The Children of the Hamidon

There are two dreams that I "have".

One is the dream that I "experience". The dream where the power that I read about, the secret about me that practically everyone seems to know; what slumbers beneath, is a waking Titan. A demon storming across the landscape, beckoning for anything and everything to be devoured in its' wake. I understand now that in those dreams, my human form is a kind consideration bestowed upon me by my subconscious, a reminder that even in that world that I've crafted, there is perhaps a sliver of humanity left somewhere. But I am no human there, I embrace my mutant potential and carve my name across the world. I take, I kill, I maim, I devour. I am endless and I am fury.

I've talked about this before, shared my sad little SOB story when I first moved back. You know what I got? Reassuring pats on the back, votes of confidence and words of kindness and reassurance that things were going to be okay, that I would make the right decisions. Even now I understand that the path I walk is determined by the choices I make, true. But every word of reassurance was a word of misunderstanding. The depth to this nightmare goes far beyond the scope of what my friends could even possibly hope to understand. So why bother telling them? Why tell Johnny that there are dreams I have where I've destroyed everything that we've worked for? What would he say? How much could he even invest into a thought like that?

Gidge was the only one that I showed. She knows, she knows and it frightens her. I felt it the moment she put her hand to my shoulder. She took me in her arms and felt a greater fear than the one that she hoped to quiet. I pulled her into my mind and unleashed unto her that which was unleashed onto me. When I break at the seams, she is there; she attempts to piece me back together with loving diligence, but I feel her reservation, I feel her fear. How could she not know? She hopes to hide it from me, the brief looks away, how she bites her bottom lip with all self-doubt. I can feel her eyes boring holes into me when we fight next to one another. She regards herself as a nuisance, an obstacle, an additional person that I need to protect. She has no idea how wrong she is.

I live with her doubt every single night. As she sleeps, I am reminded of the power coursing beneath my fingertips that strikes fear into her heart. The person that I love the most, the person that I surrender all of this power to is afraid of me. Afraid of what I may potentially become.

I meditate more than I sleep. Sleep returns me to that vision, but the dream is different now. Gidge is there, she is trying to stop me. She places her hand to me, but here I am no longer human. At the point of contact, I become an infinite construct, boundless; without limit. She touches me, afraid of herself, afraid of me. She wants to run. I am a monster to her now.

Inch by inch, I feel her distancing herself. There are reminders that she is a human, a girl with toys and a cybernetic implant. Reminders that I am a Mutant, a mutant inheriting a legacy of power unheard of.

Reminders all around me. We took down a Mutant Rights activist who called himself the "Extremist" not long ago. We brought him down together, but he pleaded with me; asked me to let him go, that we were one in the same. He implored that I stop living in the confines of human life, to go beyond my means, to excel and accept my birthright. Is that what this is? My birthright? This feeling of emptiness that comes from knowing that the person that I want to understand, wants to run, and that those that are closest to me haven't the faintest idea? This is my inheritance? A world in ruin, the knowledge that my desire to help people consumed me and everything I sought to protect?

I'm a kid, a ******* kid.

But with equal power there must be a shared level of responsibility, as one grows, so does the other. I feel that growth everyday, I see the metaphor in it all now. The distance that people take from me; the emotional loss is the equivalent to the physical damage that will come in the future. It's as if I have to lose my world first in order to take the world from everyone else.

I'm a kid, a ******* kid, and I can't bring myself to look in the mirror and just... Let it go. Cry, release, break down. With all of my doubt, with the knowledge that the person I love the most is fearful of me, I can't bring myself to shed one. *******. Tear.

That is my dream that I "experience".

But there are two, there is a dream that I "possess".

This is the dream that I chase, this is the dream that I strive for. This is moment that I hope to find, the snapshot portrait in my mind.

There they are, my heroes and my peers; we are friends and we are comrades. We fight together for a common goal; a shared purpose.

Red, Johnny, Masked, Xanatos, Gidge, Foxy, Nimbus, Armaments, Coldcrash, Lagoon.

These are people that I respect, people whose respect I crave. This is the snapshot in my mind, we are a team. Challengers, perhaps. Isn't that what I called the team on television? I didn't know what else to come up with, thought it up on the spot, and it now it just sticks for some reason.

Challengers.

This is what I pursue; a world in which I am more human than mutant. A world in which the choices that I have made have lead me to take up my place as a protector, and not a potential destroyer. A world where I have taken on the ideals of those that came before me and made my own way, a world where the torch was passed to me, and I carried it with pride & honesty.

This is a place where I am not alone, where I am not feared by the people that I love dearly. I think this is the world that my Dad would have wanted me to inherit as well, I think this is the world that my brother hopes that I embrace.

I find myself standing on a precipice, this is not something that I want to confront on my own. But deep down, something is telling me that I was meant to, that in order to stand amongst many, I would need walk as one. A man, not a mutant.

Ready to confront my birthright, whatever that may be.

@Vince

This all feels familiar.

The crowd, pushed back and quiet in their anticipation, waiting with an eager bloodlust that desperately wishes to reach a boiling point in order to break the surface. The closest onlookers, quiet in their reservation; they study, they contemplate. The announcers watch from their positions, speaking to one another in hushed tones, prepared to describe every motion of violence second-by-second. Athena, sword clasped in hilt, radiating Dark Matter like a Solar Flare glinting off the surface of the Sun; her eyes hungry, predatory. Her position is stalwart, ready to slice any that would stand in her way at a moments notice. Thus far she has kept her resolve, interested more in the fights than in killing herself. Her appetite, for the moment, is satiated.

This is all familiar. The arena, a contest of martial prowess; competition. I know this all too well. I took part in Martial Arts competitions when I was younger, and I have danced all over the world in order to raise money for charity by winning battles. I understand this craving that these people have, I am surrounded by criminals that wish to see like-minded individuals share in their craft: unadulterated mutilation.

The breeze tethers around me, and I can sense every single particle of salt as it enters my nose. I draw in deep and my senses clear, my ragged breathing beneath this fifteen dollar mask calms. I steady myself, legs sliding apart into an open stance, hands at my side like a gunslinger; I am inviting, I am showing now the lessons that the Masked Outlaw showed me long ago. The Outlaw, my best friend, showed me the value of such a position, the mistakes that an opponent can make in underestimating their opponent with a cursory glance.

Across from me, a murderer, a common criminal with uncommon motivations and uncommon power. He doesn't know who I am underneath this costume, but perhaps if he did, he would fear. Perhaps the reminder of what I did to him the last time we met would send that cold racing up his spinal chord. But that isn't what I want. I don't want him to fear what I did to him, because I regret it. I regret the pain that I inflicted on both this man, and his associate: Powerlaser. What I did to them in St. Martial is not a reflection of who I am, but a reflection of the power that desperately seeks to unleash itself, to consume me.

"Shoooowtime." he utters, sliding the s and the h like some ancient biblical serpent. He has no regard for who I am, I am a manbeast, or a man in a costume. I cannot tell if he has identified me as either or, but there is a certain hunger in his joints, an eager desire not only for victory, but for the opportunity to inflict surgical torment on the person standing in front of him: his opposition.

No one to help him this time, and he revels in this. I study him, his posture is off, he shifts back and forth as if he's under the influence of crack. Nervous, jittery, his entire body screams to me that he wants to run.

But I understand. He thinks that I do not, but I understand.

The body, if trained properly, is capable of telling a myriad of lies. It can fool even the most cautious observer. To anyone else, it would appear that Showtime is a thug, intimidated by the prospect of taking part in such bloodsport. It is his heartbeat that tells me the truth; the vibrations that his body gives off and the malevolent glint in his eyes that tells me that he is ready to engage in savagery of the most cunning variety.

There is a hand at my shoulder; I steel myself. Disguise or not, I know this man. I have not known him long, but I feel as if I know him well. He is a mentor, and he is lifting the illusory veil that we have crafted in order to enter this tournament. He is lifting this veil to give me focus; he was there for me before when I needed this; he stopped me from going down the wrong path, from taking a life in a manner that even Showtime would have approved of.

"You can do this." he says, and I nod. I breathe. I watch.

@Vince

So much depth it's crazy! Love your writing.

(Note: While this is not an 'ERA of Challenge' post, the events that take place here are interwoven with the various stories being presented by the authors of far greater ability than myself. As such, one may be able to tie several events in these posts to Challenge timeline in order to add flavor to the overall story, if you will)

@Vince

Awesome stuff, man.

So ridiculously in-depth and well written. Not bad for the best PVPer left in the game hey?

Seriously though this is excellent. Really like how you interweave the history of Paragon City and your own characters. Looking forward to the next part.

The scientist, by no stretch of the imagination was to be considered an 'orderly' individual.

Dr. Raymond Corradine often called it a 'coordinated chaos', papers strewn haphazardly around his workstations amidst various test samples and incomplete pieces of equipment that he worked on from time to time. Corradine had nearly 100 open projects left to him by the Countess, or even other high ranking member of the Crey Biotech staff. When his assistants gave him updates on deadlines, he merely smiled and replied,

"You cannot put a deadline on results." And continued his work.

But what the staff that worked under Corradine found most odd, were the unfinished puzzles left scattered all around his labs and office. Between piecing together equations, reviewing information and talking down to them, he would find a piece (sometimes mixed with other puzzle pieces, sometimes mixed with his experiments), grab it and place it in the appropriate section without error.

But the dynamic in Corradine's lab had changed recently. Gone were the puzzles, the dozens of experiments and the information muddled together in paper and electronic format. He had stripped the workbenches clean; he had demanded that every sample be taken out. The Crey staff had watched in surprise as crate after crate of unmarked goods were brought into his lab and left to sit.

Eventually those crates came open, and Corradine slowly began to change. For the first time, the staff noted that he appeared frustrated. He poured over equations, pacing back and forth. They would find him in his lab, slumped in his chair; a weary ruler brought to frustration by thoughts and concepts that he could not quite grasp.

He had overestimated himself. Raymond had brought in every test sample, every bit of research that the biotech firm had taken from Hamidon Pasalima's lab just after the beginnings of his 'transformation'. What else was left had been confiscated by the Midnighters and kept locked safely away in one of their many locales.

The overestimation had been that he, with his brilliant mind and adaptive analytical brain, could understand the process that Pasalima had undergone; the 'Devouring'. They needed to replicate this process in the Millers.

Corradine understood that the first test was never the success that was anticipated; he planned on using the youngest Miller brother, Adrian, to undergo the process. Grant would be the perfect specimen; he would be the success story. Yet again, the young man would inherit a legacy of greatness. Corradine snorted at the thought. No, in time, the world would understand the true hand behind the power that Grant Miller had been given. The world would no longer thank the Rave Spider.

"They will thank me."

But the problem was understanding. He grew more irritable as time went on, casting his assistants out in the midst of important tasks, demanding that he be left to work alone. Often times they would see him thrust papers into the air, shouting in frustration as he approached a dead end as he worked. He would summon them for menial tasks, and immediately dismiss them after. There were talks that he was 'slipping', and that the Countess would be paying him a visit soon enough.

"Let her come, she will have no reason to doubt me once I have found the solution."

His posture degraded over the weeks, he hunched at his tables, having kicked aside every stool and chair as he paced. Every bone in his body ached from the tension that he imposed on himself. His odor was akin to that of death warmed over.

But the good doctor persisted, and more boxes came open.

Corradine read every script, every note, every addendum; analyzed every sketch. But he found complex mathematics with either no rhyme or reason, or found that the equations themselves had already been solved. There was something missing.

The lab grew quiet, and for days none of the doctor's staff were called upon. Some whispered that perhaps he had finally done the good deed and ended it for himself, that he had slipped into madness. Perhaps the sleep deprivation, self-starvation and torment had driven him over the edge. None dared step foot towards those polished steel doors. Until...

The request light illuminated. The doctor was alive, and in need of assistance.

They expected the worst, and prepped a security team to be placed on standby in the event that Corradine had indeed gone overboard. With several agents at the ready, the assistants entered the lab as if the situation was normal; they were shocked at what they found.

Corradine, clean shaven and standing upright, triumphant smirk upon his face. He smelled good as new, and his laboratory looked to be in a state of perfect upkeep. He had organized the notes that he had crumpled up and thrown about in frustration. He had swept up every bit of broken glass that he had shattered during his tantrums. The whiteboards and holoscreens that he had used to work his equations had been cleared, save for one in the very center of the room.

"I understand him now." he declared, beckoning the biotech researchers into the room.

"He was brilliant, and I envy him for the level of understanding that he achieved."

Corradine spoke without provocation, the researchers held their breath in silence, not wanting to trigger another outburst. They waited intently.

"Mathematics is believed to be the universal language. We understand and interpret meaning to all things through numbers and equations. However, even that language has its own... interpretations. We first came to find this after making contact with the Rikti. Upon studying their mathematics, we were able to reverse engineer their teleportation grid. This lead to the medical transit recovery system."

He pointed now, to the equations on the holoscreen. The researchers squinted their eyes to see, but there was no level of fluidity to it. It did not flow right to left, or left to right. It moved up along the left most portion of the screen, upwards and arcing down, with notes and addendums in between larger symbols.

"Perhaps I underestimated Pasalima. I believed his mind, albeit brilliant indeed, to be one dimensional. But he supplemented his works. When the constraints of human science and math eventually limited his physical body; limited his mind, he looked elsewhere."

Quote:

"These are his works."

Quote:

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

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

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

"AND THIS IS WHAT HE FOUND!"

Quote:

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

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

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

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

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

There was so much more that needed to be understood.

@Vince

((Holy **** dude. Holy ****.))

(( Fascinating work, and I love the visual aides! ))

Game's best RPVPer. @Vince.