence. A few more agonisingly painful seconds passed before a final reprimand: “Alright man, you better be busy, because if I find you lying with a needle in your arm in some back alley, I’m packing your ****, you got me? Over and out.”
Thunder roared in the distance as a car pulled around the corner. Michael took a step, before a hand slapped down on his shoulder.
“Say nothing. Don’t turn around,” a voice whispered into his ear. He recognised that voice.
The car’s passenger side door opened, and out stepped a member of the Freakshow. This was it. His heart started to pound, his leg steadied, the monster in his brain briefly retreated.
“I don’t know who you are, buddy, but that guy over there? He’s got what I want. You got ten seconds to take your hand off of me before I break your fu-” Michael didn’t get to finish.
“Shut up. Keep still. Say nothing. Believe me when I tell you I could kill you where you stand,” the voice said. He knew that voice and, strangely, he believed it.
“Mikey?” The Freak shouted into the shadows, sheltering his mohawk from the storm. “Mikey, you out here?”
The monster began to squirm like an itch at the back of his skull; the twitch in his leg returned.
“Give me one reason why I don’t just tear your head off and go buy my Ex?” Uppercut asked through gritted teeth, keeping his voice low enough so that the Freak couldn't hear; bravado. The vague memory he had of that voice told him he was going to do no such thing under any circumstances.
“Firstly, because if you don’t do exactly what I say, this situation results in your death whether I become irritated enough to destroy you myself or not,” the voice replied, a strange calm in its tone. “Secondly, because I have this…”
A gloved hand held out a vial of beautiful yellow liquid.
“Mikey? Yo, Uppercut?” The Freak screamed into the storm. “Ah, **** this,” he muttered, before turning back to his car. “Guy’s a waster anyway,” he said as he climbed back into the car. Faintly, Michael heard his driver – a kid who could have been no more than fifteen or sixteen – reply:
“Whatever you say, boss…”
The car tore off into the distance, splashing a wave of floodwater onto the sidewalk.
“Take it,” the voice insisted. “Dreck is a personal friend of mine.”
A beat passed as Uppercut hesitated. Dreck may have been a personal friend of whoever this was, but he certainly was no friend of his. The monster screamed; his doubts vanished. He grabbed the vial; hastily, he opened a small hatch on his left prosthesis and inserted it, hitting a switch. There was a vile hiss as the liquid entered his blood stream. He had never felt so alive.
His eyes dilated, his chest filled with air; for a second he was God.
Then the world span and crashed to black.
((Just when I think this thread can't get any more awesome...))
My guides:Dark Melee/Dark Armor/Soul Mastery, Illusion Control/Kinetics/Primal Forces Mastery, Electric Armor
"Dark Armor is a complete waste as a tanking set."
PART VI: FOREIGN LANDS
Yesterday
The Castle, Bavaria
"... because he was exceedingly useful to me once, Sebastian."
Darkness; distant voices. Was he dreaming?
"I assure you, he will be useful to me. Or it will be your head on the block, Brain. I don't go to this much trouble for junkies and scum."
"Has anyone seen my dynamite? I had some dynamite."
"You miss the point, Kain. It is precisely because he's a 'junkie', as you so graciously put it, that he is so easily controlled. His loyalty is assured for as long as you supply him."
"I'm not sure about this, Blitzman. Surely he's unpredictable?"
"I definitely had dynamite. Or maybe a rocket? Something explosive, anyway."
The voices drew closer; his eyes began to open.
"Judas, not now!"
"... How long was I out?" Michael asked, lifting himself up from the uncomfortable but clean hospital bed he had been placed in; at least clean made a change. With the way things had been going lately he had become accustomed to rotten mattresses and, more often than not, the constant stench of his own vomit. He immediately noticed that there was Excelsior in his system; administered a while ago, the feeling was dull. "And did you drug me?"
All four men present turned to face him. He recognised all four of them, although he had only met two of them previously. Baron Blitzman was a member of the Rogues Gallery; or he had been, he was clearly keeping different company now. King Brain had also been affiliated with the Rogues; he had departed following their mutual attempt to usurp control. Uppercut had managed to make his apologies and weasel his way back in with Mr. Mud and Mindswipe, Brain had been less willing to grovel. The other two he knew of but had never had the pleasure of meeting: Slaphappy's presence made him nervous; from what he knew he was a sociopath. The last story he'd heard involving Slaphappy's name had also involved a grenade and a puppy.
Most puzzling of all was the presence of the fourth man: Sebastian Kain. From what Michael knew, Kain was a politician. Inherently evil, perhaps, but not the kind of evil that hung out with supervillains and psychopaths. Mr. Mud had done some bodyguard work for him, and Mud wasn't in the business of working for monsters if he could possibly avoid it. What Kain was doing in the company of Brain, Blitzman and Slaphappy, he couldn't fathom.
"The sleeper awakes," Kain said, fiddling with his tie. "A week, more or less. And yes, isn't that exactly what you wanted?"
A week? Ex couldn't put him out for a week. They must have sedated him. This situation was getting stranger by the minute, and he wanted out.
"Alright, well this has been great, but I'm getting out of here. Wherever the **** here is," Michael muttered, wincing as he pulled an IV drip out of a vein in his neck; the trouble with having cybernetic arms. He grabbed his mask from a small table set up next to his bed, wrenching it over his face.
"Bavaria, my friend. A long way home. Why don't you listen to what Mr. Kain has to say?" Blitzman asked him, taking a seat at a computer terminal.
"It would be unwise to leave, Michael," Brain softly spoke, sensing Uppercut's rising temper; he had learnt to deal with this man long ago.
"... was it a knife...?"
A beat of silence.
"Alright, someone explain what the **** I'm doing here. Start with why you spiked the Ex you gave me and then explain why I shouldn't just walk out of here now," Michael's voice had risen; he was losing his patience.
Four men in the room looked to each other; one looked for dynamite. For a moment, no one spoke.
"Let me show you something," Kain said, breaking the tension. He walked away, into the winding corridors of the castle; he leaned on a cane he clearly didn't need. All of this was making Michael extremely uneasy; were these guys just going to whack him? He didn't want to die in some castle in a country he'd never heard of.
"Look, what the hell's going on here?" Michael asked, the bravado disappearing from his voice; he was becoming unnerved. Kain didn't even turn to face him as he replied:
"Follow me; we're going to step into the Trace."
Yesterday
The Castle, Bavaria
"... because he was exceedingly useful to me once, Sebastian."
Darkness; distant voices. Was he dreaming?
"I assure you, he will be useful to me. Or it will be your head on the block, Brain. I don't go to this much trouble for junkies and scum."
"Has anyone seen my dynamite? I had some dynamite."
"You miss the point, Kain. It is precisely because he's a 'junkie', as you so graciously put it, that he is so easily controlled. His loyalty is assured for as long as you supply him."
"I'm not sure about this, Blitzman. Surely he's unpredictable?"
"I definitely had dynamite. Or maybe a rocket? Something explosive, anyway."
The voices drew closer; his eyes began to open.
"Judas, not now!"
"... How long was I out?" Michael asked, lifting himself up from the uncomfortable but clean hospital bed he had been placed in; at least clean made a change. With the way things had been going lately he had become accustomed to rotten mattresses and, more often than not, the constant stench of his own vomit. He immediately noticed that there was Excelsior in his system; administered a while ago, the feeling was dull. "And did you drug me?"
All four men present turned to face him. He recognised all four of them, although he had only met two of them previously. Baron Blitzman was a member of the Rogues Gallery; or he had been, he was clearly keeping different company now. King Brain had also been affiliated with the Rogues; he had departed following their mutual attempt to usurp control. Uppercut had managed to make his apologies and weasel his way back in with Mr. Mud and Mindswipe, Brain had been less willing to grovel. The other two he knew of but had never had the pleasure of meeting: Slaphappy's presence made him nervous; from what he knew he was a sociopath. The last story he'd heard involving Slaphappy's name had also involved a grenade and a puppy.
Most puzzling of all was the presence of the fourth man: Sebastian Kain. From what Michael knew, Kain was a politician. Inherently evil, perhaps, but not the kind of evil that hung out with supervillains and psychopaths. Mr. Mud had done some bodyguard work for him, and Mud wasn't in the business of working for monsters if he could possibly avoid it. What Kain was doing in the company of Brain, Blitzman and Slaphappy, he couldn't fathom.
"The sleeper awakes," Kain said, fiddling with his tie. "A week, more or less. And yes, isn't that exactly what you wanted?"
A week? Ex couldn't put him out for a week. They must have sedated him. This situation was getting stranger by the minute, and he wanted out.
"Alright, well this has been great, but I'm getting out of here. Wherever the **** here is," Michael muttered, wincing as he pulled an IV drip out of a vein in his neck; the trouble with having cybernetic arms. He grabbed his mask from a small table set up next to his bed, wrenching it over his face.
"Bavaria, my friend. A long way home. Why don't you listen to what Mr. Kain has to say?" Blitzman asked him, taking a seat at a computer terminal.
"It would be unwise to leave, Michael," Brain softly spoke, sensing Uppercut's rising temper; he had learnt to deal with this man long ago.
"... was it a knife...?"
A beat of silence.
"Alright, someone explain what the **** I'm doing here. Start with why you spiked the Ex you gave me and then explain why I shouldn't just walk out of here now," Michael's voice had risen; he was losing his patience.
Four men in the room looked to each other; one looked for dynamite. For a moment, no one spoke.
"Let me show you something," Kain said, breaking the tension. He walked away, into the winding corridors of the castle; he leaned on a cane he clearly didn't need. All of this was making Michael extremely uneasy; were these guys just going to whack him? He didn't want to die in some castle in a country he'd never heard of.
"Look, what the hell's going on here?" Michael asked, the bravado disappearing from his voice; he was becoming unnerved. Kain didn't even turn to face him as he replied:
"Follow me; we're going to step into the Trace."
((Just read this! I like it a lot! I'll try and have the next part of mine up tomorrow at some point. 
))
PART VII: Out of Time
Yesterday
The Castle, Bavaria
As a brilliant blue light swirled before him, the secrets of the universe perhaps only a step from where he stood, all Michael O’Brien could think about was Excelsior; the monster was stirring from its slumber, a dormant state that was always far too short.
“You have more Ex, right?” He asked Kain, sheepishly.
Sebastian Kain did not immediately reply, his eyes transfixed on the portal in front of him, a gateway through time that – so Michael had been informed – was named ‘the Trace’. A slight annoyance grew visible on Kain’s face as he stared forth into the portal, an understated reflection of the irritation he felt that he had just shown some peasant the true face of God, only for them to spit on it.
For Michael, a few beats of silence passed as he waited for a reply, his mind buzzing with thoughts of chemical sustenance. To Kain, the room was far from silent; it was saturated with the screaming hum of the Trace. In Kain’s mind, the cold room was alive with the awesome sound of power itself.
“I am going to show you something, Michael,” Kain muttered into the brilliant abyss, “And I would hope that, afterwards, you might realise that your selfish pre-occupation is something you should be profoundly ashamed of.”
Michael already felt ashamed. It was not a feeling he was unacquainted with. Suddenly thoughts of Excelsior were replaced with the creeping onslaught of self-loathing.
“Alright. Show me,” he muttered in a tone that could have been mistaken for an apology. Kain reached into his suit jacket and took out a small communicator.
“Brain, align the Trace. Show him the echo,” Kain said, softly. Was that excitement in his voice?
There was a blinding flash as the Trace shifted shape. When the light dulled, Uppercut was sure he could see a blurred vision of a rain-soaked Kings Row swirling in the centre of the portal. There was an electronic crackle as King Brain replied:
“Done.”
Kain turned to Michael, his cane tucked under his arm. He gestured with his left hand towards the Trace.
“After you,” he said, a smile creeping across his lips.
For a second Michael wanted to bolt, to run as far away from the castle as he possibly could. His instant reaction to anything that was difficult: to run away.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the light.
Michael stepped out into a raging storm, but he couldn’t feel the wind and the rain seemed to pass straight through him; the world around him seemed hazy and unreal. He was standing on a street corner in The Garment District. He recognised it immediately. This was where he came to pick up his Ex: a quiet, discrete, unassuming corner under the shadow of an abandoned textile factory, away from the watchful eye of Paragon’s heroes and Arachnos. It was where he had been when Kain had spiked him.
Why couldn’t he feel the rain?
A moment later, Kain stepped out onto the sidewalk beside him as if from no where. He suit remained perfectly pressed, his tie firmly in place. He, too, was unaffected by the violent storm.
“What the hell is going on?” Uppercut asked.
“You are viewing an echo of time, Michael,” Kain said. “Are you aware of string theory?” Michael’s face fell blank. “Silly question. Have you ever read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol?”
A few seconds filled only by the sound of the rain.
“I see… Essentially, we are standing in an echo of time that we cannot affect. This particular echo is a past that never was; I averted it in stopping you from approaching your dealer. However, this past still exists in a parallel universe where I chose not to stop you; we are viewing an echo of the universe in which the eventualities I halted occurred, and their consequences remain concrete.” Kain could tell that his words were being misunderstood. “Just watch,” he said, pointing out into the street; a car pulled around the corner.
From the other side of the street, a man stepped from the shadows, wearing a trenchcoat over a green costume, his face covered by a mask. Michael recognised himself instantly.
“Mikey!” yelled the Freak as he stepped out of the car and into the raging rain. In the car, a kid sat behind the wheel, he couldn’t have been… Suddenly it all seemed to make sense. He had been here before.
“You’re late and pleasantries can wait. You got it?” his past self asked the Freak.
Michael suddenly felt cold. Kain whispered into his ear, a sound that seemed somehow ten times as loud as his past self and the Freak screaming at each other through the pouring rain.
“You’re about to do something that will not only ruin your entire life, but end it,” Kain said, a sinister tone – something akin to spite – suddenly attaching itself to every word that left his mouth.
“Calm down?” Michael saw the rage swelling in his own eyes. “Don’t ever-”
His past self was picking up the car. His heart began to beat like a drum in his chest.
“-TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”
Michael ran across the street as he saw himself crush the car with the two Freaks inside, their deafening wails filling his ears as their bones snapped and their organs collapsed; as they and the car became one entity.
“This is an echo, Michael,” Kain screamed at him from across the street. “You are powerless to intervene!”
From his vantage point, just centimetres from the scene of the crime, Michael saw the terror in the eyes of the younger freak as his ribcage collapsed into his chest; he saw that terrible final moment when he mouthed the word ‘mother’ before his skull was crushed by cold hard steel.
In a flash, it was over. A bloodied cube of metal lay in the middle of the street; blood washed into the gutter; sirens in the distance. Michael’s past self ran into the darkness, the anger in his eyes replaced with ferocious fear.
Michael could almost hear the seconds ticking by as he collapsed to his knees in the rain.
Yesterday
The Castle, Bavaria
As a brilliant blue light swirled before him, the secrets of the universe perhaps only a step from where he stood, all Michael O’Brien could think about was Excelsior; the monster was stirring from its slumber, a dormant state that was always far too short.
“You have more Ex, right?” He asked Kain, sheepishly.
Sebastian Kain did not immediately reply, his eyes transfixed on the portal in front of him, a gateway through time that – so Michael had been informed – was named ‘the Trace’. A slight annoyance grew visible on Kain’s face as he stared forth into the portal, an understated reflection of the irritation he felt that he had just shown some peasant the true face of God, only for them to spit on it.
For Michael, a few beats of silence passed as he waited for a reply, his mind buzzing with thoughts of chemical sustenance. To Kain, the room was far from silent; it was saturated with the screaming hum of the Trace. In Kain’s mind, the cold room was alive with the awesome sound of power itself.
“I am going to show you something, Michael,” Kain muttered into the brilliant abyss, “And I would hope that, afterwards, you might realise that your selfish pre-occupation is something you should be profoundly ashamed of.”
Michael already felt ashamed. It was not a feeling he was unacquainted with. Suddenly thoughts of Excelsior were replaced with the creeping onslaught of self-loathing.
“Alright. Show me,” he muttered in a tone that could have been mistaken for an apology. Kain reached into his suit jacket and took out a small communicator.
“Brain, align the Trace. Show him the echo,” Kain said, softly. Was that excitement in his voice?
There was a blinding flash as the Trace shifted shape. When the light dulled, Uppercut was sure he could see a blurred vision of a rain-soaked Kings Row swirling in the centre of the portal. There was an electronic crackle as King Brain replied:
“Done.”
Kain turned to Michael, his cane tucked under his arm. He gestured with his left hand towards the Trace.
“After you,” he said, a smile creeping across his lips.
For a second Michael wanted to bolt, to run as far away from the castle as he possibly could. His instant reaction to anything that was difficult: to run away.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the light.
One Week Ago
The Garment District, Kings Row
The Garment District, Kings Row
Michael stepped out into a raging storm, but he couldn’t feel the wind and the rain seemed to pass straight through him; the world around him seemed hazy and unreal. He was standing on a street corner in The Garment District. He recognised it immediately. This was where he came to pick up his Ex: a quiet, discrete, unassuming corner under the shadow of an abandoned textile factory, away from the watchful eye of Paragon’s heroes and Arachnos. It was where he had been when Kain had spiked him.
Why couldn’t he feel the rain?
A moment later, Kain stepped out onto the sidewalk beside him as if from no where. He suit remained perfectly pressed, his tie firmly in place. He, too, was unaffected by the violent storm.
“What the hell is going on?” Uppercut asked.
“You are viewing an echo of time, Michael,” Kain said. “Are you aware of string theory?” Michael’s face fell blank. “Silly question. Have you ever read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol?”
A few seconds filled only by the sound of the rain.
“I see… Essentially, we are standing in an echo of time that we cannot affect. This particular echo is a past that never was; I averted it in stopping you from approaching your dealer. However, this past still exists in a parallel universe where I chose not to stop you; we are viewing an echo of the universe in which the eventualities I halted occurred, and their consequences remain concrete.” Kain could tell that his words were being misunderstood. “Just watch,” he said, pointing out into the street; a car pulled around the corner.
From the other side of the street, a man stepped from the shadows, wearing a trenchcoat over a green costume, his face covered by a mask. Michael recognised himself instantly.
“Mikey!” yelled the Freak as he stepped out of the car and into the raging rain. In the car, a kid sat behind the wheel, he couldn’t have been… Suddenly it all seemed to make sense. He had been here before.
“You’re late and pleasantries can wait. You got it?” his past self asked the Freak.
Michael suddenly felt cold. Kain whispered into his ear, a sound that seemed somehow ten times as loud as his past self and the Freak screaming at each other through the pouring rain.
“You’re about to do something that will not only ruin your entire life, but end it,” Kain said, a sinister tone – something akin to spite – suddenly attaching itself to every word that left his mouth.
“Calm down?” Michael saw the rage swelling in his own eyes. “Don’t ever-”
His past self was picking up the car. His heart began to beat like a drum in his chest.
“-TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”
Michael ran across the street as he saw himself crush the car with the two Freaks inside, their deafening wails filling his ears as their bones snapped and their organs collapsed; as they and the car became one entity.
“This is an echo, Michael,” Kain screamed at him from across the street. “You are powerless to intervene!”
From his vantage point, just centimetres from the scene of the crime, Michael saw the terror in the eyes of the younger freak as his ribcage collapsed into his chest; he saw that terrible final moment when he mouthed the word ‘mother’ before his skull was crushed by cold hard steel.
In a flash, it was over. A bloodied cube of metal lay in the middle of the street; blood washed into the gutter; sirens in the distance. Michael’s past self ran into the darkness, the anger in his eyes replaced with ferocious fear.
Michael could almost hear the seconds ticking by as he collapsed to his knees in the rain.
))
I assume that's a positive reaction? haha
Quote:
You are correct. Very good chapter. Need to find an artist to draw the scene in the rain.
|
Originally Posted by Mr_Mud
I assume that's a positive reaction? haha
|
Paragonian Knights
Justice Company
Thanks, man. I appreciate that.
I apologise for the constantly changing shade of red for Kain's speech, by the way. I can't decide which is less of an annoyance to the eyes on the forum's background color.
Quote:
((I use the villain theme and it's not too bad.|
Originally Posted by Mr_Mud
Thanks, man. I appreciate that.
I apologise for the constantly changing shade of red for Kain's speech, by the way. I can't decide which is less of an annoyance to the eyes on the forum's background color. |
Also this ERA of Challenge gets my vote as the best one yet. Uppercut's story is so damn well written.))
My guides:Dark Melee/Dark Armor/Soul Mastery, Illusion Control/Kinetics/Primal Forces Mastery, Electric Armor
"Dark Armor is a complete waste as a tanking set."
I know some of the other posts used colors that are hard to read on the background and I had to highlight them. Blue and light purple come to mind.
Paragonian Knights
Justice Company
I tend to use color just for flavour but I can remove them if they're giving people trouble?
EDIT:
Quote:
Also, thanks!
|
Originally Posted by Nalrok_AthZim
Also this ERA of Challenge gets my vote as the best one yet. Uppercut's story is so damn well written.))
|
((Straight up my favorite ERA of Challenge story.))
So, I moved. Twice. And didn't have internet for like... two months. However I'm back in-game now and even though the ERA of Challenge threads seem to have died down in the interim, I'm determined to get this finished off... Expect a new post soonish.
((I hear that. Unemployment took me out of the loop.))
My guides:Dark Melee/Dark Armor/Soul Mastery, Illusion Control/Kinetics/Primal Forces Mastery, Electric Armor
"Dark Armor is a complete waste as a tanking set."
OOC: Runs with all the other ERA of Challenge threads. This was originally posted at CoHGuru, and I skipped a general intro to the character because a lot of people there already know what there is to know. Since his virtueverse is in a state of utter disarray, here's Uppercut's in-game bio to get you up to speed:
A small time contender in Boston, Michael 'Uppercut' O'Brien was on his way up, until the day he was caught using performance enhancers. Disgraced in the world of boxing and entirely without an education, Michael fled to Paragon City and found himself bare knuckle boxing in the Freakshow's illegal brawls and became hopelessly addicted to Excelsior. He boxed under Bile's flag, and managed to best Dreck's top contender; in an act of revenge, one of Dreck's Freaks brutally sawed off Michael's arms. Bile fitted Michael with the finest cybernetic limbs he could buy. These limbs can not only punch through three feet of steel, but are equipped with energy field generators, anti-gravity repulsors and a built-in cloaking device. Calling himself Uppercut, Michael is now a freelance legbreaker, out for no one but himself.
And a screenshot:
Without further ado...
PART I: A NEED FOR NEEDLES
One Week Ago
The Garment District, Kings Row
It was four in the morning in Kings Row; it was raining. The summer heat had subsided to a violent storm; wind ripped ferociously through the streets and the populace had retreated indoors. Those left outside were wasters, vagrants and lowlifes. Michael O’Brien, alias Uppercut, was one of them. He was standing in the shadows of an abandoned textile plant in the freezing rain, his formidable form lashed by the howling wind; not for the first time in his life, it was cold and he was sweating profusely.
Michael’s leg twitched uncontrollably beneath a battered trenchcoat. It had been sixteen hours, forty-seven minutes since the last hit. His head was pounding like some monster trapped in there was trying to escape through his eye sockets. Forty-eight minutes. Every second felt like an eternity. He was late. How could he be this late?
A voice spoke into the wind from the communicator strapped to Michael’s belt.
“Uppercut, you receiving?”
It was the unmistakable bark of Mr. Mud, co-leader of the Rogues Gallery: a coalition of supervillains Michael was mildly acquainted with. Things had hardly been amicable since a failed attempt by Uppercut and some others to usurp control of the group. The battle had been lost, bridges had been rebuilt, uneasy alliances re-established. That didn’t mean he was going to respond. He had more important things to do.
But Mr. Mud didn’t give up that easily.
“Yo, O’Brien. Wake up. We got a situation in St. Martial, we need muscle,” Mud spoke again; he was met with silence. A few more agonisingly painful seconds passed before a final reprimand: “Alright man, you better be busy, because if I find you lying with a needle in your arm in some back alley, I’m packing your ****, you got me? Over and out.”
Thunder roared in the distance as a car pulled around the corner. Michael stepped out from the shadows. This was it; surely this had to be it. The passenger side door opened, and out stepped a member of the Freakshow. This was it. His heart started to pound, his leg steadied, the monster in his brain briefly retreated.
“Mikey!” shouted the Freak, his mohawk losing its constitution under the pressure of wind and rain.
“You're late and pleasantries can wait. You got it?” Michael shouted through the cacophony of the storm.
“Ah, man” the Freak screamed back, his words almost lost to the conditions. “Bile’s really sorry, man, but we’re like, all out!”
The shake in his leg suddenly returned; the monster attempted to squeeze past his brain and out through his ears; his heart-rate increased.
“Are you kidding me?" Michael screamed through the rain. “He sent you out here to cut me off?” An orange glow began to surround Michael’s fists as his cybernetic arms relocated all power to offensive systems; a mechanical whirring was barely audible above a thunderclap as he threw his trenchcoat to the rain.
“Calm down, man! We can get you some in like, a couple of days, or-” the Freak began, as he quickly backtracked towards his car; a young looking Freakshow member who couldn’t have been more than sixteen was sitting behind the wheel, his eyes wide with fear as an orange glow began to surround Uppercut’s form. The negotiator didn’t even finish his sentence, diving into the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him.
“Calm down?” Michael was aware that the veins in his neck were pulsing; the monster migrating. “Don’t ever-” he picked up the car before the younger Freak’s foot could even reach the accelerator.
“-TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!” He was crushing the car in his mechanical hands. The Freaks were screaming. In the moments that followed, Michael O’Brien lost control.
By the time the rage had descended and his senses had returned, all that was left of the car was a cube of scrap metal. He could make out a bloodied human lung drowning in rain water on the sidewalk fifteen feet from where he stood. A pool of blood was washing into the gutter from beneath the metal cube. Lights had switched on in the surrounding tenements; sirens.
He ran.